Jackson's Dilemma Part 5

Benet had planned to reach Penn before lunch, but was delayed at the garage and then upon the motorway. As he neared his destination he decided instinctively to go by the loop road, behind the Rectory and over the bridge, rather than the direct way through the village. He had no business in the village. But suddenly it occurred to him that he precisely had business in the village, he must show his face. He must let them look at him, and pity him, and get their sympathising over with. He drove on, entering smaller and smaller roads and lanes until, at the sign Lipcot, turning down a very narrow lane where tall dry p.r.i.c.kly leafy hedges clawed the car on either side and feathery ladies lace bowed down over the wheels and there were very few pa.s.sing places. He met no one. At last he emerged into a larger s.p.a.ce above the river and at once, after a few cottages, into the short village street where he parked his car outside the Sea Kings.

The tall Welsh landlord was the first to see him and say 'Was there news of Miss Marian?' and 'What a sad business!' Benet had intended to ask for news of Edward but decided in time that this was a mistake! He set off down the little street where his arrival had obviously been noted. He bought some stamps at the Post Office, picked up the local paper at the newsagent, bought some cheese at the grocer's, and looked so thoughtfully at the window of the little antique shop that the owner, Steve Southerland, came out and led him in, holding his sleeve. At each shop and upon the pavement Benet was met with the bright-eyed curiosity of children, but also from all the genuine sympathy and kindliness and desire to help. Steve Southerland had been so effusively sorry that Benet felt he must buy something and purchased a small cigarette case. He did not smoke. He returned with a suitable dignity to his car which had attracted a small group who waved him off. He drove away up the woody lane toward Penndean. Turning down the gravelled drive he saw Clun emerging from among the trees and waving his arms, but only to ask Benet for news and whether he had had no lunch and whether Sylvia should come. Benet said that he had had his lunch and didn't need Sylvia. He drove on and entered the house. He had had no lunch. He rang Hatting but no answer. He ate some bread and b.u.t.ter and the cheese he had bought in the village, and an apple. He felt terribly lonely. He was startled by a sound which was Sylvia bringing some flowers and asking him if he wanted anything. He stood up for Sylvia, pus.h.i.+ng back his chair, and said no. He went to the larder and brought out a bottle of Valpolicella, opened it and poured out a gla.s.s. He carried it back to the drawing room and drank two more gla.s.ses. He picked up the telephone and rang the Hatting number, but of course had no reply.

Benet's intentions when returning to Penn had been far from clear. He wanted very much to get away from the London scene and be alone. He wanted silence, he even wanted work, the continuation of his book on Heidegger. He thought of driving over to Hatting at once but some terrible exhaustion prevented him. He would go tomorrow. He also wanted of course that all should be well, he did not know quite how, with or between Edward and Marian. He wanted pa.s.sionately to run to them, to draw them together. At the same time he was keeping in mind, though he did not utter this, the possibility that Marian was dead. A murder, a suicide, an accident. No, not an accident. Benet still held in his pocket that terrible note which Edward had left with him, which he had perused so many times. Probably he did not want ever to see it again. 'Forgive me, I am very sorry, I cannot marry you.' What could be more final? Yet might it not be merely a sudden impulse, regretted at once, and she ashamed to say: I didn't mean it? Benet had now recalled many times his conversation with Edward at Hatting on the day after, when Edward had said, 'You must blame me.' He wondered, what does Edward feel now? Perhaps he rues that little scene when we were so open to each other. By now he resents his emotion, his openness to me, yes, he is cutting himself off from all of us, cursing us even, for having led him into this mora.s.s, this pit, from which he must feel he can never now escape. His life is destroyed, he will be despised, regarded as done for, a fool, something worse, no wonder the girl left him. But have not I done it? He will curse me for all this and he will be right-that talk we had at Hatting when we embraced each other, that was our last meeting, the last moment when we spoke truth and clarity to each other, when we expressed love for each other. I have lost him, and I have lost Marian, and it is all my fault.

These were thoughts which had been continuously at work in Benet's mind, and which were now achieving, as he drank the wine, a hideous degree of clarity. He had come to Penndean for some sort of quietness or solitude, but he was simply miserable and frightened, alone with his demons.

He left the drawing room and went to his study. There on the desk was his book about Heidegger, open at the page where he had left it such a little while ago. Benet perused the page which he had written.

