Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

     I’ve been spending several hours in front of a large canvas in my studio loft, producing very little. Now that I have as much time as I would like with no one disturbing me, my impulse to paint has almost vanished. I mix up beautiful colours and find myself simply staring at them. There’s a special red and a special purple. I want to give the colours names. Grape red. Fever purple. Sensations and associations begin to attach themselves to colours and names. Fever dreams. Red rivers. A bale of purple velvet cloth wrapped around a tree trunk. A nursery wallpaper pattern expanding and contracting before my smarting eyes. The feel of cool bed linen. Amber-coloured glass beads between hot fingers. Raspberry juice in a tall bottle. The hospital in which I was still working only a few weeks ago, helping the handicapped to spend their convalescence creatively — whatever that means. For me it meant a nice cheque at the end of each month, some pleasant contacts with a number of people, but never enough time for myself. Always ideas for paintings at the back of my mind and nowhere to get on with them. Until I had the loft of the house converted and, just recently, gave up my job.

     I suppose I still have to get used to having all this time to myself, with no one to disturb me. Occasionally it seems as though I can hear the time passing my ears. Leaving me behind. Empty. I hate to admit it, but the idea of waste still worries me. Wasted time. Like throwing away food while the children in umpteen underdeveloped countries are starving.

     I spend much time arguing this out with myself: It’s wrong to be wasteful. Life should be spent usefully. How? Who is there to judge what is useful and what is not? Why shouldn’t I sit here looking at colours which I love. And as for feeling empty . . . . . Is this emptiness? It’s certainly different from before.

     My mind goes back to the tiger. It’s the search for it that appeals to me. Especially at present. And there’s something about Mrs. Friedmann. She seems no stranger, although I’ve only just met her for the first time. Perhaps she is an aspect of myself. And if she were? Must I always look for reasons in every move I make? The fact is that my curiosity has been aroused and I want to satisfy this curiosity.

     Now I can see a large hand appearing on the white wall before me, slowly writing these three words: A useful life. It’s like a threat and I immediately feel angry. I shall not allow any threats to affect me henceforth in whatever form they appear. Usefulness be damned. I’ve been a most useful member of our useful society for all my adult life. (And I wasn’t a bad child either). Helping others. Why?

     I do realise that I may, of course, be helping Mrs. Friedmann if I try to find this tiger for her. But this is not what decided me to start the search. What then? I’m not sure. Perhaps I shall find that out too.

     I can see myself walking along a narrow cobbled street. I don’t recognise the town, but the cobblestones feel familiar under my feet. I don’t know where I’m going and there is no one to ask. The hotel isn’t far away. A square room with mirrors on each of the walls, and in them endlessly reflecting flowing red drapes, like waves of blood which never congeal. A small silver angel, just head and wings, detaches itself from the wall by the window and glides slowly into the distance, until it is swallowed up by a red glow.

     ‘Can you see it, darling? Come closer. There must be no barrier between us. Not here. You, too, will see the angel and it will make you fly . . . . .’ Now the tiger appears, striding majestically through the arch of red curtains, its nose twitching.

     The girl’s hair is long and black, covering up the man’s head. She can’t see his head at all, nor can she lift her own. She lies unmoving, reflected in the mirrors.

     Listen, it was a very dull room in Mexico City. It was the wrong house of course. The man had lost his eyes under the carpet, but green bulges were visible to all the guests who stepped carefully over them, not to be tripped up. It was most thoughtless of him of course. He could remember the pretty tiles in the shower and described them in great detail. He liked blues and greens, he said, though they were rust red, which no one dared to tell him. I made three attempts to tell him the truth, but once I stood under the shower it all seemed so irrelevant. Only the scent of the soap had any meaning. It was jasmin soap and it made me breathe faster.

     But it’s dangerous to breathe too fast. It makes you giddy and this could well have been how the man lost his eyes under the carpet.

     It was far more beautiful in the house next door. They had white lillies growing in all the key-holes. You took a small watering-can from the wall and sprinkled a few drops on each flower, if you wanted the door to open.

     I was then convinced that the tiger would be hiding behind the door of the third floor. I can’t say why I was so sure about it. I think I could hear it walking around the room and I’m familiar with its gait and the pressure of its paws. When I reached the third floor I found the door ajar and saw its footprints, pressed deeply into the dark purple carpet. I also noticed a strange smell. All this only for seconds. When I blinked my eyes the pawmarks were no longer visible and the scent had also gone.

     I slowly painted a yellow and a purple circle in the middle of the canvas.

