Part 11 (2/2)
”Oh, look,” she said, gesturing beyond Morgan's shoulder. ”Must be someone important. Bet he tries to barge the queue.”
Morgan turned and saw an olive-green Mercedes driving across the tarmac from the airport buildings at some speed. A pennant cracked above the radiator grille. The car stopped and a young man got out. He held a piece of paper in his hand. He was tall and sunburnt and wore a well-pressed white tropical suit similar to the one Morgan had on. He was like the Platonic incarnation of everything Morgan had tried to create in his conversations with Jayne. And for Jayne, he was the misty image, the vague ideal of the man she fancied she had met in the airport hotel. They both stared uncomfortably at him for a brief moment, then simultaneously turned away, for his presence made reality a little hard to bear.
The young man walked up the line of waiting pa.s.sengers.
”Mr. Leafy?” he called in a surprisingly high, piping voice. ”Is there a Mr. Morgan Leafy here?”
At first, absurdly, Morgan didn't react to the sound of his own name. What could this vision want with him? Then he put up his hand like a school-kid who's been asked to own up.
”Telex,” the young man said, handing Morgan the piece of paper. ”I'm from the emba.s.sy here,” he added. ”Frightfully sorry we didn't get to you before this. Hope it wasn't too bad in the hotel...” He went on, but Morgan was reading the telex.
”LEAFY,” he read, ”RETURN SOONEST NKONGSAMBA. YOU ARE URGENTLY REQD. RE LIAISING WITH NEW MILITARY GOVT. ALL CLEAR LONDON. CARTWRIGHT.”
Cartwright was the High Commissioner at Nkongsamba. Morgan looked at the young man. He couldn't speak, his throat was choked with emotion. He handed the Telex to Jayne, She frowned with incomprehension.
”What does this mean?” she asked harshly, the poise cracking for an instant as Morgan stepped out of the queue.
”Duty calls, darling.” There seemed to be waves cras.h.i.+ng and surging behind his rib cage. He felt dazed, abstracted from events. He waved his hands about meaninglessly, like a demented conductor. ”Absolutely nothing I can do.” He had reached the Mercedes; the young man held the back door open for him. The embarking pa.s.sengers looked on curiously. He saw the Americans. ”Heyl” the woman shouted angrily, ”you're Britis.h.!.+” He suppressed a whoop of gleeful laughter. ”Sorry, darling,” he called again to Jayne, trying desperately to keep the elation from his voice. ”I'll write soon. I'll explain everything.” A final shrug of his shoulders and he ducked into the car. It was deliciously cool; the air-conditioning whirred softly.
”I'll come as far as the airport buildings,” the young man said deferentially. ”Then this'll take you straight back up the road to Nkongsamba if that's okay with you.”
”Oh, that's fine,” said Morgan, loosening his tie and waving to Jayne as the car moved off. ”Oh, yes. That's absolutely fine.”
Long Story Short
PART ONE.
Louella and I stood alone in the darkening garden. There was the first hint of autumn frost in the evening. The soft light from the drawing-room windows set s.h.i.+mmers glowing in her thick auburn hair. Louella hugged herself, crus.h.i.+ng her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s with her forearms. I felt an almost physical pain of love and desire in my gut.
”I think they're lovely,” she said, turning to face the house.
”So do I...oh, you mean Ma and Pa?”
”Of course. I'm glad I've met them.”
”They like you, too, you know, very much.” I moved beside her and put my arm round her slim waist. I rested my forehead on hers. ”I like you too,” I said whimsically. She laughed, showing her pale throat, and we hugged each other. I stared past her at the trees and bushes slowly relinquis.h.i.+ng their forms to the night. Then I felt her posture change slightly.
”Well, h.e.l.lo, little brother,” came a deep, sardonic voice. ”What have we got here?”
It was Gareth. And somehow I knew everything would be spoilt.
Actually it wasn't Gareth at all. It was Frank. G.o.d, I'm tired of this relentless artifice. Let's start again, shall we?
PART TWO.
Louella and William stood alone in the darkening garden. There was the first hint of autumn frost in the evening.... drawing-room windows, yes,...crus.h.i.+ng her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s, etc.,... almost physical pain and so on.
”I don't see why you're so upset,” Louella said. ”I mean, he is your brother. If I'm going to be one of the family I might as well meet him.”
”But he's such a s.h.i.+t. A fat, smarmy s.h.i.+t and a mean little sod to boot. I know you won't like him. He's just not our type,” William said petulantly, conscious of the fact that he was only stimulating Louella's interest.
They heard the sound of a car in the drive. William felt his throat tighten. Louella tried to appear nonchalant-with only partial success.
Frank opened the drawing-room windows and sauntered into the garden to join them. He was wearing a maroon cord suit with unfas.h.i.+onably flared trousers and a yellow nylon s.h.i.+rt. A heavy gold ingot swung at his throat. His once-even features, William noticed, had become thickened and distorted with fat. He was almost completely bald now.
