21
A summer came and went while Janus was in prison. Colette and Aldous received several letters from him. The first was chirpy and full of bravado.
HM Prison Brixton
24th June 1978
Dear Mum and Dad
I’m having a really super time here. I’m sharing a cell with two Scottish burglars called Jim and Mick. Very nice blokes. They have taught me a lot about the routines here. The thing is, could you send me a parcel containing some pants and socks, some chocolate and some fags? It’s the only way to get things in here, see you soon, hope you aren’t missing me too much. Don’t worry, I’m having a great time.
Love to you all
Janus
xxx
There were a number of other letters in this vein, to which Colette had always dutifully responded, sending parcels of fags and chocolate, and any other luxuries she thought he might be permitted. He never asked for books, or any music manuscripts, which rather surprised her.
Then came a longer, more serious letter, which covered six pages of the small, thickly lined prison notepaper.
1st September 1978
Dear Mum and Dad
I’ve been in here for over two months now, and I’ve had a lot of time to think about things. There is nothing to do in a place like this apart from think, and I thought it would be a good idea if I set down some of the thoughts I’ve had in the time I’ve been here.
Principally, I want to provide an account of my behaviour over the last few years. I’m not intending to excuse that behaviour, or to [words crossed out], I just want to set things straight.
I believe that my problems stem from my childhood. I believe I had one of the happiest childhoods any child could ever have. I remember so fondly that big old house in Edmonton with its great cherry tree and the wonderful rambling garden full of flowers, and then those exquisite holidays at the farm that were like summers spent in paradise. I honestly thought that things would carry on like this for ever, but unfortunately childhood ends, and the adult world is much less attractive. In fact it is rather ugly. In my imagination I feel that I blamed my father for my childhood ending. My mother gave me my childhood, but my father took it away. He didn’t, of course, that’s just how my subconscious mind saw it. I saw my father as the one impelling me into the adult world of work and responsibility. I have never felt comfortable in this world, and I turned to drink in order to avoid it. I’m afraid that my temperament will not allow me to earn a living through music, either through teaching or performance. I am much happier with the menial jobs I’ve had over the years, in fact some of my happiest times were spent as a roadsweeper, the job I had when I was arrested. I like these jobs because of their simplicity, and because of the honesty and integrity of the people one works with. It is the same reason I enjoy the company of my fellow inmates here.
But of course I know I was a deep disappointment to you both because of this, but especially to my father. That is another reason for my turning to drink. I know I can never live up to your expectations of me.
This may all sound rather trite and clichéd to you, but I will remind you that expressions only become clichés through over use, and they are only overused because of their truth value. The truth, in the end, is often trite.
Yours Sincerely
Your Son (Janus)
Aldous at first refused to read this letter, just as he had refused to read all the others, or to read the newspaper articles about Janus, or even to talk about him. But Colette felt that this letter was important. She felt that it was sincere, and nagged Aldous into reading it, which he eventually did, with great reluctance.
To Colette’s disappointment, he was dismissive.
‘It’s as though he’s written an essay for the approval of the parole board,’ he said. ‘How can you take it seriously, nonsense like this, when you know how devious he can be?’
‘I think he means it,’ said Colette, ‘I think he’s being honest about himself.’
‘But look at how it’s written – so impersonal, he talks about “my father”, and “my mother”, as though we were just abstractions. This isn’t sincere, it’s not heartfelt, it’s just pseudo-psychological claptrap.’
‘Well what would he have to do to convince you?’
‘Frankly, nothing. Explanations for his behaviour are pointless. The point is he’s done what he’s done, and there’s nothing that can excuse it. At least he got that right in the letter. This is just the first step in his campaign to worm his way back into your affections, and into our house . . .’