     In the evening I tried again unsuccessfully to ’phone George Sacks. In the end I decided to go once more to the house, this time taking the Mini, as traffic conditions are much easier at night. There was space for parking outside the house and I could see a light in two of the top windows. But I had to bang the knocker for at least five minutes before I could sense some movement in the house. ‘Anyone in?’ I shouted through the letter-box.

     A light was switched on, on one of the upper floors, and I heard someone clonking slowly down the stairs in what seemed to me a pair of Scholl’s health sandals. For an instant I expected to see one of my daughters before me. They had been wearing such sandals right through the summer and I’d become very familiar with their specific clatter. In the dim light of the entrance hail I couldn’t tell whether the woman opening the door for me was young or old. She was small and slight and spoke very quietly almost in a whisper. But it was an aggressive whisper: ‘What do you want?’

     ‘I’ve come to see Mr. Sacks’.

     ‘Have you an appointment?’

     ‘I wrote to him. My name is Wood, Mrs. Clara Wood’.

     ‘I don’t know you’.

     ‘Are you Mrs. Sacks?’

     She scrutinised me suspiciously. ‘He’s very busy these days’.

     ‘I won’t take up much of his time, perhaps you could tell him that I’m here’.

     ‘George isn’t in’.

     ‘What a pity’.

     In the meantime I’d got used to the poor lighting and was able to study the woman’s face. She was very pale with dark rings under her eyes as if she hadn’t slept for days. It was difficult to guess her age. She could be about thirty or forty — or even fifty. Her long reddish hair was tied back with a narrow ribbon. I began to wonder whether she could possibly be Julia Maples. If she is, I musn’t let her know my business, I thought feverishly.

     I was most anxious to get inside the house. ‘W. . . ould you mind if I came in for a minute?’ I asked very quietly, adapting myself to her way of talking.

     She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Well, I don’t know what time George will be back. Sometimes it’s early, sometimes it’s late’.

     ‘I called this morning already and was told that he was looking for a model’.

     ‘Yes’ she laughed wearily. ‘He never stops looking. Never finds quite the face he wants. As though a face mattered’.

     ‘I don’t know what matters most’. I tried to keep the conversation going, gradually edging my way into the house, like a door to door salesman. ‘What pretty branches you have there. I already admired them this morning. Do you keep them in water?’

     I suppose my repeated reference to my visit to the house earlier that day helped to dispel the woman’s suspicion. I realised that it didn’t occur to her that I’d simply looked through the letter-box and spoken to the milk bottle exchanger and concluded that some other person besides her and George Sacks must be living in the building.

     ‘The branches?’ She motioned her head towards the vase next to the mirror, giving me a chance to set both my feet inside the house. ‘They have nothing to do with me. The person downstairs must have collected them. That’s all she does, collects flowers and washes bottles. George picked her up one rainy day in summer. He was fascinated by her face. Until it stopped raining. Then he decided that it wasn’t quite what he was looking for. But he let her stay in the house. Since it’s going to come down any time now, nobody bothers whether an old tramp like her stays here or not. They tolerate her like they do the mice and the rats. They know their days are numbered, so they don’t worry’.

     ‘I used to live not far from here’, I said casually, as though I’d moved away recently and not over twenty years ago. I don’t think I ever saw you’.

     ‘You couldn’t have, this isn’t my home. I hardly knew this part until a month or two ago’.

     ‘I see’. I was still wondering whether she could possibly be Julia Maples. ‘A friend of mine used to live in this house, a Mrs. Friedmann’. I watched her face anxiously as I mentioned Mrs. Friedmann’s name.

     ‘Oh yes’. She showed no reaction.

     ‘You don’t happen to know her — or her son by any chance?’ It was a very direct question and might have spoilt everything.

     ‘No. Why?’ She fired the ‘why’ at me like a shot.

     ‘I was just wondering . . . . .’

     ‘I suppose George would know her. He has mentioned someone who used to live here until about a year ago. His landlord, I think. He had a fatal car accident, didn’t he?’

     ‘Yes’, I nodded. ‘A terrible business. He was killed outright. Quite a young man too, and very gifted, I’m told’.

     ‘Shocking. But they drive like devils, it doesn’t surprise you’. She shivered. ‘You might as well wait upstairs, I’ve got the paraffin stove going’. She spoke suddenly in a much less husky voice and stepped back from the door.

     ‘That’s most kind of you’. She led the way and I followed.

     The staircase was in a terrible state of disrepair. Water had obviously come through the roof or from some broken pipes, and pieces of crumbling ceiling crunched under our feet every few steps. There were old packing cases on the landing, reminding me of those I’d seen in the back garden that morning. ‘It’s amazing what one collects over the years’, I remarked.

