Chapter 24 #3
Tom sat quietly, waiting for Henry to say something else but he didn’t.
So he read his paper instead. The war in Vietnam, the protests in Paris, the MPs jeering the vice-president of the US.
There were assassinations in Cuba, and a massacre in Aden.
He suddenly felt small, rather stupid, sitting there, his concerns so …
bourgeois. He didn’t know where half these places were.
Hadn’t troubled ever to find out himself.
‘Here,’ said Jenny, reappearing after a moment. ‘There it is.’ She laid the ring on the table, where it rolled towards Tom, shining merrily, the diamond glinting.
Tom caught the ring and put it in his pocket. He put his hand on hers. ‘Thank you, Jenny,’ he said. ‘I’m awfully grateful to you.’
‘If you have found her,’ she said under her breath, catching his hand so tightly it hurt, and he gasped, ‘if you have found her, Tom, never let her go.’ Her eyes were white-grey pools of emptiness, her bony hand squeezing his. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Of course,’ said Tom, nodding. ‘Of course, Jenny. I love her. Honestly. Thank you.’ Her skin was papery soft underneath his. He squeezed her hand and then remembered with a flash Gordon’s words to him, so long ago. But I sure wish they’d tell you, Tom my boy. I wish they’d free themselves from it.
‘I don’t know when we’ll get married, what our plans are – I haven’t asked her yet.
But I probably won’t be here for most of the summer after that.
All being well’ – Tom coughed, deprecatingly – ‘Celia wants to go to America – and Istanbul – I want to go to Turkey. And, if I may, I’d love to take her to Sevenstones this summer.
Would that be all right? Oh –’ For Jenny’s eyes had filled with tears. ‘You won’t be there?’
‘No, no,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’ll only be able to go for a week this summer, at the end of June. Reverend Bryant needs me for two months, you see; his charlady has to have her varicose veins done. Henry dear?’
‘What?’
‘Will you need Sevenstones?’
Her brother grunted no, flicking out the paper again.
‘You know where the key is, Tom,’ she said. ‘It’s always there if you need it, remember? Will you – come back here, after you come down?’
‘I’ll be back now and then after finals. But’ – he said it lightly, to disguise the import of the moment – ‘probably best if you don’t keep the attic room just for me.’
She nodded, her jowls shaking, her eyes watery.
The idea that, after he’d gone, Jenny would have the wherewithal to clean out that room, paint it, buy new curtains, replace the dangerous old geyser, put up a notice in the newsagent’s advertising it to lodgers, was laughable.
He kissed the top of his aunt’s head, patted his uncle’s shoulder and left, the ring in his pocket.
And now it was Midsummer’s Eve. The wild, beating music; the smell of perfume, of talc and starch, loosened by sweat into the June air; the heat inside the marquee, hotter and hotter as the music grew louder, and Tom and Celia and his friends, Tim and Anthony and Roger and Rick and their girlfriends and dates, all drinking, dancing, whirling round the tent in the grounds of the college.
Bottles of champagne upturned on the floor; scarves and shoes and handbags discarded; faces red and glowing with joy; and the band played on.
It was the end of three years of university – the best three years of Tom’s life.
In front of him, Celia danced, waving her hands in the air, screaming the words to the songs, jumping around without constraint.
Sometimes she would pull his hands against her waist and kiss him.
‘Yes!!’ she’d scream, her beautiful face flushed with exertion, like sex, like passion, like life, and he was in heaven at the sight of her, the evening, what he had done.
When the band finished, waving their guitars, and the drummer slumping down on to his kit, it was as though everyone acknowledged the intensity of the music and the evening.
Some people fell to the floor, so exhausted by the whole thing they could not stand.
Tom clutched Celia’s hand, suddenly nervous.
‘Are you off to do your speech?’ she said, lifting his fingers to her mouth and kissing them. ‘It’s a wonderful party, Tom darling. I’ll be here, waiting.’
‘Th – thank –’ he began, as she stood to the side, smiling, clapping, and he ascended the stairs to the stage, like a prisoner walking towards the guillotine.
The rowdy crowd cheered, some booed, one of the microphones crackled with feedback and everyone winced.
‘Thank you for a wonderful evening, first and foremost, to The Megalodons!’ Tom shouted, gesturing to the band – or rather where the band had played, except they weren’t there now; they were halfway back to London – and everyone cheered, and some people laughed.
