E-Book, Englisch, 384 Seiten
Jeal Deep Water
Main
ISBN: 978-0-571-30400-4
Verlag: Faber & Faber
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
E-Book, Englisch, 384 Seiten
ISBN: 978-0-571-30400-4
Verlag: Faber & Faber
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Tim Jeal is an acclaimed novelist and biographer, whose Stanley: The Impossible Life of Africa's Greatest Explorer was published by Faber in 2007 and was a BBC Radio Four 'Book of the Week'. Stanley was named Sunday Times Biography of the Year, and, in the US, won the National Book Critics' Circle Award in Biography for 2007. Tim's memoir Swimming with my Father was published by Faber in 2004 and was also a BBC Radio Four 'Book of the Week' and was shortlisted for the PEN Ackerley Prize for autobiography. In September 2011 Faber will publish Explorers of the Nile: The Triumph and Tragedy of a Great Victorian Adventure, which, thanks to much original research, will shed fascinating new light on the 'Search for the Nile' and its colonial consequences. In 1973 Tim Jeal's Livingstone (1973) was selected as a 'Notable Book of the Year' by the New York Times Book Review and one of the 'Best and Brightest of the Year' by the Washington Post Book World.Livingstone formed the basis for a BBC TV documentary and a film for the Discovery Channel. It has never been out of print. Nor has Tim Jeal's Baden-Powell (1989), which was a 'Notable Book of the Year', and was chosen by Channel 4 for its 'Secret Lives' strand. In 1975 Tim was awarded the John Llewellyn Rhys Memorial Prize.
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Andrea thought it mildly comical that she should not be allowed to enter Peter’s office in Archway Block South by the Mall; for how could she, or any other non-scientist, learn anything from the nameless fragments of metal littering his table? But regulations had to be obeyed, and as always she was obliged to meet him at the sandbagged main entrance where soldiers stood guard in their tin hats.
As they walked the short distance to St James’s Park in the October sunshine, Peter told Andrea her wide-brimmed hat and dark glasses made her look elegantly Gallic. He himself was wearing a baggy flannel suit, its pockets bulging with detonators and copper wire. On all her visits to town, Andrea was touched by his obvious pleasure in seeing her, though it couldn’t make up for the infrequency of their meetings. Soldiers of shattered continental armies – French, Norwegian, Dutch – walked in the park, chatting with office girls, who broke into fits of giggles on finding themselves lusted after.
Tiring, Peter pointed to a couple of unoccupied deck chairs by the lake. He and Andrea reached them just ahead of an elderly civil servant.
‘I’m told the Luftwaffe hit St Giles’s, Cripplegate, last night,’ Peter said, sinking down into one of the chairs. ‘Milton’s statue was blown off its plinth.’
‘The fall of Milton, not the fall of Man,’ she replied smiling, surprised he had preserved this literary plum for her.
Andrea had been upset by Leo’s latest letter and handed the envelope to Peter before unwrapping their sandwiches. Ever since her son’s departure she had longed for his half-term. Now, only days before he was due home, he had written to say he wouldn’t be returning alone. Peter was soon beaming as he read.
‘What did I tell you? He’s settled in marvellously.’
Andrea hated these formulaic letters that gave no sense at all of her living, breathing son. ‘Why can’t he ever write anything remotely personal?’
‘He doesn’t want to worry us by letting on he’s homesick. Of course he is, like everyone else, but that’s just a fact of life one needn’t spell out.’
‘But one does spell out that one’s making a towel rail in carpentry, and that the stupid soccer team beat Half-wit Hall 3–2, and a boy called Cunningham Minor gave one a slice of stupid birthday cake. For Christ’s sake!’
‘Food’s very important in boarding schools. Cunningham’s parents probably saved coupons for months to have enough butter and sugar for that cake. It was a gesture of real friendship to offer Leo some. One has to read between the lines, my sweet.’ Peter suddenly looked up from the letter. ‘This is splendid! He wants to invite a friend to stay with us during half-term. I’m amazed you’re not pleased.’ He read on for a few seconds. ‘Excellent! This boy’s a budding Robinson Crusoe. He’s built a hut in the woods and invites his pals round for grub. No wonder Leo likes him.’
Andrea shook her head as if to clear it. ‘Leo has a good friend and didn’t tell us till now, and we should be pleased?’
Peter reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘It’s a big compliment to us that he wants to bring a friend home.’
‘Sweetheart, I don’t want to share Leo. Not on his first visit home.’
‘Come on, Andrea. You’ve read the letter. His friend’s dad flies fighters – imagine the life he’s leading – and his mother’s in Kenya. This lad may have to stay at school for half-term if we say no.’
Andrea raised her hands. ‘You’re right. It was really nice of Leo. Of course I want this boy to come.’