     ‘Well, George never comes home empty-handed. Wherever he goes he finds something or other. “What d’you want all that junk for?” I keep asking him. But he can think of some use for everything; pins them to the ceiling, to the walls, these treasures of his. Look! ‘She pointed to three pieces of blue cardboard hanging suspended over the landing of the top floor by a long silver wire. The pieces moved slowly in the draft. ‘He thinks that’s marvellous’.

     ‘It’s from an apple box, isn’t it?’

     ‘That’s right. But not from his box of apples, that wouldn’t have been so bad after all. No, he salvaged it from someone’s dustbin, if you please’.

     ‘Well, if it’s clean. It’s certainly a nice blue with interesting shapes’.

     ‘It’s not clean now, I can tell you. It’s thick with dust and cobwebs. But he likes that too. “Look at the texture”, he says. “Only nature can create a texture like this”. He won’t let me touch it’.

     ‘An artist has a special way of looking at things’.

     ‘He certainly has’.

     There were four doors on each landing and they were all closed. Those on the top landing were painted in different colours, orange, blue and green, except the one on the very right which appeared to have been used as a painter’s palette. ‘Just look at this’. I heard the woman’s voice, now without any hint of a whisper. ‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’

     ‘I suppose Mr. Sacks cleans his paintbrushes on it’.

     ‘He does — or he did. He hasn’t touched a brush for the last two months, too busy with other things’. She pressed down the handle of the multi-coloured door and switched on the electric light. It flickered at first, as though there was a faulty contact, then gave way to the immitation daylight from two fluorescent tubes. ‘There you are. You’d better sit in the armchair in the far corner. He doesn’t like to see strange faces the moment he opens the door, even if they’re nice people’.

     ‘You seem to know a lot about Mr. Sacks, I suppose you help him with his work’.

     She laughed. ‘He likes to have me around because I have a sobering influence on him. I spoil his craziest ideas, he says, and that gives him a feeling of security’.

     ‘But what about you? Do you enjoy being here?’

     ‘I?’ For a moment she opened her eyes wide, as though allowing me to look into her. ‘I enjoy being wanted’.

     ‘So do I’. I said quietly. Then I went to the far end of the room and sat in the chair indicated to me.

     ‘I’ve got something on the gas’, the woman quickly excused herself, leaving the room through a small door in the wall opposite the window which I hadn’t noticed before.

     I didn’t like the bright light in the room, though I knew it was probably good for work. It showed up everything around me too clearly, spoiling some of the enjoyment I get from looking at new surroundings stimulated by my own ideas and associations.

     Thinking back to the room now, I can still see a number of different versions of it side by side, as with so many things I recollect. There are my preconceived ideas and fantasies of it — what I expected to find before the door opened. There are the plain facts absorbed with all my senses — as when entering the room and acquainting myself physically with it. And there is the picture I remember afterwards — in the past. As time goes by I find that these three aspects tend to blend into a single memory. I generally try to delay this process as long as possible by consciously keeping apart the different images conceived of the same event, place or person, and stored in my mind, so that I can compare them later.

     Perhaps it’s a bit like hanging on to old photographs. Except that my photographs’ lack the objectivity of the camera. I m very much aware that they are my expectations, my impressions and my memories. And it is exactly this awareness which has led me to my conscious efforts at preserving my own subjective reactions as clearly as possible. For whatever other true reactions can there be?

     In retrospect I am able, therefore, to recall and recreate most experiences in a number of ways:

     a) There is the picture I may have obtained in my mind in advance, based on my ideas and fantasies, i.e. my expectations.

     b) There is the picture I obtain on the strength of my recollections, directly based on my sensula perception of an actual physical experience.

     c) There is the picture obtained from a blended and tempered version of a and b. In any case, by the time I am ready to give a certain account in retrospect, the varying impressions and memories on which I draw have generally started to intermingle, thus creating something new again.

     When I first put on paper the account of my search for Mrs. Friedmann’s lost tiger, these thoughts were far from my mind. Only after looking through my original notes, and in my attempt to relate whet happened as truthfully as possible, did they become indeed relevant.

     George Sacks’ room to me now is large with a bare sanded wood floor. Surprisingly clean, considering the state of the house. Under the two curtainless windows, overlooking the back garden, a big wooden table covered with a great many articles. From my armchair it took me some time to identify them: toy bricks, oranges, boxes of all shapes and sizes; from jewellery, from watches, from fountain pens; the inside of chocolate boxes; a large tin of Cow gum: a number of wooden bowls; piles of corrugated paper; a flowerpot filled with paint-brushes.

