Jackson's Dilemma Page 10

  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 succumb. He turned his head away. He saw that he was passing 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 passed. 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 passed on? Or was the whole thing a complete farrago of sick nonsensical illusions brought upon him by the heat and the flashing 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 reassure 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 relationship! 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 passed, 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 rushing 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 Pagoda 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 ‘rushing 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? Damn, 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 passed 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 wid
e 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.

  Very many people, many of whom Benet did not recognise, came to Uncle Tim’s funeral, many wept. Oliver Caxton performed the service. Uncle Tim’s ashes, for he had desired cremation, were scattered in the churchyard. Benet, speaking briefly, wept. People who knew him and people who did not came up to him. George Park in tears clasped his hand. There was to be no subsequent gathering, Benet had expressed his wish to be alone. Mildred, Owen, Anna, all his London friends tactfully disappeared. Edward withdrew. Marian and Rosalind were both with their mother in Canada. He would have to write to them, and indeed to many others who did not yet know. Oh God, he sat for a long time with his head in his hands. He got up and walked about, then sat down again. Hating the sunlight, he got up to pull the curtains of the drawing room. As he turned back he thought he saw a figure moving in from the hall. He stood staring. He had completely forgotten Jackson. He uttered a low sound of irritation. Jackson came forward a little nearer to him. He was wearing his dark clothes, his face, his head looked dark, he said something in a low voice. Benet said, ‘What?’ Then he said, ‘Of course I will give you your money. I will give it to you now.’ He just wanted Jackson to go, to go away forever.