Heidegger's central concept of truth or unconcealment should be understood by tracing it back to the Pre-Socratics, and to Homer, as he explains in an essay, originally a 1943 lecture, 'Wonder first begins with the question, "What does all this mean and how could it happen?" How can we arrive at such a beginning?' Heidegger quotes Herac.l.i.tus Fr. 16, 'How can one hide from that which never sets?' What is this hiding and from what? He then quotes Clement of Alexandria who adapts Herac.l.i.tus as meaning that one (the sinner) may hide from the light perceived by the senses, but cannot hide from the spiritual light of G.o.d. Well, though we may readily understand him in that sense, the Greek was not thinking about anything like a Christian deity. Herac.l.i.tus, according to Heidegger, is not thinking of anything 'spiritual' or 'moral', but of something far more fundamental in the dawn of human consciousness. Heidegger here, as elsewhere in his writings, suggests a significant connection between aletheia (truth) and lanthano (I am concealed, or escape notice, doing or ,being something) and lethe forgetfulness or oblivion. He then engagingly quotes Homer, The Odyssey VIII 83 ff. (It is always a relief to get away into Homer.) Odysseus, after his meeting with Nausicaa, now incognito in her father's palace, hears the minstrel singing about the Trojan War, from which Odysseus is now making his laborious way home. Verse 93. 'Then unnoticed by all the others he shed tears.' Literally, he escaped notice shedding tears. Heidegger points out that elanthane does not mean the transitive 'he concealed', but means 'he remained concealed' shedding tears. 'Odysseus has pulled his cloak over his head because he is ashamed to let the Phaeacians see his tears.' Heidegger comments 'Odysseus s.h.i.+ed away - as one shedding tears before the Phaeacians.' But doesn't this quite clearly mean the same as: he hid himself before the Phaeacians out of a sense of shame? Or must we also think 'shying away', aidos, from remaining concealed, granted that we are striving to get closer to its essence as the Greeks experienced it? Then 'to shy away' would mean to withdraw and remain concealed in reluctance or restraint 'keeping to oneself'. Of course this is an example of the persuasive movement of Heidegger's laborious argument when he wishes to read one of his concepts (in this case aletheia, 'thought as' unconcealment) into the minds of the early Greeks!

Benet paused, well what does it all mean, he thought, and why on earth do I go on with it? Am I not losing my German? Could one forgive Heidegger or be interested in him just because he loved the Greeks? Benet loved the Greeks. But did he understand them, was he a Greek scholar? No, he was just a curious romantic pseudo-historian. He would rather spend his time reading Holderlin than Heidegger. Really he loved pictures not thoughts. He pictured Odysseus weeping behind his cloak in the hall of the Phaeacians. Benet did not often weep. Perhaps he would weep now, now that everything had changed. He thrust the sheets of paper away. He thought, when I am dead what does it matter. He got up and began walking about restlessly. Some tears came, he quickly mopped them away with his handkerchief. He rarely wept - and now it was for Odysseus! These were mad thoughts. The house was quiet, or was it? Those strange sounds were there again: a crackling sound as of something on fire, an almost inaudible little wailing sound as by a small creature in pain, then a sharper brief sound not unlike a knock. Of course it was all nonsense, these were familiar noises, he heard them all the time, the natural murmurs of an ageing house, its little secret wounds, wood rotting, tiles slipping - he went round and locked the doors and bolted and chained them. He went back through the drawing room and out onto the terrace. His ferocious concentration upon Heidegger had for a brief time distracted him. Now he saw the light misted by small clouds, like an evening light, glowing. It must be later than he thought. He came back across the terrace being careful not to step upon the many creeping plants which spread among the paving stones. He went back into the drawing room which now seemed a little dim. He meandered to the mantelpiece and played with the netsuke. He thought, I can do no good. I am blundering about among the miseries of a chaotic scene which I myself have brought about. He went into the kitchen and ate cheese and biscuits and then ginger cake. He ate an apple which he found lying around. He was tearless now, just utterly miserable and helpless. He decided to go to bed and to sleep. However, suddenly he found himself prowling around the house and reflecting upon a quite different matter which now increasingly distressed him. It was Jackson.

THREE.

The Past The legend was that Benet had discovered Jackson curled up in a cardboard box late one night and had adopted him as a weird animal which he imagined he could tame! There were various versions of this nonsense. Benet himself was not at all sure, when later he reeled back his memory, how exactly it had begun. Had he really seen strange eyes looking at him in the dark? That area near to the river had been, ever since Benet could remember, some sort of gathering place of various people. Benet randomly, sometimes against the advice of the police, gave money here to people whom he pitied but felt he 'could do nothing for'. The idea 'it is fate', was taken up later by Mildred. Had Benet, much earlier, unconsciously, seen those eyes? Can it be that one particular person, sent by the G.o.ds, is singled out for another particular person?

Benet had quite recently given up his job and was feeling free and happy. He was more often at Penn, where the house, and now (though not urgently) Uncle Tim, was needing his attentions. He was also being urged by London friends to move from his narrow noisy little abode to some larger and quieter house elsewhere. It was winter, January. After spending the evening with some friends, including Owen, he had become unusually drunk and arriving back by taxi had found some difficulty first in finding his key, and then inserting it in the lock. After some futile struggles with the slippery key he became aware that he was not alone, a man was standing behind him on the pavement. He turned round, annoyed, then alarmed, by the silent unknown figure; then turning his back he returned quickly to his unsuccessful attempt to insert the key. Then a voice behind him said, 'May I help you?' Benet had not heard or dreamt of hearing this voice. The voice was hard to place. All Benet instantly took in was a cool calm voice. A moment later, standing motionless holding the key, he somehow in the dim light of the nearby lamp-post seemed to recognise the man. Without a word he handed over the key. The man neatly inserted it in the lock, opened the door, and, preceding Benet, entered the house and turned on a light. Benet followed him into the hall. At that moment, surprisingly as he thought afterwards, Benet felt no fear. He reached out his hand and the man returned the key. Benet instinctively produced his wallet. Then, and this was a strange moment, the stranger reached out his hand and for an instant rested it upon Benet's hand. Benet, now sobered, took in a great deal. He understood that the fellow was not attempting to steal his wallet, but simply indicating that he did not want any money. Benet said, 'Thank you for helping me.' He moved to the door, which was partly closed, and opened it wide. He wondered if the fellow would say something. But he simply looked at Benet and went out. Benet closed the door and leaned against it.