     I remained sitting in the armchair like a small schoolgirl. But after a while I couldn’t resist my desire to examine the articles on the table more closely and tip-toed to it. The flowerpot holding the paintbrushes was filled with pebbles of various shapes and colours. Three bowls of rough wood, probably turned on a lathe, contained shells: tiny smooth ones, like children’s finger-nails, spread on layers of cottonwool; twisted ones, each quite perfect, sorted in order of size; three razor shells, especially large specimens, but each somewhat damaged. Also a collection of safety-pins in an empty Nivea tin, in various sizes and stages of deterioration: green with verdigris, brown with rust, or just tarnished and bent or broken. At the far end of the table, in a transparent polythene container, a collection of wine-bottle labels. So there they were. Not stuck orderly into a scrap book, but preserved nevertheless.

     Against the wall opposite the window two sculptor’s turntables, covered with sacking and revealing the rough outlines of two heads. Next to these a pile of mattresses in varying striped ticks, neatly stacked to divan height. I counted seven mattresses, thought of the seven dwarfs, of the princess on the pea, when I heard footsteps coming up the stairs, followed by heavy breathing. Then George opened the door.

     ‘Louise — Hsiloo — loo — loo — loo!’ It was like some private song. I felt immediately embarrassed and kept very still, hoping to delay my being discovered as long as possible.

     He strode to the small door, opened it impatiently and called out again: ‘Noo?!’

     It was when I heard him say this one word that my confidence returned. I had the instant feeling that he was no stranger and I was sure I would affect him in the same sort of way. It is of course a mistake to jump to such conclusions and deduce someone else’s feelings from one’s own, a mistake I’m particularly inclined to make.

     Louise didn’t respond to his call. I saw him turning back into the room shrugging his shoulders. I coughed slightly to prepare him for my presence, but he’d already spotted me. He raised his eyebrows, staring at me as though wondering whether I was perhaps a figment of his imagination or one of Louise’s practical jokes. At least that’s what I imagined.

     I noticed his eyes focused on my hair which I wore as usual in a loose topnot. Then he said very stiffly with a little bow: ‘I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure before — or not for a very long time’.

     I attempted to get up from my chair, but he raised his hand, motioning me not to move. ‘I . . . . . I’m Clara Wood’.

     He opened his mouth and let out a deep warm laugh. ‘Clara Baum’.

     I looked at him startled. If he knew my maiden name instantly like this, I must have known him too. But who was he? George Sacks? He might have changed his name by deed poll of course.

     I studied his face feverishly. It was a round face with lots of hair, grey and dark brown, leaving uncovered a small part of his face only, his eyes and his nose. I thought he looked like a Scotch terrier, except that his brown eyes were larger and his nose very prominent. He gave me time to take a good look at him, stroking his beard, an amused twinkle in his eyes. ‘You don’t remember me, it seems?’

     ‘No, I don’t’. I shook my head feeling quite at a loss.

     ‘Do you remember a certain Sachinsky, Hans Georg Sachinsky?’

     ‘Not the art master at my Lyzeum in Berlin?’

     ‘That’s the one’.

     ‘Incredible. But I was only twelve when I left, and you remember me?’

     ‘I often wondered what you would look like as a woman — and what you would do with yourself. You were gifted, you know’.

     ‘It must be about twenty-eight years ago. You have a fantastic memory’.

     ‘Only for very few things. Long black hair is one of them’.

     ‘Father wouldn’t let me cut it off’.

     ‘And you’re still obeying him?’

     ‘I don’t know. I’m so used to it, it’s just part of me. And I suppose Bob likes it too . . . . .’

     ‘Who’s Bob, Mr. Wood?’

     ‘Dr. Robert Wood, the orthopaedic surgeon’.

     ‘Well, well, well. We must celebrate’. He rubbed his hands together. ‘Louise! Where is she?’

     ‘She let me in’.

     He scratched his head puzzled. ‘Yes, why are you here? She doesn’t usually let in strangers . . . . .’

     ‘I’m looking for Julia Maples’.

     ‘You are looking for Julia Maples?’ He pointed his index finger at me unbelievingly.

     ‘That’s correct’.

     He now appeared thoroughly confused and started walking up and down the room.

     ‘I’ll explain everything . . . . .’ I said, quietly getting up from my chair.

     ‘Sure, sure. That’ll be fascinating no doubt. But I must first find Louise’.

