Wine after three glasses solves nothing and the pain of recent discovery remains. Still, I’m feeling a friendly touch of disassociation: I’m already some useful steps removed and see myself revealed some fifteen feet below me, like a fallen climber spreadeagled and supine on a rock. I can begin to comprehend my situation, I can think as well as feel. An unassuming New World white can do this much. So. My mother has preferred my father’s brother, cheated her husband, ruined her son. My uncle has stolen his brother’s wife, deceived his nephew’s father, grossly insulted his sister-in-law’s son. My father by nature is defenceless, as I am by circumstance. My uncle – a quarter of my genome, of my father’s a half, but no more like my father than I to Virgil or Montaigne. What despicable part of myself is Claude and how will I know? I could be my own brother and deceive myself as he deceived his. When I’m born and allowed at last to be alone, there’s a quarter I’ll want to take a kitchen knife to. But the one who holds the knife will also be my uncle, quartering in my genome. Then we’ll see how the knife won’t move. And this perception too is somewhat his. And this.
My affair with Trudy isn’t going well. I thought I could take her love for granted. But I’ve heard biologists debating at dawn. Pregnant mothers must fight the tenants of their wombs. Nature, a mother herself, ordains a struggle for resources that may be needed to nurture my future sibling rivals. My health derives from Trudy, but she must preserve herself against me. So why would she worry about my feelings? If it’s in her interests and those of some unconceived squit that I should be undernourished, why trouble herself if a tryst with my uncle upsets me? The biologists also suggest that my father’s wisest move is to trick another man into raising his child while he – my father! – distributes his likeness among other women. So bleak, so loveless. We’re alone then, all of us, even me, each treading a deserted highway, toting in a bundle on a shouldered stick the schemes, the flow charts, for unconscious advancement.
Too much to bear, too grim to be true. Why would the world configure itself so harshly? Among much else, people are sociable and kind. Ripeness isn’t everything. My mother is more than my landlord. My father longs not for the widest dissemination of his selfhood, but for his wife and, surely, his only son. I don’t believe the sages of the life sciences. He must love me, wants to move back in, will care for me – given the chance. And she’s never caused me to miss a meal, and until this afternoon has decently refused a third glass on my account. It’s not her love that’s failing. It’s mine. It’s my resentment that falls between us. I refuse to say I hate her. But to abandon a poet, any poet, for Claude!
That’s hard, and what’s also hard is that the poet is so soft. John Cairncross, ousted from his family home, his grandfather’s purchase, for a philosophy of ‘personal growth’ – a phrase as paradoxical as ‘easy listening’. To be apart so they can be together, turn their backs so they might embrace, stop loving so they can fall in love. He bought it. What a sap! Between his weakness and her deceit was the fetid crack that spontaneously generated a maggot-uncle. And I squat here sealed in my private life, in a lingering, sultry dusk, impatiently dreaming.
What I could do if instead I was at my peak. Let’s say twenty-eight years from now. Jeans faded and tight, abs tight and ridged, moving sleekly like a panther, temporarily immortal. Fetching my ancient father in a taxi from Shoreditch to install him, deaf to Trudy’s matronly protests, in his library, in his bed. Catching old Uncle Maggot by the neck to toss him into the leafy gutter of Hamilton Terrace. Hushing my mother with a careless kiss to her nape.
But here’s life’s most limiting truth – it’s always now, always here, never then and there. And now we are frying in a London heatwave, here on an unsound balcony. I listen to her refill the glass, the plop of plastic cubes, her soft sigh, more anxious than content. A fourth glass then. She must think I’m old enough to take it. And I am. We’re getting drunk because even now her lover is conferring with his brother in the windowless office of the Cairncross Press.
To divert myself I send my thoughts ahead to spy on them. Purely an exercise of the imagination. Nothing here is real.
The soft loan is laid out on the crowded desk.
‘John, she truly loves you but she’s asked me as a trusted family member to ask you to stay away for just a little while. Best hope for your marriage. Erm. It’ll come out right in the end. I should’ve guessed your rent was in arrears. But. Please say yes, take the cash, let her have her space.’
It sits between them on the desk, five thousand pounds in filthy fifties, five odorous heaps of red scrip. To each side are poetry books and typescripts loosely piled, sharpened pencils, and two glass ashtrays, well filled, a bottle of Scotch, a gentle Tomintoul with an inch remaining, a crystal tumbler, a dead fly on its back inside, several aspirins lying on an unused tissue. Squalid marks of honest toil.
My guess is this. My father has never understood his younger brother. Never thought it worth the sweat. And John doesn’t like a confrontation. His gaze won’t meet the money on the desk. It wouldn’t occur to him to explain that returning home to be with wife and child is all he wants.
Instead he says, ‘This came in yesterday. Would you like to hear a poem about an owl?’
Just the kind of irrelevant whimsy that Claude hated as a child. He shakes his head, no please spare me, but it’s too late.
My father has a single sheet of typescript in his scaly hand.
‘Blood-wise fatal bellman,’ he starts. He likes a trochaic trimeter.
‘You don’t want it then,’ his brother sulkily interrupts. ‘Fine by me.’ And with banker’s wormy fingers collates the piles, soft-drops the edges against the surface of the desk, from nowhere takes a rubber band and in two seconds he’s returned the cash to an inside pocket of his silver-buttoned blazer, and stands, looking hot and sick.
My father, unrushed, reads the second line. ‘We quaintly thrill to a shrieking cruelty.’ Then he stops and mildly says, ‘Do you have to go?’
No close observer could decode the sibling shorthand, the time-bound sadness of this exchange. The rates, the rules, were set too long ago to be revised. Claude’s relative wealth must go unrecognised. He remains the younger brother, inadequate, strangled, furious. My father is puzzled by his closest living relative, but only faintly. He won’t move off his ground and from it sounds mocking. But he isn’t. It’s worse than mockery: he doesn’t care, and hardly knows he doesn’t care. About rent, or money or Claude’s offer. But because he’s a considerate man he stands politely to see his visitor out, and when that’s done and he’s sitting at his desk again, the cash that was there is forgotten, and so is Claude. The pencil’s back in my father’s hand, a cigarette’s in the other. He’ll go on with the only work that matters, proofing poems for the printers, and won’t look up until it’s six and time for a whisky and water. First he’ll tip the fly from the tumbler.
As though from a long journey, I return to the womb. Nothing has changed on the balcony, except I find myself a tad drunker. As if to welcome me back, Trudy drains the bottle into her glass. The cubes have lost their cool, the wine is almost warm, but she’s right, better to finish it now. It won’t keep. The breeze still stirs the chestnut trees, the afternoon traffic is picking up. As the sun descends, it feels warmer. But I don’t mind the heat. As the last of the Sauvignon Blanc arrives I set myself to reconsider. I’ve been away, I escaped over the wire without ladder or rope, free as a bird, leaving behind my now and my here. My limiting truth was untrue: I can be gone any time I like, throw Claude out the house, visit my father in his office, be a loving, invisible snooper. Are movies as good as this? I’ll find out. One could make a living devising such excursions. But the actual, the circumscribed real, is absorbing too and I’m impatient for Claude to return and tell us what really happened. My version is certain to be wrong.