A great tidal wave of emotion overwhelmed him. He turned and attempted, but failed, to open the door again. In the next instant he decided against this. He was suddenly terribly upset. He should have acted differently, but how? Should he have asked him to stay? Or offered him a drink? Was he waiting for Benet to come back, did he know someone who knew Benet? Anyway he would resent Benet's prompt farewell. It was now impossible for Benet to run after him - how did he even imagine such a thing! He would have to wait until tomorrow. But what for? It was just as well Benet was soon leaving this house and this neighbourhood. He eventually went to bed and slept well.

He woke in the morning with a hangover. He got up. Then he remembered the extraordinary little scene on the previous day. He felt distressed but more clear-headed. Now only a short time remained before he left for a new and larger house, in a safer neighbourhood. Also, during this interlude, he went to Paris to view an exhibition, and stayed for a while. He returned, not having entirely forgotten the matter, but by now feeling free and jaunty. He went out that evening to the opera with Mildred and Elizabeth and a musician friend of Elizabeth's called Andy Redmond. He returned by taxi. It then occurred to him, as it was a warm spring night, to exalt himself further by walking down to the river. As he walked he thought vaguely about 'the poor chap' and wondered if he would be there. A last farewell. A monkey in a box. That was how he had thought of him at the start. One or two others were there but not him. The river was there. He turned back and sauntered slowly up the street. Then he realised that he was not alone, a tall figure was behind him. Benet turned round. He said, 'What is it?'

A soft voice said, 'Perhaps I can help you.'

Benet said, 'Sorry you can't,' and walked on.

A soft voice behind him said, 'I can do many things.'

Benet entered the house and closed the door noisily.

He went slowly up to bed but for a long time he could not sleep. He felt he had been behaving badly. Could he not have been polite? Was he not really afraid of the fellow? It was also possible, and this occurred to Benet later in the episode, that the fellow was gay and thought that Benet wasl He decided that this was unlikely, and that perhaps the man simply wanted a job. Altogether Benet decided not to think about the little drama in which he himself was playing a rather silly and shabby part. In any case he was now moving to another part of London and could leave the whole weird scene behind him.

In the days that followed Benet was engaged in the chaotic but satisfying task of packing up all his belongings, deciding where the furniture was to go, making sure that nothing was left or lost, and supervising his arrival in a larger and altogether more delightful house with quite a large garden not far from Holland Park. After he had arranged the furniture, inspected the rooms, admired the large garden with its little summer-house, and put all crockery and cutlery in their rightful places in the kitchen, he left, locking everything up carefully, returned to Penndean where he stayed for some time, returning to his books and his work, and entertaining Uncle Tim who was longing to see the new house. Benet was so pleased with his house, he actually delayed his return, gloating and dreaming over it, until Tim kept pretending that by now the house must be gone, at any rate all the furniture must be gone! At last, when Benet had actually allowed himself to reflect upon the possibility that the furniture might really be gone, he drove to London with Tim, and with a fast-beating heart, he opened the door. He could breathe, all was well, the house was beautiful, silent, everything was in place where Benet had left it. Uncle Tim followed him. They wandered together all over the interior, and over the garden, admiring the summer-house and discussing the possibility of a fishpond. The sun was s.h.i.+ning, it was April. They returned to the house and examined the kitchen and discussed the oven, the fridge, the little scullery with the was.h.i.+ng-machine. They laughed and danced about like boys, they had brought a picnic lunch with them. Then the front door bell rang. Tim went out into the hall and opened the door. Benet was struggling, opening a wine bottle. He heard a murmur from the hall. At last the cork emerged from the bottle. Benet came out into the hall to see whom Tim was talking to. Over Tim's shoulder he saw the man.

Tim turned round. He said, 'This chap wants to know if he can help you with various things, he says he's talked to you before. Actually we have a problem -'

Benet strode forward, Tim moved aside. The man stood in the doorway. The sun was behind him. Although it was a bright day, he was wearing a blue mackintosh with the collar turned up. It was the first time Benet had seen his face by daylight. The sudden glimpse was of a man with dark sleek straight hair and a slightly dark complexion. Benet said hastily, 'No, we've got other arrangements. Please don't come again.' He shut the door.

Uncle Tim said, 'Really, why did you shout at the poor fellow -'

'I didn't shout.'

'You shouldn't have been so rough. I rather liked the look of him, why -'

'I don't want him. I've met him before.'

'We could do with some help -'

'Tim, please don't bother me, I just don't need him, that's all.'

'You said you'd like someone to look after the house when - '

'Oh do shut up, Tim, the man's been bothering me, now let's have some lunch!'

Tim said no more, but Benet could see that he was upset by Benet's curt behaviour. Perhaps in that brief exchange at the door Tim had seen something? But what? Some old Indian intuition? They had lunch, the wine cheered them up, and they spoke of other things. But Benet was deeply distressed. He wished that Tim had not seen the fellow.