     ‘She was looking very tired, perhaps . . . . .’

     ‘What?’ He seemed suddenly alarmed.

     ‘She might have gone home’, I suggested without much conviction.

     ‘Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of. All these bloody madwomen’.

     ‘She mentioned someone who’s living in the basement flat, perhaps she went to see her’.

     ‘Louise gone to see Gwen?’ He shook his head pulling a grimace. ‘No, Louise wouldn’t go to see Gwen down there. Never. Besides, Gwen left this morning, I took her back to Napsbury myself and they promised me this time that they would keep her’. He sighed. Then he left the room for a moment and returned shrugging his shoulders, mumbling something under his breath which I couldn’t make out, adding more audibly: ‘Never mind, never mind. Let’s go into the kitchen. I need a drink and I’m starving’.

     I followed him through the small door into an untidy little kitchen with a wooden bench, a table and two stools in a corner. He picked up a kettle, looking aimlessly around as though still trying to find Louise, then filled it from a tap over an old-fashioned stone sink. ‘You’ll have something with me, won’t you?’

     ‘Thank you, but I’ve eaten’.

     ‘A glass of tea with rum’.

     ‘That sounds very nice, but really . . . . .’

     ‘Ah, come on, no politenesses with me. Well, one woman comes, one woman goes. I’m glad you’re here. Sit down over there, the bench is more comfortable and you can lean your back against the wall’.

     ‘Can’t I help you?’

     ‘Help me?’ He laughed. ‘No one can help me. I have to help myself’. He looked at me, again keeping his eyes especially on my hair, then nodded. ‘Tell me, do you believe in Schicksal?’

     ‘Do I believe in Fate? I don’t know. No, I don’t think so, if it means some power predetermining what happens to us. Coincidence isn’t Fate, it’s just chance . . . . . Like our meeting tonight. Well, it’s a strange coincidence of course. If Bella Berliner hadn’t given me special tuition in Berlin, and if I hadn’t missed so much school due to some kidney infection, and if I hadn’t met her quite unexpectedly in the house of some friends in London and taken to her because she was one of the few people who knew my home and my parents and so much else . . . . . but never mind about all that’. I took a deep breath and looked at George Sacks who, in the meantime, had placed on the table two glasses in metal stands and two plates and was now waiting for me to continue. I suddenly felt very selfconscious and, sliding my index finger slowly along the rim of one of the glasses, I went on: ‘If Bella Berliner hadn’t been accepted in Jerusalem House and hadn’t introduced me to Mrs. Friedmann two days ago’. I was now gradually picking up speed again, ‘and if a) Mrs. Friedmann’s grandfather hadn’t bought a metal tiger, passed it on to his son who, not having had any sons, passed it on to his son-in-law Max Friedmann, the husband of Mrs. Friedl Friedmann . . . . .’

     George Sacks lifted both his hands as though in surrender, saying: ‘Oy-yoyyoy’. Then he went slowly to the kitchen cupboard, murmuring: ‘I hope that madwoman hasn’t drunk all my rum again’. He picked out a bottle without a label, opened it, sniffed at it and held it against the light. ‘She didn’t do too badly, but she has left us a little’. Then to me: ‘Well, continue!’

     ‘I’m not sure how far I’ve got’. I hesitated for a moment. ‘Oh yes, if Mrs. Friedmann hadn’t been quite so attached to that tiger and could have managed to lose it more or less gracefully, like so much else she has irrevocably lost in her life, taken by the Nazis or by ‘Fate’, if you like, or by some unhappy coincidence, and if I hadn’t been such a fool as to allow myself to become involved in someone else’s affairs . . . . . Oh, I don’t know’.

     George Sacks shook his head. ‘Clara, my dear, you haven’t changed much. You have become older, more beautiful and probably wiser. After all, most of us get a little wiser over the years. But you haven’t changed much’. He took a teapot from the draining board, rinsed it out with a little hot water from the kettle, reached down a brown tin from the shelf above the cooker and spooned a generous amount of tea into the pot.

     While he was waiting for the water to boil, I asked him: ‘Tell me, how much do you actually know about that tiger?’

     He laughed. ‘What am I, a keeper at the Zoo?’

     ‘No, seriously, you knew Julia Maples, didn’t you?’

     ‘Sure, I knew Julia Maples. I even introduced her to Alexander Friedmann or Freeman. That, too, was a stroke of Fate’.

     ‘Do you or don’t you believe that she took the tiger?’

     ‘How do I know? I’m not a believer. It’s likely that she did. I know no more. But I do know that I’m dying for a glass of tea with rum and a piece of rye broad with wursht’.

