Jane Gardam - Old Filth

Eddie looked and saw nothing. He turned back and Loss had gone.

Cracks like shots and a roar followed by heavy black smoke emerged from the region of the bonfire, just off-stage from Filth’s sun-lounge, and Garbutt, looking older now, went rebelliously by with yet another load of leaves.

I don’t know what’s the matter with the man. He knows how I feel. It’s too soon to burn. The stuff hasn’t died down. He’s not normal.

Garbutt came back, past him again, a fork over the barrow for the next load. Each time he passed his jaw was thrust out further, his eyes more determinedly set full ahead.

He’s a pyro — pyro. Pyro-technic? Pyrocanthus? Pyrowhatever (words keep leaving me). He’s destructive as old Queen Mary. Pyro — pyro? How can I get on here?

And to whom could he complain now old Veneering was gone?

He was amazed at his regret for Veneering. It was genuine grief. Veneering the arch-enemy had become the familiar and close friend. The twice-a-week chess had become the comforting note in an empty diary. There had been visits to the White Hart for lunch, once even for dinner, in Salisbury. Once they had taken a car to Wilton to look at the Vari Dycks. Veneering turned out to be keen on painting and music and Old Filth, trying to hide his total ignorance of both, had accompanied him. Veneering read books. Filth had not been a reader. Veneering had introduced him to various writers. “Only of the higher journalism,” he’d said. “We won’t tax our addled brains. Patrick O’Brian. You were a sea-faring man, Filth, weren’t you? In the War?”

“I hate the sea,” said Filth, putting down O’Brian.

“I’d quite like a cruise,” said Veneering, but saw Filth look aghast. “I’d not have even thought of a cruise once,” said Veneering. “I was beyond cruising before you came round that Christmas Day.”

“Yes,” said Filth with some pride. “You were in dry dock.”

Muffled up, the two of them walked sometimes round the lanes, Filth instructing Veneering in ornithology.

“You are full of surprises,” said Veneering.

“My prep school Headmaster,” said Filth. “He went off to America in the War and I suppose he died there. He didn’t keep up with any of us. He’d done his duty by us.”

“Very wise.”

“I tried to find him when I came back from my abortive attempt at being an evacuee. We had to turn for Home, you know. Took three months. Four months, going out. Singapore fell before we got there. My father was there. He died in Changi.”

“I’d heard something of the sort.”

“I used to make a joke of it. Dinner parties. All the way to Singapore, and about turn, back again.”

“It can’t have been a great joke.”

“No. The journey home was worse than going out. We were stacked with casualties. They kept dying. There was none of the Prayer Book and committal to the deep and Abide with Me and so forth. They were just shovelled over. I hung on. I kept imagining Sir — my Headmaster — would be waiting for me at Cadiz. Or my Auntie May.”

“I had not thought you the type for an Auntie May.”

“Missionary. Wonderful woman. There was another missionary on the boat. A Miss Robertson. She died of gangrene and they shovelled her off, too.”

“Have you written about all this?”

“Certainly not. Old Barrister’s memoirs are all deadly. Don’t you think?”

“Yes. But maybe you’d have surprised us.”

“I’ve grown my image, Veneering. Took some doing. I’m not going to upset it now.”

“You mean upset yourself ?”

“Yes. Probably. Have some more hock.”

But Veneering gone — ridiculous to have taken a cruise at his age — Filth’s loneliness for the old enemy was extraordinary, his mourning for him entirely different and sharper than his mourning for Betty. He’d told Veneering more than he’d ever told Betty — though never about Ma Didds. He’d even told Veneering about the buttermilk girl. Veneering had cackled. He’d told him about Loss. “Did you tell me about that before?” asked Veneering. “It rings a bell. Did I know him?”

“You’re wandering,” said Filth. They were playing chess.

“Not far,” said Veneering, taking his queen.

I suppose Memoirs might be in the order of things, he thought, with Veneering dead and his house next door torn apart, windows flung wide, a family with children shouting, crying, laughing, breaking through his hedge; the parents growing vegetables and offering him lettuces. Once a child from Veneering’s house had landed at his feet like a football as he sat in the garden reading the Minutes of a new Temple Benchtable. He wanted to throw the child back over the hedge. “Sorry,” the child said.

“I suppose you want your ball back.”

“I haven’t got a ball.”

“Well, what’s that in your hand?”

“Just some old beads.”

Giggles from the bushes.

“I found them in that flower-bed.”

He vanished.

Bloody self-confident, thought Filth. I don’t understand children now. Sir would have flayed him. Then: What am I talking about? Acting the Blimp. Sir wouldn’t have flayed him. He’d have lectured him on birds.

But, too late for that, he thought.

He sat to his desk and attempted a Memoir, but found it impossible. Opinions, judgements had made him famous, but how to write without opinion or judgement? Statement of facts — easy. But how to decide which were the facts? He shrank from the tremendous, essential burden of seeing himself through other people’s eyes. Only God could do it. It seemed blasphemous even to try. Such a multitude of impressions, such a magnitude of emotion. Where was truth to be found?

“Why did you become an advocate, Filth?” Veneering used to ask. “Don’t tell me you wanted to promote the truth.”

“Justice. It interested me.”

“And we know that justice is not the truth.”

“Certainly not.”

“But it’s some sort of step towards it?”

“Not even that. Do you agree?”

“I agree,” Veneering had said, busy with his ghastly jigsaw. “The Law is nevertheless an instinct. A good instinct. A framework for behaviour. And a safeguard (good — bit of the church roof) in time of trouble. Parlement of Foules — Chaucer .”

“Rooks have a parliament,” said Filth, keeping his end up.

But though his Memoirs went on endlessly, and rather impressively as he thought them through in the small hours of the night, sometimes to the accompaniment of his beating heart and too much whiskey, when it came to getting them upon paper they would not come. They made him feel so foolish. He felt Betty looking over his shoulder and saying kindly, “jolly good.” He sat in the sun-lounge each morning, defeated, and Garbutt went tramping by. Oh, how could one concentrate? And, oh great heaven! Here came that Chloe in lacy mauve and a perm, round the back of the house and waving a cake. To think he had once. .

He deliberately arose, holding his tartan blanket round him and shuffled to the other side of the table to sit with his back to her, facing the door to the sitting-room which immediately opened and in came the cleaning lady, Mrs.-er, with a cup of tea.

Decisions came fast to Filth, all decisions except what to include in his Memoirs. Mrs.-er put down the cup and saucer, talking the while, saying that that Chloe from the church was wanting to give him another sponge.

“Mrs.-er,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you. I am going away.”

“Away? Oh, yes?”

“Yes. I am going to Malmesbury.”

“ Malmesbury ? Down Gloucester?”

“Yes. I was there in the Army during the War. Just for a look round.”