Tim and Benet spent the night in the house; the house was number twenty-eight, and was called Tara. Tim liked the name which reminded him of Ireland. Benet was at first not sure that he liked it, but in any case the house held firmly onto its name and was so called by all. Tim went back to Penndean, and Benet stayed another night alone to be sure he could. Of course he could, the house was cosy, friendly, benign, altogether the right size and shape. He felt that he could work in the house. He returned to Penn and to his book on Heidegger. When next he came to London he brought writing materials, notebooks, his second fountain pen. He felt a sense of liberation and new life. He felt he was rediscovering London.

Only later as the autumn came and the days grew shorter and colder did he think once again about 'that man'. How had he found Benet's new house? Where was he now? Uncle Tim, who appeared to have imbibed quite a lot of the visitor during the brief visit, occasionally enquired about him. Uncle Tim was getting old. One night in London, Benet had a dream, indeed a nightmare, about a snake curled up in a basket floating in a river. The basket was sinking. Benet thought, of course snakes can swim, he won't drown. Then he thought but perhaps he will drown, the basket will pull him down, he won't be able to get out. Swiftly hustled by the stream, the basket was disappearing among the muddy reeds near to a bridge, it was becoming dark, Benet peered down into the water, he thought I must get down into the river to make sure that the snake is all right, only I can't get down, it's so dark down there, and I shall have to jump! As he was hesitating he woke up. His first movement was to turn on the light beside the bed. Then he thrust away the bed-clothes and sat up gasping. He thought light, yes I must have light. His watch said three o'clock. He rose and put the centre light on, and began to walk to and fro breathing deeply. Then he put on his dressing gown and sat down in a chair. Supposing all the lights in the house were suddenly to go out! He got up and went onto the landing, turning the light on. He stood and looked down the stairs, gradually controlling his breath. He listened for some time. The house was silent. He put out the landing light, returned to the bedroom putting out the centre bedroom light, and finally, as he got into bed, the bedside light. He lay stiffly, at last dozing, then sleeping.

When he woke in the morning he remembered first the light, then the dream. He put on the bedside light, then got out of bed, checking the centre light in the bedroom, then the light on the landing. Why was he doing this? He returned to the bedroom and pulled back the curtains, blinking at the bright suns.h.i.+ne. Shaking his head he got dressed and set about his usual day. He had taken over a room, adjoining the drawing room, wherein he now continued his work. His work was, just now, very pleasant, since he was giving himself a rest by continuing a study, abandoned some time ago, of Holderlin, essential, he now told himself, for an understanding of Heidegger's soul! However even here his concentration failed. He soon got up and walked about. There seemed to be a positive silence in the house, even though he could hear sounds from outside. He wandered out into the garden and went into the summer-house. The summer-house was empty but not tiny. Someone could live in it. It consisted of quite a large room, a small room, a bathroom, a little kitchen bereft of utensils. Benet proceeded down the garden looking vaguely for a place for the pool which Uncle Tim could have fishes in. He had a small lunch, he was not hungry. He considered returning to Penn in the afternoon but decided not to. He read The Times. Was he waiting for something? He wondered if he would have dinner at a nearby restaurant, but decided not to. However he felt an agonising desire to leave the house. He waited. It was perceptibly evening; he wandered out. He found himself sitting in a tube train, and getting out at a familiar station. Had he just come to look at his old abode? He went along the street, pa.s.sing his old place, then returning through the station and crossing the road to look at the Thames. He looked about but saw nothing but the evening crowds. He cursed himself. He had dinner at a familiar restaurant where the waiters received him as a friend. He came home by taxi.

As he opened the door he reached his hand sideways to put on the light in the hall. There was a click but no light. Annoyed, he left the door open and strode across the hall to find the switch on the other side at the foot of the stairs. Again there was no light. He stood there in the dark. He moved cautiously toward the dining room. He found himself groping about. He retreated toward the door, which was only partly open, and opened it wider bringing in light from the road. He walked quietly to the stairs and mounted. He felt for a switch. There was light but only from the floor above. Benet stood still. He could now feel and hear his heart. Leaving the light as it was he went cautiously down, crossed the hall and closed the door, fumbling cautiously for locks. Then moving slowly, holding out his arms, as he recalled it later, 'like a ghost', he mounted the stairs towards the light, which he felt might vanish before he reached it. When he reached the second floor he encountered more switches, and successfully turned on other lights. He stood there breathing deeply. He looked back at the dark below. He decided to get himself to bed as soon as possible. He turned on the centre light in his bedroom, he turned off all the landing lights. He went into his bedroom and closed the door. He undressed hurriedly and put on his pyjamas and turned out the centre light. d.a.m.n! Where was the bed? He put the centre light on, put on the bedside lamp, returned to put out the centre light. The bedside lamp remained. Good. He struggled into bed and lay down, then sat up abruptly to put out the lamp, knocking it over in the process. h.e.l.l! He lay back. He thought he would never sleep, but he did sleep. Was it all an accidental freak?

On the next morning, Benet awoke early to a beautiful blue sky. His head upon the pillow, he smiled. He sat up, noticed the lamp was on the floor, got up and rescued it, still intact. Then suddenly he remembered what had happened last night. He stood quiet for a while. Then he dressed and went downstairs, trying all the lights. They were just as before, intact upstairs, dead downstairs. It occurred to him to try the cellar. The cellar lights were dead too. He stood in the hall. He went into the kitchen, which he had not entered last night. To his surprise the kitchen was intact. He made some coffee. He had intended to go back to Penndean. He wandered out into the hall. He must do something, he must find some expert, he couldn't leave the poor house in this crazy state. He sat down to think, but soon started reading The Times.