     ‘I’m sorry’.

     ‘Don’t apologise. You’re anxious to find out certain facts and I’m anxious to drink and eat. We shall probably be able to satisfy both our desires. All right?’

     I laughed. ‘Perhaps I shall be able to believe in Fate if you put enough rum in my glass’.

     The tea with rum was most pleasant and, after I’d watched George greedily eating several pieces of fresh rye bread with salami, I asked him to cut off a piece for me too, adding: ‘After all, we’re not strangers’.

     He nodded enthusiastically and grinned. ‘I should think not’.

     When we had finished eating and had drunk several glasses of tea with rum — or probably rum with tea — he put his hand under my chin, lifting up my head. ‘Will you do me a favour, Clara? Let your hair down for me. I keep looking at it as though looking at a riddle. There it is, pinned up in position and I don’t know what it’s really like. You see, I have to know these things. D’you understand?’

     I nodded, pulled out the hair-pins, shaking loose the hair so that it dropped on my shoulders. ‘Is that better?’

     ‘Perfect’. He lifted his hands from the table with his palms towards me. ‘Quite perfect’.

     I felt drowsy. Everything around me seemed so still, moving further and further away. I started to count the bottles and jars lined up on the shelves along the kitchen walls. They were all shapes and sizes. ‘What have you got in all these?’ I asked turning to George who hadn’t taken his eyes off me.

     ‘Pickled lechodowdies and pickled tigers’.

     I shook my head. ‘You musn’t say such heimishe things to me, George, or I shall start crying’.

     He sighed. ‘Are things that bad for you, Clara?’

     ‘I didn’t say anything was bad. Not now. Nothing is bad. But if you give me rum and speak about eingemachte lechodowdies I become sentimental. Are you surprised?’

     He patted my hand affectionately. ‘I can see you don’t really know me, Clara. George Sacks, alias Hans Georg Sachinsky, is never surprised. Whether this is a failing or an asset . . . . . I don’t know. But it’s a fact’.

     ‘You weren’t even surprised to see me here?’

     ‘I was delighted’. His eyes were again on my hair.

     ‘Because of my hair, I suppose’.

     ‘I’ve been searching for someone with hair like this for a very long time’.

     I pushed my hair selfconsciously out of my face. ‘But my hair is by no means unique. One of my daughters has almost identical hair, only hers doesn’t need touching up’.

     ‘You have a daughter?’

     ‘I have two daughters, Norma and Isabella, nineteen and twenty-one years old, both at universities in the North’.

     ‘Unbelievable’.

     I expected him to ask me what they were studying, but he didn’t. ‘One is studying French and History of Art, at Leeds, and the other, English Literature, at York,’ I volunteered without being asked. My information seemed to hang in the misty kitchen without reaching George and without completely detaching itself from me. It didn’t belong here. I hadn’t come to speak about my daughters.

     I’d come to get information about Julia Maples.

     ‘So I may thank Julia Maples for your visit really’. I heard George chuckle. ‘And I never thought any good could come to me from that girl   not now anyway. But there you are, I was wrong’.

     ‘Then you must be surprised’.

     ‘No. I’ve simply been proved wrong by events. That’s all’.

     I rubbed my eyes. ‘You gave me too much rum, George. I find it hard to think straight’.

     He smiled, shrugging his shoulders. ‘What point is there in thinking straight?’

     ‘Please tell me about Julia Maples’.

     ‘Julia Maples is a bitch, Clara dear. But not an attractive bitch. She’s a bitch and a nebbish — a very unfortunate combination’.

     ‘And where is she now?’

     ‘How should I know?’

     ‘When did you see her last?’

     ‘Let me think. I was with her at the funeral’. He sighed, looking straight in front of him towards the window above the sink. ‘She wore Sander’s black trilby hat and carried his rolled umbrella. She wore her hair plaited into two tiny ratstails, sticking out from above her ears and tied up with mauve ribbons. Her face was bloated and her eyes swollen from crying. Under her black leather coat — which she always claimed to have been a present from Sander, but I jolly well knew that she’d bought it herself from one of the Oxfam shops — she wore Sander’s purple sweater and on her feet his Wellington boots. When she left the house she also had a peacock feather stuck in her hat, I mean Sander’s hat, pinched from my collection, which I managed to pull out unnoticed before the ceremony started’.

     ‘How fantastic’.

     ‘Well, probably no more fantastic than their relationship, though I don’t imagine Sander would have gone to Julia’s funeral wearing her clothes — or taking her dog’.