No, it's no good. It keeps getting in the way, this dreadful compulsion to tell lies. (You write fiction and what are you doing? You're telling lies, pal, that's all.) And besides, it's very unfair to Frank, who was very good-looking, exceptionally well dressed and had as thick and glossy a head of hair as Louella in Part One. Louella-the real Louella-in fact had dyed blond hair, but I've always had a hankering for auburn. (Come to that, she doesn't have full b.r.e.a.s.t.s either.) To get rid of the fiction element, perhaps I should begin by distinguis.h.i.+ng myself from the ”I” in Part One. I-now-am the author (you know my name-check it out). The ”I” in Part One is fictional, not not me. Neither is the ”William” in Part Two. It's just a device. No doubt, in any case, you thought to yourself, ”hold on a second,” as you read Part Two. ”Little bit odd, this,” you probably thought: ”Character's got the same name as the author. Something fishy here.” But you must watch out for that sort of thing; it's an error readers are p.r.o.ne to fall into. There are a lot of Williams about. Lots. It doesn't need to be me. me. Neither is the ”William” in Part Two. It's just a device. No doubt, in any case, you thought to yourself, ”hold on a second,” as you read Part Two. ”Little bit odd, this,” you probably thought: ”Character's got the same name as the author. Something fishy here.” But you must watch out for that sort of thing; it's an error readers are p.r.o.ne to fall into. There are a lot of Williams about. Lots. It doesn't need to be me.
But now, having got rid of all this obfuscation, I am speaking to you directly. The author talking to the reader-whoever you are. Imagine me as a voice in your ear, unmediated by any notions or theories you may have heard about books and stories, textuality and reading, that sort of thing. I was, as it so happens, in actual fact, really engaged to a girl called Louella once, and I did have a brother called Frank. And certain factual events to do with the three of us inspired, were at the back of, the two beginnings I attempted. Louella was an American girl. I'd met her in New York, fallen in love, got engaged and had brought her back to England to meet my parents. She also met Frank.
Frank. Frank was the sort of older brother n.o.body needs. Tall, socially at ease, rich, good job (journalist on an up-market Sunday). Very attractive too. He had a polished superficial charm which, to my surprise, managed to take in one h.e.l.l of a lot of people. But he was a smug, self-satisfied b.a.s.t.a.r.d and we never really liked each other. He always needed to feel superior to me.
”Pleased to meet you,” Frank said to Louella, holding on to her hand far longer than William thought necessary.
”Hi,” said Louella. ”William's told me so much about you.”
Frank laughed. ”Listen,” he said. ”You don't want to believe anything he says.”
He didn't say that, in fact. But it's typical of the sort of thing I can imagine him saying. Anyway, I only did that just to show you how easy it is-and how different. I can make Frank bald, add four inches to Louella's bust, supply William with a flat in Belgravia. But it's not going to solve anything. Because-to cut a long story short (quite a good t.i.tle, yes?)-I really did love Louella (we'll still call her that, if you don't mind-saves possible embarra.s.sment). I wanted to marry her. And that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Frank steadily and deliberately took her away from me.
At the time we were staying with my parents. We hadn't fixed a date for the wedding, as we were waiting until we had a house first. However, plans were being made; Louella's mother was going to fly over; a guest list was being drawn up. Frank was very subtle. He contented himself with being incredibly nice nice. He was around a lot and spent a great deal of time with Louella-just chatting. I was away in London (my parents live near Witney, Oxfords.h.i.+re) trying to get a job. I can still remember-quite vividly-sitting on the London train, rigid with a kind of frustrated rage. I knew exactly what was happening. I could sense Louella's increasing fascination with Frank but there was nothing I could do about it, no accusation I could level, without being accused in turn of chronic paranoia. Nothing physical had happened between Louella and Frank, yet in a way she was more intimate with him than she'd ever been with me.
I couldn't stand it any longer. The house seemed to brim with their complicity. I felt pinioned by their innuendoes, webbed in by their covert glances. It was impossible. Yet the whole relations.h.i.+p was occurring at such a subliminal, cerebral level that any apportioning of blame on my part would look like an act of near insanity. So I went away. I said I had to be in London for an entire week job-hunting and having interviews. I entrusted Louella to my parents' care, but I knew Frank wouldn't be far away.
I took up an uncomfortable post in the wood behind my parents' house, armed with a pair of powerful binoculars, and watched the comings and goings. I saw Frank arrive the next day, homing in unerringly. Saw them walk in the garden, go out for drives. Saw Frank take my place at the family dinner table, pouring wine, recounting anecdotes that I should have been telling.
In fact, William hated Frank with all the energy he could summon. Hated his lean, permanently tanned face, his fake self-deprecating smile. Despised his short fingernails, his modishly scruffy clothes. Loathed his intimate knowledge of current affairs, his casual travelogues. And he ached when Louella touched his arm in admiring disbelief as Official Secrets were dropped, off-the-record confidences disclosed. Suffered when she showed her pale pulsing throat as she laughed at his smart in-jokes.
Sorry. Sorry. It's a lapse, I know. I promised. But fiction is so safe, so easy to hide behind. It won't happen again.
It was a Sunday afternoon when I became really alarmed. My vigil in the wood had lasted three days (sleeping in my car: extremely uncomfortable) and I was beginning to wonder if I'd overdramatised things rather. Mother and Father had gone out on some interminable Sunday ramble in the car. (I sense that I haven't really done my parents justice-not that they're all that interesting really-but they play no significant part in the following events.) Then Frank came round in his car-a Triumph Stag: pure Frank, that. There was some activity in the house. Frank appeared briefly in the sitting room with two suitcases. I scampered through the garden and peered round the corner of the house. Frank was rearranging luggage in the boot. I saw him take out a fis.h.i.+ng rod and repack it. Then Louella appeared. She seemed quite calm. She said, ”Have you left a note for them?”
Frank: ”Yes, on the hall table.”
Louella: ”What about William?”
Frank: ”Oh, don't worry about him. Ma and Pa will break the news.”
Reader, imagine how I felt.
They drove off. I knew where they were going. I went inside and read the note Frank had written to my parents. It went something like this.
Louella and I have gone away for a few days. We have fallen very much in love and want to think things over. Please break this to William as gently as possible. Back sometime next week.Love, Frank.
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