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To W. F. Fanshawe on the occasion of his retirement,
says
the plaque on the clock on the sitting-room mantelpiece,
from his
friends in the Prudential.
The clock has a gold-coloured face and
four black pillars of ersatz material: it hasn't chimed since 1958.
At night, not far away, the sea tumbles about, seeming too real to
be true. The seagulls shriek when I walk on the beach, and when I
look at them I think they're crying out with happiness.'
534
William Trevor
He began to speak, only to speak her name, for there was noth-
ing else he could think of to say. He changed his mind and said
nothing at all.
'Who would take me from it now? Who, Carruthers? What
freckled waiter or teacher of algebra? What assistant in a shop,
what bank clerk, postman, salesman of cosmetics? They see a fig-
ure walking in the wind, discs of thick glass on her eyes, breasts as
flat as paper. Her movement's awkward, they say, and when she's
close enough they raise their hats and turn away: they mean no
harm.'
'I see,' he said.
'In the bungalow I'm frightened of both of them: all my life I've
been afraid of them. When I was small and wasn't pretty they made
the best of things, and longed that I should be clever instead. "Read
to us, Beryl," my father would say, rubbing his hands together
when he came in from his office. And I would try to read. "Spell
merchant
," my father would urge as though his life depended upon
it, and the letters would become jumbled in my mind. Can you see
it, Carruthers, a child with glasses and an awkward way of walking
and two angry figures, like vultures, unforgiving? They'd exchange
a glance, turning their eyes away from me as though in shame.
"Not bright," they'd think. "Not bright, to make up for the other.'"
'How horrid, Miss Fanshawe.'
'No, no. After all, was it nice for them that their single child
should be a gawky creature who blushed when people spoke? How
could they help themselves, any more than your mother can?'
'Still, my mother —'
'"Going to the pictures?" he said the last time I was home.
"What on earth are you doing that for?" And then she got the
newspaper which gave the programme that was showing.
"Tarzan
and the Apemen",
she read out. "My dear, at your age!" I wanted
to sit in the dark for an hour or two, not having to talk about the
term at Ashleigh Court. But how could I say that to them? I felt the
redness coming in my face. "For children surely," my father said,
"a film like that." And then he laughed. "Beryl's made a mistake,"
my mother explained, and she laughed too.'
'And did you go, Miss Fanshawe?'
'Go?'
'To
Tarzan and the Apemen?'
'No, I didn't go. I don't possess courage like that: as soon as I
Going Home 535
enter the door of the bungalow 1 can feel their disappointment all
round me and I'm terrified all over again. I've thought of not going
back but I haven't even the courage for that: they've sucked every-
thing out of me. D'you understand?'
'Well —'
'Why is God so cruel that we leave the ugly school and travel
together to a greater ugliness when we could travel to something
nice?'
'Nice, Miss Fanshawe?
Nice?'
'You know what I mean, Carruthers.'
He shook his head. Again he turned it away from her, looking at
the window, wretchedly now.
'Of course you do,' her voice said, 'if you think about it.'
'I really —'
'Funny our birthdays being close together!' Her mood was gayer
suddenly. He turned to look at her and saw she was smiling. He
smiled also.
'I've dreamed this train went on for ever,' she said, 'on and on
until at last you stopped engaging passengers and waiters in fantas-
tic conversation. "I'm better now," you said, and then you went to
sleep. And when you woke I gave you liquorice allsorts. "I under-
stand," I said: "it doesn't matter."'
'I know I've been very bad to you, Miss Fanshawe. I'm sorry — '
'I've dreamed of us together in my parents' bungalow, of my par-
ents dead and buried and your thin mother gone too, and Ashleigh
Court a thing of the nightmare past. I've seen us walking over the
beaches together, you growing up, me cooking for you and mend-
ing your clothes and knitting you pullovers. I've brought you fresh
brown eggs and made you apple dumplings. I've watched you smile
over crispy chops.'
'Miss Fanshawe —'
'I'm telling you about a dream in which ordinary things are mar-
vellous. Tea tastes nicer and the green of the grass is a fresher green
than you've ever noticed before, and the air is rosy, and happiness
runs about. I would take you to a cinema on a Saturday afternoon
and we would buy chips on the way home and no one would mind.
We'd sit by the fire and say whatever we liked to one another. And
you would no longer steal things or tell lies, because you'd have no
need to. Nor would you mock an unpretty undermatron.'
'Miss Fanshawe, I — I'm feeling tired. I think I'd like to read.'
536
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