     ‘Why, she didn’t bring a dog, did she?’

     ‘No, but she had every intention of doing so, if her darling hadn’t been run over by a car a couple of days before’.

     ‘D’you mean to say the dog had an accident too?’

     ‘That’s correct. But he recovered, the beast’.

     ‘Good heavens. And where was Mrs. Friedmann when all this happened?’

     ‘By then she was already in hospital, I’m glad to say. She had a heart attack when the news of her son’s death was broken to her while visiting friends. She must have been in Hampstead Hospital after that for at least a month’.

     ‘And then she came back to the flat?’ I asked, curious whether George’s information would tally with what I’d already been told.

     ‘No, she never set foot into the house again. Julia took care of everything. Julia played the part of the mourning widow, after her fashion of course. Mrs. Friedmann protested, but that didn’t help her. Then her sister arrived from New York and took her back with her to the States. I suppose she also arranged her admittance to Jerusalem House later on. But I don’t really know about that. I’d expected Mrs. Friedmann to stay with her sister for good’.

     ‘Was there a will?’

     ‘Yes there was a will — but not a way’.

     ‘What d’you mean?’

     ‘It was a lousy home-made will which gave no end of trouble. And some half-baked solicitor, a so-called friend of the family, was the executor. A completely useless bastard, if you ask me. So that didn’t exactly help’.

     ‘Alexander Freeman and you were friends too, weren’t you?’

     ‘Sure. I’m friends with everybody’.

     ‘No more than that?’

     He shrugged his shoulders. ‘What do I know about friendship? Everybody is my friend. Why not?’

     ‘There must have been quite a lot of rum left in that bottle’, I said quietly.

     ‘Not enough. It’s all gone now. Come on, let’s move into the other room, we’ve been sitting in this damned kitchen long enough. I can’t bear it between these close walls for any length of time’.

     ‘What about Louise?’

     ‘What about Louise? She has gone off somewhere, obviously. Probably to have a swim at the new pool across the road. The swimming instructor is an old friend of hers. He often lets her have a paddle after the official closing time. It’ll do her good’.

     I didn’t feel very steady on my feet. I made a special effort to keep my head well up and walked slowly but determinedly through the narrow door to the armchair in which I’d sat before. Drinks affect me very easily, but the effect generally wears off quickly. George stretched out on the pile of mattresses, groaning and covering his face with his hands: ‘Oy Gewalt!’

     I chuckled.

     ‘What’s so funny?’

     ‘I haven’t heard that expression used for a very long time’.

     ‘They don’t use it in your circles?’

     ‘They don’t know it’.

     ‘They manage to live without it. It’s possible of course . . . . . if you call that living’.

     And what do you call living? I was very close to asking, but changed my mind. ‘I shall have to go home soon’, I said instead.

     He didn’t react. ‘Are you warm enough?’ he inquired after a short silence. ‘I’m not sure whether she filled up the heater. I think it’s going down’, he yawned.

     ‘I’m all right . . . . . You still haven’t told me when you saw Julia for the last time, have you? What happened after the funeral? She came back here, didn’t she?’

     ‘Most definitely’.

     ‘Was she still very upset?’

     ‘Was she very upset? We were all very upset. It was a really bloody thing burying Sander. He was one of the most decent chaps I’ve ever come across He sighed. ‘But he was also completely unpredictable’, he said with a sudden chuckle. ‘You could never tell what he would do next. About how many men can you say that?’

     ‘I suppose it depends on how well you know a person’.

     ‘You suppose . . . . .’ He laughed. ‘You couldn’t get to know Sander at all, don’t you understand? He would be generous one day and mean the next. He was a fantastic architect. He could design a completely original building within minutes, with all the details at his fingertips. If he was interested. If he was in the mood. If he wasn’t, there would be nothing doing. You mightn’t get a word out of him. At best a rude word’.

     ‘And did he care for Julia?’

     George whistled through his teeth. ‘Now you’re asking me something. Did he care for Julia? Did he care for anyone? And was there anyone he didn’t care for? D’you understand what I mean?’

     ‘I’m not sure’.

     ‘Well what does it matter? He’s dead’. He kept silent for a while, then he said: ‘And I think that’s how he wanted it’.

     ‘Why? D’you mean it wasn’t really an accident?’