Tom thanked the caterers, the college, the wardens, the bursar and the events committee.
He threw in a few light jokes, and people laughed again; they were enjoying the come-down after the evening’s revelry, and he realized they were on his side; he’d watched some chaps pelted or booed off stage at these affairs. He took courage.
‘Finally – ah, if you’ll permit me –’
At the back of the room a table collapsed, and people looked round. Someone screamed, others laughed, but it threw Tom off, just a little. ‘A small indulgence, I wanted to very much, up here, ask someone something.’
‘What?’ someone said. He saw Roger, one of his friends, shift from one foot to the other. Another, Rick, put his fingers to his mouth.
‘Celia –’ He pointed at Celia, in the front row. ‘That’s my girlfriend, Celia.’
‘Woohoo!’ someone in the crowd yelled. Other people were starting to drift away.
It wasn’t going how he wanted it to, and yet he didn’t know how to pull back.
‘It’s the Summer Solstice tomorrow. The longest day. And so I wanted to say something.’
Had his voice always sounded this high? So posh, so … English ?
‘Yes, uh. Uh – I want, on Midsummer’s Eve, at the point when the Earth stops in its course round the Sun, I want to just stop and celebrate love for a moment.
’ Someone booed; he held up a finger, blinking, and ploughed on.
‘Because we ought to, really, celebrate it more, shouldn’t we?
Isn’t it the most important thing?’ He cleared his throat, too loudly, into the microphone.
‘Celia darling, I love you. Utterly love you.’
Roger, below him, was holding his head in his hands. Celia was watching him, a bemused expression on her face: not horror, just confusion.
‘I wanted to –’ He tried to remember the speech he’d written, and saw in a flash that it was so hideously self-indulgent, so precious, that to say any of it out loud would mean social death.
But he had come this far, and he had to go through with the main event now.
‘So, in the interests of – because we’re celebrating love tonight – ah!
This morning … I wanted to … oh, dammit.
Celia darling, will you – will you marry me? ’
Fumbling in his pocket, he drew out the small black box, his sweaty fingers struggling to open it.
Something was in his good eye – an eyelash or something – and it meant he couldn’t see it properly.
Silence fell over the crowd. Tom bent down, his good eye trying to focus on Celia, who had come urgently to the edge of the stage.
‘Tom darling, let’s not do this now –’
‘Oh!’ Tom said, in a camp, Kenneth Williams-style voice into the microphone. ‘She’s not sure!’
Afterwards, he thought that was probably the lowest point of the whole bit.
‘She’s not sure!’ people started to say, mimicking his high, quavering voice unkindly.
‘Celia! What do you say? It can’t be any more embarrassing than this …’
‘Christ,’ Roger said, at the front. ‘Tom old boy – please don’t –’
Tom edged closer to Celia, holding the microphone towards her. Celia smiled at him, shook her head. Quietly, she said:
‘Tom. I don’t want to marry you, darling, I’m sorry.’
He let the microphone fall and said quietly: ‘This was a mistake. I’m insane. Celia, forget this. I’ll do it properly –’
She was backing away. The crowd, silent in sympathy, was starting to murmur. Tom waved his arms at them. ‘Sorry, everyone. As you – as you were …’
He ran after her, outside into the sweet night air. Celia was walking as fast as she could round the great lawn, towards the lodge.
‘Celia! Come back!’
‘I should go – I can go and stay with Emmy, you know, at St Hilda’s –’
‘Celia!’ Tom caught her hand. ‘Please! That was a disaster. Oh, God.’ He rubbed his face with his hands. ‘I shouldn’t have done it. I only – I’ve been planning to for ages. To ask you to marry me. I love you, Celia. I want to marry you. I want us to be married, darling.’
But she put her hand on his lips, silencing him. Her eyes were glistening with tears in the moonlight. ‘Don’t, darling Tom. I don’t want to marry you. Please don’t say it again.’
‘Oh, Christ, what a mess. It was the wrong time, I know.’
‘It wasn’t the wrong time.’ She caught his hands in hers. ‘I don’t want to marry anyone. I want to travel, I want to work.’
‘You can do that –’
‘No, Tom.’ He saw now that her dark eyes were full of rage.
‘You’ve never listened to me when I’ve talked about what career I want, what chances there are for me.
We’ve had so much fun. I adore you. But I’ve always been perfectly clear.
I want to do all sorts of things, darling.