He heard something, a fumbling at the front door, then a soft knock and knuckles on wood. He went to the door and opened it. The man was there. Benet said, 'Do you know anything about electricity?'

'Yes.'

'Come in.'

That was how it began.

The newcomer, having gone out to fetch the requirements (he evidently knew the neighbourhood) dealt with the mysterious unruly lights while Benet sat fuming in the drawing room.

'All done. Would you like to see?'

'No, thank you. What do I owe you?'

The man drew a piece of paper, already prepared, from his pocket, and handed it over, while Benet opened his wallet and presented the suitable notes.

'Thank you. Perhaps I can a.s.sist you on other occasions?'

Benet, now opening the front door, did not reply to the question. He murmured 'Goodbye', his useful visitor pa.s.sed through, Benet closed the door promptly behind him.

After the visitation Benet wandered, hurried, stumbling about the house talking to himself - he had made a gross senseless blunder, such as anyone could see, by letting a complete stranger, possibly a talented burglar, go about all over his house alone - he ought to have followed him, instead of which he had shut himself up so as not to see what the fellow was doing! He might be anything, a clever solitary, or a member of a gang, or - good heavens - some sort of mad person - Benet had not even checked the work he had done, if he had done work - and what was easier than to pretend to be a penniless beggar! It took some time for Benet to calm down. He checked the lights, he inspected the cellar, he looked about the house, seeing (but could he be sure?) nothing taken. Then he began to think. Uncle Tim had been alone with the chap - but what had pa.s.sed between them, had he bewitched Uncle Tim? Should Benet ask Uncle Tim? Surely not. Should he go and live in another house? So he was afraid of the return of this visitor? Would he have to stay here at Tara indefinitely? At last he carefully locked up the house, the summer-house, the garage and fled back to the country.

Back at Penndean he did not mention the episode to Uncle Tim, but he found himself perpetually meditating upon it. He began to make a memory picture of the man but found it difficult. He was wearing a white s.h.i.+rt - or was it white? Was it open at the neck? Dark hair, certainly no tie. He was, now, 'decently dressed'. He was slightly taller than Benet, rather slim and upright, like a soldier, as he had imagined on his first sighting. On the occasion of the key he had refused money, he had, to make this clear, actually reached out his hand, laying it on Benet's hand - his fingers touching the back of Benet's hand. He had touched Benet. Well, what did that mean - a gesture of love? Impossible! He had been closer then than now. Well, Benet's emotion - was there emotion - had soon pa.s.sed! Yet perhaps the emotion had built up later on: the dream, the return to the river. And why had Benet not now taken the so recent opportunity of talking to the fellow, who he was, what was, his name, was he married, was he an out-of-work actor or something, almost anything could have made some sort of connection! Had he been in the army? He stood up as at attention. What about his voice - a northern accent? No. A foreign accent? He seemed to have some air of authority - well, authority, had it come as far as imagining that! Perhaps he played this game with innumerable people, pursuing them, forcing himself upon them as a handyman, a jack-of-all-trades, so becoming essential - the out-of-work actor story might be the most attractive, easy to palm off upon well-endowed recently married young couples! Yet, ultimately, was he a thief, a professional burglar, working for some sinister syndicate?

Down at Penn, time pa.s.sed, Uncle Tim was ill and got better, Benet read Holderlin and wrote a little poetry, or 'poetry', himself. He walked about the garden and discussed with Clun and the girls the best site for the Grecian building with columns and swimming pool. However, as everything was looking so beautiful now, he was secretly anxious to postpone this ambitious novelty, whose erection would involve so much violent work with digging and bull-dozers! At least anyone who had studied Benet at that period could have taken him to be reasonably serene. In fact, at this time Benet, still enjoying not being a Civil Servant any more, was considering various trips, to France, to Spain, to Italy, to Greece. In fact his journey, curtailed by the activities of Edward and Marian, went only as far as Italy. And there he had a curious, not exactly 'vision', but 'interlude'.

He was in Venice, where he had quite often been, walking along in the morning suns.h.i.+ne. He had been several times to the Accademia, and was now walking along the Zattere. The light upon the waters, white, gold, pale blue, glinted in his eyes, he was tired and wanted to sit down, on a seat, in a church, but there seemed to be nowhere just now to rest. He had foolishly brought no hat with him. The sun was s.h.i.+ning, it was becoming very hot, for this time of year ridiculously hot. Benet began to wonder where he was. Then he was aware of someone walking behind him. He checked his pace to let the other pa.s.s. However the other did not pa.s.s, altering his or her pace to Benet's. Benet went slower still, and was about to stop. He then became aware of someone, a man, not pa.s.sing him but walking beside him on his left. The stranger then turned his head towards Benet, seeming to smile at him. Benet glanced annoyed, then anxiously, the brilliant waters still flas.h.i.+ng into his eyes. The walker, about as tall as Benet, seemed to be in black, a black figure, perhaps, it occurred to Benet, a monk. But no, it could not be a monk. All this Benet took in in a second. He was troubled by the stranger's silence, and wished he could find somewhere to shake him off, but there seemed, just at present, to be no kind of refuge, and n.o.body else about. They walked on. At last Benet, still walking, turned round abruptly to survey his curious partner. He instantly felt something pa.s.s through him, as of an electric shock. His companion was a man, dressed in dark ordinary clothes. He was turning to Benet, in fact not exactly smiling, but, as he walked, surveying Benet with what seemed a gaze of tender affection. Had Benet met him before? Benet could not in fact see him very clearly because of the exceptional light which was rising up out of the water. He perceived that the stranger had a flash of white at his neck, perhaps a s.h.i.+rt or frill, and that he was carrying a glove.

