ask,’ Marie said. She brought him a package of home-made tongue sandwiches. Justin was immensely fond of Marie. He brewed some coffee and they went into the garden with it, to sit ensconced on wicker chairs under the sun umbrella. Marie was a handsome, well-set-up woman in her sixties. Her generous head of hair was dyed somewhere between ginger and gold; she flew once a month to her hairdresser in Paris to have her hair attended to. Not only was she adroit at swearing: the world, or many of its aspects, troubled her. There she and her husband were much in agreement. ‘Was the world always in its present muddle or were we just too young to notice?’
‘At least the world was not so over-populated,’ Justin said.
‘Shagging took one’s mind off worse things,’ she said with a smile. ‘Probably better things too …’
‘Such as?’
Justin had advertised for a gardener. A man called at the side door, dragging a dog with him. He announced himself as Hughes. Justin did not immediately take to the fellow, but he showed him into the courtyard, where Marie was sitting, in order that he might gain some idea of the garden. The new arrival was a big hollow-chested man in his fifties, wearing a mustard-coloured jacket at least two sizes too large for him: evidently bought from the Oxfam shop. His well-worn face might have come from the same source. The jacket stood away from him at the neck, hunching back at the shoulders, as if, of all the people who had worn the garment previously, this customer was its least favourite. Justin introduced himself and Marie and asked the man’s name.
‘Jack Hughes,’ he said.
‘Oh, how delightful,’ said Marie, piping up. ‘We are reading Zola’s J’accuse in our French class. Was your mother reading J’accuse when she was pregnant?’
Hughes was completely baffled. In a short while he said he did not want the job and left, scowling and muttering to himself, dragging the dog after him.
‘I could have killed you!’ Justin exclaimed, and both he and Marie burst into laughter. Little did they anticipate the note, written in pencil, pushed through Justin’s door, saying You was rude. I did not have no mother, see.
Marie left. Justin was alone again, thinking as he always thought, worrying about Maude. He could not understand how she had been moved to espouse a religion where women were so subject to male domination. In the house, a sickly smell assailed him. His cleaner, Scalli, had been over-liberal with the disinfectant again. He wandered about the house, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. In one of his rooms, facing south, stood a glass-fronted cabinet. Although Justin was far from being a rich man, he had made a small collection of bodhisattvas, each about twelve inches high. He had four of them. These strikingly elaborate figures wore crowns and in general looked forbidding. Justin had no great interest in Tibetan Buddhism; he simply admired the alien nature of the figures. He had become so accustomed to them that he hardly glanced at them from one month to the next. But now he realized that one of the figures was missing. It was the bodhisattva which clutched a fish in its left hand. He began to look round the house to see if anything else was missing. That seemed not to be the case. He went to sleep in his armchair. He woke with the lost figure still in mind. He was philosophical. He had bought the bodhisattva fairly cheaply in Chengdu, China. He suspected that a Chinese merchant had stolen it from a Tibetan monastery. There was something like justice in the fact that it had now been stolen again – from him. He liked not thieves, but justice. If Maude had needed money to pay whoever she was paying for instruction into the Muslim faith, she would have asked him directly. He must tackle Scalli about it. ‘Tackle tactfully,’ he thought.
He was suffering from a headache, doing nothing. A woman called Hester phoned Justin. She said they had gone out together forty or more years ago. Did he remember? He pretended that he did. It was absurd of her to ask such a question. Hester? Hester who? She was having an exhibition of her abstract paintings at the Greystoke Gallery in Oxford. She hoped he would come along. ‘Are you all right, Justin?’ she asked. ‘You sound a bit down.’
‘I’m okay. Are you all right?’ He had already forgotten what she had said her name was.
‘I’ve been having a terrible time. I caught a bad dose of flu at the beginning of last year. Of course, I’m middle-aged now. Well, a bit more than that, really. I mean to say, my Maggie is coming up for thirty-one. It’s sad to see your children grow old, and I know she doesn’t get on too well with that daft husband of hers. Anyhow, it took me ages to recover from the flu – and then I went blind in one eye.’
‘That was bad luck, Hester.’ Her name had come back to him. He thought he had better pronounce it before it was gone again.
‘Well, for an artist, you know … I thought it was the flu but the doctor said it was the acrylics. I’ve just gone through the laser treatment and, thank God, my sight’s restored.’
‘Was it painful, the treatment?’
‘So here we are, talking about our illnesses …’
‘It’s an occupational hazard when you are eighty.’
‘Really! I’m only sixty-nine, you know. My friend Terry – I tell friends it’s short for Terylene – she says the reason why no one likes old people is because all they can talk about is their illnesses.’
Justin chuckled. ‘She could be right. Add a smell of wee …’
‘I hope you will make it to the Greystoke Gallery. It would be nice to see you again. Or at least interesting. Oh, and I forgot to tell you, my father has died.’
Hester? He tried to conjure up a face. No luck.
Justin Haddock (or, as he prefers, Haydock) is eighty years old, and there are many faces he can no longer conjure up. For him, life is rich in small events, even phone calls. He values its everydayness, knowing he will not live for ever. To survive for a goodly number of years is all very well, thinks Justin. The vital thing is to maintain something of a social life; it is there that enjoyment lives. This is not so easy when one’s wife – as in Justin’s case – has died. Or did Janet go to Carlisle? Surely Carlisle had just been a silly joke. It had become stuck in his throat like one of his warfarin pills. And again, he wondered about the world in which he lived: and about the lives of those about him. There might be someone hiding in his house of whom he was unaware. Supposing Maude unwittingly brought in a villain, a thief … He stood gazing out of the window. He was fine. Must not fall over … He seeks for an understanding of why we live our lives as we do – an ample enough theme for any novel. One thing in particular he likes about his mother-in-law Maude is her rejection of what he termed ‘the Christian rigmarole’ – the idea that bodies locked into a coffin would be resurrected and face judgement somewhere, perhaps in a celestial version of the Old Bailey. How could anyone believe that in the twenty-first century? Yet because of his religious upbringing, his rejection of the ‘rigmarole’ produced in him a certain feeling of unease: an unease justified by events, and by an alien religion.
A long while ago, back in the 1960s, Justin made a name for himself with a televised two-parter play entitled, The Worm Forgives the Plough. Justin wrote the screenplay from a book of that title, and took over as its producer at the last moment when the original producer fell ill. It was a lucky opportunity which lifted his career. The Worm Forgives was the story of a man who had served in World War Two and afterwards deliberately chooses the harsh life of a small farmer, to be close to the natural things he thinks most important. Carthorses and all that. And a beautiful woman who had been a Land Army Girl. This production marked the beginning of Justin’s comparative fame. That fame is long behind him. Now he is adjusting to obscurity as well as decrepitude. Old Headington is a real place. It is a stony