As golden leaves drifted down around them, they ate their sandwiches. Peter, in his generous way, was simply glad that Leo had found a friend. Impulsively, Andrea kissed her husband. As so often these days, she found herself slipping into her ‘if only’ routine. If only the doctors had never plunged him into despair by saying he wouldn’t walk again; if only she hadn’t felt obliged to visit the Radcliffe Infirmary day after day for months until drained of every atom of emotion. If only Peter hadn’t needed her so much, while simultaneously detesting his dependence.
After throwing a few crusts to the ducks on the lake, they headed for the hotel where Peter chose to live. Being near Victoria Station, a prime target for the Luftwaffe, one wing of the hotel had already been compacted to a massive mound of rubble. The place appealed to Peter because few people wanted to stay there. Along an empty upper corridor, unknown to the Admiralty, the hotel’s manager had let him construct an experimental water tank, in which he carried out tests on a model of his floating road away from the eyes of opinionated experts at the navy’s research laboratory.
Not for the first time, the siren was wailing as Peter and Andrea arrived. As usual, they waited in Peter’s room to see how close the planes came before deciding whether to go down to the basement. Below them in the street people hurried to take shelter.
‘Wouldn’t it be rather fun to make love with a raid going on?’ suggested Peter.
Andrea wanted to agree; this was exactly the kind of remark the old Peter would have made before his illness, if a war had been in progress. But with all her senses attuned to noises off, Andrea knew she would have none to spare for her own body, let alone his. Fear of pain and extinction apart, she would be constantly aware that if they died together Leo would be an orphan.
That afternoon no bombs fell closer than the City, so they talked while the raid lasted, and then, in the early evening, after the ‘All Clear’ had sounded, they left the curtains open, and Andrea peeled off her stockings by the glow of burning offices and churches. Thirteen years after their marriage, Peter watched as if witnessing one of the loveliest sights in the world. Because lovemaking still meant so much to him, Andrea often forgot his physical awkwardness, though never the distance between them. For almost a year he had kept from her his terror that she would leave him, and for much of that time had subjected her to anger she had found inexplicable and hurtful.
After Peter had eased himself off her body, she stared up at the ceiling. Even now, if they could be together more often, perhaps they could be happy again. But how could she expect to get more time? Women friends thought her lucky to see Peter as often as she did. Their husbands were in the army, or at sea, or even in one case in a German prison camp. ‘One has to expect one’s man to be elsewhere,’ the bursar’s wife had told her firmly. ‘You Americans were hardly in the First War, so you don’t understand what’s involved.’ This woman’s husband was in a destroyer escorting Atlantic convoys. Yet Andrea had been unabashed. Because her good-natured, optimistic husband had been changed forever by a cruel illness, he and she deserved a second chance, some special opportunity. Wanting to love him again, she refused to accept that they wouldn’t get one.
*
Andrea planned to collect Leo and his friend from King’s Cross Station and then take them to the hotel to meet Peter. The boys would spend the day in London with her and Peter, and then leave for Oxford with her alone in order to spend the rest of the four-day holiday there.
Andrea felt great sympathy for this boy whose mother was abroad, and whose father was a pilot; but she still feared he might monopolise Leo, and felt guilty over this.
Before joining the other mothers near the barrier, Andrea went into the ladies to check her lipstick and powder – not that she expected Leo to notice her appearance. Outside, she exchanged small talk with a woman whose hair was permed into absurd rows of tight little curls. The only question bothering Andrea was whether she would hug and kiss her son in the station, or feel obliged to ape the reticent British, and wait till they were safely inside a taxi.
When Leo came towards her with his friend beside him, one hand thrust deeply in a pocket and the other carrying his case, the kiss she had meant to give him ended as a brush of her cheek against his.
‘Mum, this is Justin Matherson.’
‘Hello there, Justin.’
‘How do you do, Mrs Pauling.’ He held out a formal hand for her to shake, reinforcing her impression of him as a small adult. His eyes were dark, almost violet blue with long black lashes, and they held Andrea’s for several seconds before flicking away. His face was narrow, with a proud, firm mouth.
Andrea smiled tightly. ‘Okay, boys, we’re going to get ourselves a cab to Pimlico.’
In the taxi both boys were enthralled by the bomb damage, and pointed to each rubble-filled gap where a house had been, and each boarded-up shopfront concealing a blackened interior. The smell of damp plaster dust and burned bricks filled Andrea’s nostrils. On every visit to London from unscathed Oxford, she shuddered to see how fragile all buildings were.
‘A pity we can’t stop for a better look,’ remarked Justin, staring straight at Andrea, as if willing her to tell the driver to pull over. He and Leo were craning their necks to look back at an exposed inner wall, from which a flight of stairs projected crazily over an empty space. A washbasin also hung above a void, suspended only by its pipes.
‘Imagine you’d been washing, then BAAM!’ cried Leo, pulling a grotesque face.
Dismayed by their excitement, Andrea said quietly, ‘Let’s hope everyone...