I know I don’t want to be Mummy. I wouldn’t ever have said yes, no matter when you asked. I have to be me first, Tom.’
Tom, stock still, realized he hadn’t given any thought at all to her constant mentions of working, and living, and seeing the world.
He’d always assumed she wanted to get married and have babies and a house – wasn’t that what girls wanted?
Wasn’t it what one did ? He didn’t know; he hadn’t had any of that growing up, but he assumed most other people had.
‘I have to go, darling.’ Celia’s face was pale. ‘I’ll go to stay with Emmy.’
‘But I love you!’
‘I love you too, but I don’t want to get married. To be someone else’s.’
‘But – don’t you care? That I love you?’
And Celia said, with the first sign of irritation, ‘You’re a boy, Tom, you’re lovely, but you’re still a boy.’
Tom felt as though he were in a wind tunnel, sound roaring in his ears. He blinked, gritted his teeth. ‘I deserve that … God dammit, Celia! I’m sorry. Please don’t go.’
Her beautiful face was drawn, heavy with sadness. ‘Tom, I’m so sorry – I have to. Please, darling. Just let me go.’
And she walked away, into the enveloping night.
Tom watched her, and wedged the ring into his breast pocket.
He couldn’t quite feel it yet. It was too awful to let himself revisit what he’d heard.
The flaps of the marquee were lifting and falling in the dawn breeze.
It was almost light. He exited and stood in the quad, breathing in the night air.
‘Hey,’ said a voice behind him, and he felt a touch on his arm. ‘Tom – where are you off to?’
It was Anita Knight. Tom knew ‘Nita’: she was always on the scene, and she’d gone out with a couple of his friends.
Nita was cool. She was at Oxford Polytechnic studying fashion; her father, David, was a record producer; her mother, Priya, was Indian, and a model, and they lived in Chelsea.
Nita had met Brian Jones, so the story went, and shared a spliff with him.
She wore only black and lived on coffee.
She had a huge mouth, a big smile and dark, desolate eyes.
Despite her tragic, Juliette Gréco-like appearance, she was enormous fun.
‘I’m going home,’ Tom said. Anita’s grip tightened.
‘Oh, don’t go,’ she said. ‘Come on, stay. Don’t let a dolly bird get to you like that.’
‘She’s not a dolly bird, Nita,’ said Tom. He shivered. ‘I was in love with her. God, I’ve been an idiot.’
‘Tom, Tom.’ Anita ground her cigarette into the lawn with one white, patent-leathered toe. ‘She’s one girl. You don’t see it, do you?’
‘See what?’ Misery overwhelmed Tom. The adrenaline that had fuelled him was crashing. He felt as though he’d been hollowed out.
‘See what?’ Anita mimicked, with a smile. ‘Tom, you’re blind.’
‘Don’t remind me.’
She had the grace to blush, colour flushing her cheeks.
‘Oh, hell, how tactless.’ She let her hand rest, tantalizingly, on his shirt front, playing with the small buttons.
‘Some stuffed shirt’s daughter used you for a couple of years and then decided to go travelling with some even more stuffed shirt’s son who’s got more money than you.
You got your heart broken. It’ll hurt like anything. But, hey, everything’s an experience.’
Tom leaned against the marquee frame, his head spinning. ‘Nita, what did you say?’
Anita grimaced. ‘Listen, I know you feel like you want to die. And I wanted to find you to say: Tom darling, every girl I know wants you. She had you for so long that you don’t damn well realize it.
’ Her hand, still on his arm, tugged the cufflinks, grew more urgent, until she was jerking him gently towards her.
‘You have no idea. You’ll get over it, baby. ’
He stood back, shaking his head. ‘Not that. Do you mean Celia was seeing someone else?’
Nita shrugged. ‘Sure. It’s been agreed for ages. My father knows her father. He’s some stockbroker, Tom. Of course he is!’ She gave a rasping laugh. ‘You’re so pretty, and you’re so green, Tom darling. That lot, they stick together. They all do.’
Tom looked at her. He was tired, and he wanted her to leave him alone.
She ran her forefinger and thumb over the points of his shirt, smiling at him.
He pushed her away gently and walked off, but his vision was blurred, and he stumbled up the stairs knowing the pain was about to hit him.
When he reached his room, he slammed the door open so hard it banged against the windowsill.
That was when he slumped to the ground and could not help but groan, as waves of shame started to wash over him.