     ‘Who can tell? No other car was involved. He had been drinking heavily and he went over the edge of a steep road. Why? He was an experienced driver and not normally a heavy drinker. Once in a while he would shut himself in with a bottle or bring it up here and we would finish it between us. Generally after he kicked out that girl first. “She gives me the vomits”, he would shout stamping up the stairs. “I can’t bear her near me. I wish she would get knifed by some lunatic out there. Why doesn’t someone cut her throat? That blasted bitch”. Then he would look down from behind the window curtains watching her standing outside. “Look George, there she is. But she can’t get in. Ha ha ha! Come on, let’s chuck something at her. You’re a good shot, George, come on, do it for me. I’m too damn short-sighted”.

     ‘And did you?’

     ‘Of course not. He once threw an empty bottle down, but I don’t think she was anywhere near at the time. She’d probably gone to her own place hours ago — and he knew it’.

     ‘She had a place of her own then?’

     ‘Oh yes, a very nice place in Hampstead. Her Daddy had set her up there before he kicked the bucket. In style. He could afford it too’.

     ‘What’s the address?’

     ‘Oh, she isn’t there any longer. She got rid of it long before the accident’. He lifted his head, rolling his eyes, grimacing at me: ‘Yes, she must be somewhere. But we don’t know where. Nor do we care a damn’. He let himself flop back on the mattress.

     ‘Would you mind if I went to the place in Hampstead?’ I persisted. ‘I might discover something from the people who took it over from her’.

     ‘No, I don’t mind. As long as I don’t get mixed up in anything more’. He spoke staring at the ceiling.

     ‘Why, what happened between you and Julia?’

     ‘He now sat up, rubbing his eyes hard with his knuckles. ‘What should have happened?’ He sounded very irritated. ‘Anyway, I’ve forgotten all about it’.

     ‘I’m sorry’.

     ‘Don’t apologise’. He yawned. ‘I’m dog tired. D’you want to stay the night?’

     I looked at my watch. ‘Nearly eleven. No, of course not, I must go home’.

     ‘Please yourself’. He suddenly seemed very short-tempered.

     ‘I will’. I took out my diary. ‘Just give me that address in Hampstead, of Julia’s ex-flat or house or whatever it is or was’.

     ‘My God, can’t you think of anything else?’ He looked at me full of hostility. ‘What are you, a bloody detective? I never had anyone asking me that many questions. What the hell d’you get out of this filthy business?’

     ‘I don’t know yet’.

     He laughed coarsely. ‘Well, perhaps you’ll find out’.

     I took my pocket comb from my bag and started doing my hair. I could feel his eyes following each of my movements. When I twisted my hair into a coil to pin it up again, he turned abruptly away, stood up and went to the table. I thought I could hear a sheet of paper being pulled out and placed in position, but I didn’t look up. Then a quick impatient movement of his hand. Something slid across the table and fell crashing on the floor. I looked up startled. ‘What are you doing?’

     ‘What are you doing?’ He mimicked me. ‘I broke a pot that Sander gave me. Don’t worry, it wasn’t anything precious. Only a second. Sander only bought seconds. Bargains. Throw-outs’.

     ‘What a pity’.

     He shrugged his shoulders then turned around and looked at me. ‘So now you’re respectable again. Not a hair out of place. I suppose your precious husband is already pacing up and down his living room, wondering what has happened to you. Or doesn’t he care?’

     ‘I think he cares. But he isn’t in England just now’.

     ‘Oh, Madam is all on her own. Fancy that. Perhaps that’s why she needs this . . . . . distraction. What?’

     I looked at him but didn’t answer.

     ‘Well, what do you do with yourself all on your own? Daughters away . . . . . husband away . . . . .’

     ‘I paint’.

     ‘You what?’

     ‘I’m working on a picture. Anything wrong in that?’

     He stepped closer to me. ‘You’re a strange creature. Why didn’t you tell me before?’

     ‘Why should I have?’

     He shook his head. ‘Then why the hell d’you bother with this damn tiger?’

     ‘I don’t really know. It just happened. I couldn’t help it, I think’.

     While pinning up my hair I’d dropped my diary on the armchair. I now picked it up and pulled out the pencil. ‘Where did you say in Hampstead?’

     ‘I don’t know the exact address. It’s off Grove Place, a tiny old cottage. There’s a cluster of cottages and hers used to have a bright red dog’s kennel outside. Not that she ever allowed her sweet doggy to sleep in it, but I suppose Daddy had bought it . . . . .’

     ‘Thank you, Mr. Sacks, you’ve been most helpful’.

     ‘It was a pleasure, Madam’.

     As I was buttoning up my jacket I heard the house door slam and quick steps clattering upstairs. ‘Louise in her health sandals’, I said smiling. ‘One goes, one comes’.

     He listened and nodded.