Still walking and turning his head Benet then saw a young man with dark thick straight hair which fell almost to his shoulders and was cut across his brow by a fringe, while large dark beautiful eyes gently engaged with Benet and lips poised as if to speak. At that moment Benet felt that he was going to faint. He struggled as if against a power to which he must soon succ.u.mb. He turned his head away. He saw that he was pa.s.sing a church on his right hand, and turned abruptly away from his companion, strode quickly, almost falling, into the church.

Once inside he walked several steps and then sat down. The church was empty. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, holding his brow. Some time pa.s.sed. It was cooler inside the church. Opening his eyes Benet, breathing deeply, settling himself back, gazed about inside the empty church. He wondered if he had actually fainted. He attempted to construct what had happened - did such weird things occur? Of course they did. But this one, was it really anything at all? Was it possible that he had had a visitation or a sort of vision? He was slowly going into a swoon, it was just as well that he had not fallen over. The church was real. He coughed twice, persuading himself of his returning reality. However there was, he began to realise, even more to his strange swoon than he had at first realised. Yes, there had been his mirage of another person, walking by his side, a young man with dark fringed hair and beautiful eyes carrying a glove. It was already fading, and he struggled to retain it. But there had been more which he had not, when he had rushed into the church, remembered, there were even many things, besides the walking stranger. Or had he brought these things with him? Could he not now sober up and remember? Or was it just the pictures? Though why just the pictures - were they not real people? Yet also somehow present. If he could only make out how it was all present to him, things which he himself had in some sense, and out of the past, made real. Though not as real, he thought, as the beautiful young man. Perhaps the young man had been their shepherd. But as they seemed to formulate he shuddered also. He felt like Tobias walking with the Angel. Was this an image of his walking with him, the youth, who must not fade? Then as he closed his eyes other things grew about him, and he saw them, Pharaoh's daughter lifting Moses out of the reeds, Saint Margaret surrounded by terrible serpents, running barefoot holding up her crucifix. And then weeping people carrying a corpse, the terrible heaviness of the dead Christ. Benet stood up, took some steps, then sat again. Were these strange and dreadful images brought somehow to him by that youth, who, leaving him, had pa.s.sed on? Or was the whole thing a complete farrago of sick nonsensical illusions brought upon him by the heat and the flas.h.i.+ng movements of the water? Of course the lovely youth was a phantasm, simply the sudden preface of a sickening mental disturbance. Yet why had just these things come? Benet got up again. He must get back to his hotel as quickly as possible, fortunately it was not far off.

In fact Benet recovered fairly soon from his curious 'attack', which he attributed to the sun, the water, and walking without a hat. Yet, with his rationality, certain reflections remained, and he spoke of the matter with no one. He was not sure that he remembered all the pieces of the 'picture-show', or whether they had come to him later, and that during his rapid recovery he was binding them up. He thought about Moses and Saint Margaret and snakes, Tobias and the Angel he had perhaps invented later. Other things, weeping people, the Virgin dropping her head in horror at the Annunciation - well, were not these things everywhere? At any rate he hastily left Venice for Paris where he stayed only to see a particular exhibition. Back in England he went straight to Uncle Tim. He found Tim in bed and a doctor in the house. The doctor (a new young fellow called George Park) alarmed Benet, then tried to rea.s.sure him. Actually Tim himself recovered remarkably when Benet appeared and Benet blamed himself for having so frivolously stayed away for so long. He stayed then for some time at Penndean, though Tim constantly encouraged him to go to Tara. It was high summer, apd the gardens at Penn were so beautiful, and for that too Benet lingered. He could work of course because he had left, before departing, all his Heidegger work at Penn, and anyway Mildred and Elizabeth were keeping an eye on Tara. At last he began to feel a yearning for London and for the British Library and the Parthenon frieze where Mildred once had a vision. Taking some of his work with him he drove to London and to Tara. Dear Tara, how had he left it for so long! Silence. Well, what did he expect? He prowled about the house. He checked the lights which were all sound. Of course Mildred must have been in, he must ring her up. His study was quiet, neat, as he had left it. He set out on the desk the books which he had brought with him. Here now he could work. He slept well that night and on the succeeding night. He thought, of course Tim must come herel Why have I kept him away? On the third day, in the afternoon Benet began to feel uneasy. He was remembering something which he could not quite recollect, he was having dark thoughts, he was returning to dark thoughts. He thought, as a man I have no substance, I wish I had been in the war! He thought darkly about his childhood. He also started to recall that curious stroke in Venice, which was now becoming so shadowy. He felt sudden anxiety about Tim. He must bring Tim to Tara, or else go back to Penn. He must go tomorrow. He felt suddenly confused, as if his heart were running too fast.

The front door bell rang. Benet thought first - Tim is here! Then in a second he knew. He went to the door. The man was standing outside. Benet said nothing. The man said, 'So sorry to bother you, I just wondered-'

Benet said, 'Come inside.' This sounded a more peremptory invitation than 'come in.'

The man evidently thought so too, since for a moment he looked surprised, even alarmed.

He stepped into the hall. Benet banged the door. They stared at each other. Benet said, 'What do you want?'

The man hesitated, then said cautiously 'I'd like to be helpful, if you'd need any help, I can do many kinds of things -'

Benet said, 'Go in here,' pointing to the drawing room. The man reflected, then walked into the drawing room in front of Benet, over to the fireplace where he turned round abruptly, gazing at Benet not with hostility, but with caution.

Benet sat down upon the sofa which was facing the fireplace. He pointed to a nearby upright chair. The man sat down, slightly moving the chair so that he could face Benet. Benet felt a curious shock looking into the man's rather intense dark eyes. His dark sleek hair fell over his forehead. He seemed to be young - but probably older than he seemed.

There was a moment of silence. Then Benet said, 'What is your name?'

The man answered promptly. 'Jackson.'

'What is your other name, your first name?'

'I have no other name.'

'Where do you come from?'

After a brief hesitation the man replied, 'The south.'

'Where do you live now?'

'Oh - in many places - '

Benet at this point felt a shudder as if he were about to fall into some weird connection, even a relations.h.i.+p! Why on earth had he asked him in, why had he asked his name? Simply to study his presence? Benet stared at the man. He felt for a moment as if he were suddenly tongue-tied, able only to stammer- as if it were he who was being interviewed. He stood up. The other stood up too. Benet thought, why should he not 'fix things', why do I have this deadly suspicion?

Benet said, 'Please listen to this. I do not want you here, I do not require you here, I have made other arrangements.' He turned and walked back into the hall and opened the door. The man followed and went through the door. He began to speak but Benet closed the door.

Benet went back into the drawing room and sat down. He was very annoyed and upset and puzzled and dissatisfied with himself. He was also frightened.

However, time pa.s.sed, nothing happened, Benet went to Penn, came back to Tara, and went back to Penn again. He went to the British Library. He visited the British Museum and the National Gallery and the sundry (at present not up to much) exhibitions. He considered going to Berlin, which he had been wanting to do, but put it off. He invited friends to dinner, Mildred, Elizabeth, Robert Bland (a wandering cousin of Elizabeth's), Anna, the Moxons, Andy Redmond (the musician). He returned more frequently to Penn. Uncle Tim was unwell, or he had (as he put it) been unwell. He referred to George Park as 'the puppy'. He was very anxious to visit Tara, and did so once with Benet, bringing on a heatwave and rapidly returning to the country. He was silent, then once more anxious to go to London. Benet consulted 'the puppy' and was told that a brief visit might be viable, only no rus.h.i.+ng about. Tim was touchingly delighted, and Benet drove him cautiously to Tara. There for a short while Tim spent his time joyfully exploring the house and garden and commenting on all the new things Benet had put in. The weather was good, and soon of course Tim wished to go farther afield. He told Benet suddenly one morning, that he wanted to go to Kew. 'Kewl' said Benet, who had completely forgotten the place. Tim went on to say he had never been there since he was a child and he wanted to see if it had changed, was the PaG.o.da still there? Benet said of course it was, anyway we would be told if it wasn't! Besides he said the weather was too hot, and there was nowhere to park the car. Tim said there must be, and everything there was so beautiful, and he wanted to see the greenhouse and the ducks and the geese and the swans - he had enjoyed it all so much long ago - Benet said, all right, they would go to Kew! Not today; but tomorrow morning, and he cursed himself for not at once agreeing to what the 'old fellow' desired. Tim was delighted. Benet already wondered if Kew must not mean 'rus.h.i.+ng about'. He said now he must go out shopping for lunch and Tim must sit quietly indoors, he wouldn't be long. As he went to the door he felt a wrench in his chest and stopped, pressing his hands to his heart, as he increasingly knew that sooner or later Uncle Tim must die. Oh so much love, so very much love - He opened the door and hurried out. His shopping took some time. When he returned Tim was actually standing at the open door.

'Oh good, you're back! I'm so glad!'

'What's the matter?' said Benet. Tim seemed unusually excited.

'He's back again!'

'Who's back again?' said Benet. But of course he knew.

'That man, I'm afraid he's gone now. Your friend Jackson.'

'Oh, so he told you his name! He's not my friend, but never mind. I hope you sent him away at once. Sorry I'm late.'

'Of course I didn't send him away - I invited him in - he told me all kinds of things he'd done, all sorts - he's a jewel, a real artist -'

'Tim dear, let me repeat he is not my friend and there is nothing for him to do here-'

'Yes, but there's plenty for him to do at Penn! I've arranged for him to come down!'

It was true. Uncle Tim had been enchanted, taken over, by Jackson, and had arranged for him to be driven down to Penn by Benet on the following day!

Benet said at once, 'It's impossible.'

'Why? d.a.m.n, I haven't got his address. Anyway we can go-'

'Tomorrow you are going to Kew.'

'Oh, yes - well - we can go another time, next time - I can't get hold of him anyway, and I can't put him off-'

'I don't see why!'

'But, Ben, what's wrong, you've employed him here, he said you were satisfied with his work and of course he wasn't lying-'

'No,' said Benet. 'He was not lying, but -'

'But what? Do you know something bad about him?'

'No,' said Benet, 'I know nothing bad. It's just that -' How could he explain to Uncle Tim, how could he explain to anyone, even himself! Was he afraid? He could see the crestfallen look of distress upon his uncle's face. How could he hurt the dear being whom he loved most of all? 'It's just that we already have Clun and we can borrow from Edward or -'

'But this man is an expert - he needn't stay ages and ages, only a few days perhaps a week if-'

'A week? I thought it was a day! Where is he to sleep, in the pub?'

'But, there's piles of room, all the spare bedrooms in the -'

'Oh so he's to be "in the house"! Suppose he rapes Sylvia?'

'Ben, don't make silly jokes! You'll see -'

'Oh never mind, all right, all right, yes, we'll take him with us tomorrow!'

And so it was, and Uncle Tim made a pact with Jackson. Indeed everyone (except Benet) liked and trusted Jackson. He built up part of a brick wall, painted one of the bedrooms, helped Clun to cut down a dead tree, cleaned out the stables, and mended the second-hand mower. He ran errands to the village where, at once, somehow, he made friends with everyone. He was, the landlord of the Sea Kings declared, a 'card'. He was petted by the girls. After four days, tactfully, he returned to London. Tim refused to tell Benet what he paid him. It was at a later date that Benet found himself, agreeing that if he were away from Tara for a long time Jackson might look in to see that all was well! Tim even suggested to Benet that Jackson might actually live in the summer-house! Jackson continued, at occasional intervals, to turn up at Penn, especially when Benet was not there. What then was suddenly the most important thing of all was Uncle Tim's health. He had for a while seemed to be remarkably well, not now of course travelling, but receiving visitors. The girls went away with their mother, but other visitors came, permitted by 'George the pup'; the Rector, Oliver Caxton, the landlord of the Sea Kings (his name was Victor Larne), village friends, London friends-but then suddenly he retired to his bed. Now no one came, except the doctor, Sylvia, Benet, and, now staying indefinitely in the house, Jackson. Jackson was now indispensable, an excellent nurse, much respected by the doctor who at last explained instructions to Jackson not Benet. What hurt Benet most in those final days was that sometimes Tim called for Jackson, not Benet. It was not, it seemed, that he was mistaking one for the other. He simply wanted Jackson as well as Benet. He would say to Benet, 'Where's Jackson?' and if Benet said 'Gone to the village,' Tim would be content. What Benet said was of course in all situations perfectly true; at certain times Jackson came as usual to look after Tim, and Benet would withdraw. As time pa.s.sed Benet watched for signs of Tim preferring Jackson's company but there were none. There was however no doubt that Tim desired Jackson's presence in the house, and once or twice asked anxiously, 'He hasn't gone back to London, has he?' Benet had of course for some time been aware of something, on his part, very like jealousy. Tim had already tentatively mentioned the Tara summer-house, how charming it was, and couldn't Jackson live there? After all they had no idea where Jackson lived in London, and was he not some sort of vagabond, poor thing? Benet gave vague replies. As time went by and Tim was bedridden Benet began to imagine Tim imagining Jackson established in the summer-house! However, as it became more and more clear that Tim was dying, Benet's grief itself obscured what now seemed petty irritations. One thing only added to his torment, he wanted to be alone with Tim when Tim died - he could not bear to think that Tim might die holding Jackson's hand.

At last it came; it was about three in the morning. Benet, as he was now accustomed to do, was lying upon a mattress on the floor beside the bed. He was lying sleepless listening to Tim's murmurings which sounded so like the sleepy twitterings of a bird. Then there was a little cry, a moan of distress. Benet got up and sat on the side of the big bed. He thought, somehow he knew, that Tim was going. He was lying as usual on his back against a pile of pillows. Only lately he had begun to mumble. Now he struggled, looking at Benet with a beseeching gaze, his lips parted, his eyes wide, frightened. He made a choking sound in his throat, then a sound like 'oh'. Benet leaning forward kissed his brow, then caught hold of one of his frail searching hands and lifted it up and kissed it. He said, 'Dear, dear Tim, I love you so much.' He made efforts to control himself. He said, 'Darling, don't be frightened, I love you more than anything in the world, I love you-rest quietly, dear dear one.' He tried to check his tears. Tim was looking at him with wide open eyes now expressing terror. Benet took his other thin hand upon which a little flesh remained. He said, 'Dear heart, don't be frightened, I love you, rest quietly, dear dear one.' Tim's hair, become very recently so scanty and so perfectly white, was scattered behind him on the pillow like a halo. Benet felt the desperate rhythmic flutter of his hands. Then looking away from Benet with a distressed searching gaze he uttered sounds which Benet could not make out-then suddenly striving helplessly to sit up he cried, 'I see, I see!' These were his last words uttered with his last breath. When Benet leaned over him to attempt to hold him, he was suddenly sure that he was gone. Tim lay there before him with wide open eyes - but the soul was gone, all was gone, Tim was gone. Benet now released his sobs. He turned away from the bed, blind with tears, and opened the door. Jackson was outside on the landing. In an instant of mutual grief they embraced each other, then stood apart wailing with sorrow. In that moment after, Benet found himself already fabricating the notion that in all that precious and terrible time when Benet was with Tim dying, Jackson had cautiously opened the door.