Colette no longer had the will to stand up for her son. The problem was that her life had improved since Janus had been in prison. Both their lives had. There was no denying it. Janus going to prison was the best thing that had happened to them in years. She didn’t even worry about how he was coping any more. She had at first, especially when that first letter came, with its stark information – sharing a cell with two Scottish burglars. She imagined these two bruised, scabby men bullying her sensitive son, bending his fingers back, stamping on his toes (she could only imagine bullying in the most childish terms), but subsequent letters convinced her that he was coping well, and that he was popular among his fellow inmates, as his last letter had suggested. She even cherished a hope that the whole experience might shock him out of his old behaviour patterns, and that he might steer his life back onto a normal course. It was his last chance. She realized that when he came out he had a hard choice to make. He could either stop drinking and begin to lead a useful life, or he could go back to his old ways, which would surely mean a swift return to prison, and then a life in and out of jail.
It was odd, but Colette had never known anyone who’d been to prison before, not even the remotest friend of a friend, or distant fifth cousin. No one she knew had even been in trouble with the police before, not among any of her relations as far as she knew had any of them ever been on the wrong side of the law. And now she had a son in prison. It had taken some getting used to, but by now, after three months, she had.
Colette had not visited Janus. She had thought about it, but had decided against it. Brixton seemed to her a long way away, somewhere south of the river, in territory she’d never visited before. She had no intention of making the journey by herself on public transport, and Aldous refused point-blank to take her, so she had no choice. She explained all this in her letters to Janus, but he had never asked for a visit anyway.
The most noticeable change, however, was in Aldous. He had rediscovered his enthusiasm for life. His skin, which had faded to white, was now colouring. He had stopped drinking whisky, during the daytime, at least. He’d become interested in the garden, opening up a section of the lawn to grow vegetables. He had started painting again. He took Colette to the theatre, catching the Green Line bus down to the West End to see plays at the Aldwych, or concerts at the Wigmore Hall. They went for long, meandering drives in the country in a new car.
The Hillman Superminx’s useful life finally ended in July with a trip to Cambridge, where the car’s gearbox once more seized up while in reverse. Aldous had at first contemplated making the journey all the way home backwards, but soon found it too tiring on his neck, and so the car was abandoned to a Fenland garage, who kindly pointed out that the repairs would cost more than the car was worth.
By chance Juliette knew of a friend at the newspaper office where she was now working as a trainee journalist, who had a nearly new Hillman Hunter he was selling for a bargain price. The Hunter was white with red upholstery, which made it seem like the old car turned inside out. It gave a smoother, faster ride than the Superminx. The quality of the ride encouraged them to use it more. They discovered areas of Hertfordshire they’d never known before, lanes twisting through mazes of purple willowherb, byways trimmed with lacy cuffs of cow-parsley alongside harvested fields. Sometimes their meanderings would take them to the edge of the Chilterns, or the clay-bound foothills of mounds remotely related to the Chilterns, which they came to think of as a new boundary to their known world, beyond which the plains of the midlands began – Bedfordshire, that odd, unknown county, its rectangular fields of cabbages and sprouts. From the cowslip slopes of the hills above Barton Le Clay they would gaze out upon this plain like stout Cortés, and never venture into it, preferring instead to return to the known nooks and folds of their local hills.
One day, shortly before Julian was due to begin his course, Aldous and Colette took him and his new girlfriend, Myra, for a drive in the white Hunter to a village they had become fond of visiting, Little Wessingham, a hilltop settlement with a spike church and a view across the valley of the Lee towards the Shredded Wheat factory at Welwyn Garden City.
Colette had been very keen to meet Myra. Until now she’d only known her as a softly sweet but insistent voice on the telephone asking for her son. After much pestering and teasing Julian was finally persuaded to produce her. She’d arrived that morning and Colette had opened the front door to her. A tall, pretty, porcelain-faced creature with oval lips and oval eyes, the sweetness offset rather alarmingly by the Tutankhamun eye make-up she was wearing, and what appeared to be a grimy, silver-studded dog-collar around her neck.
‘Myra is in mourning for the death of Sid Vicious,’ Julian had explained.
Colette could only think that Sid Vicious was a pet dog.
There was a pub on the edge of the village that overlooked this valley. After a walk in the nearby woods they went to the pub and sat in the garden, where a heap of leaves was smouldering.
‘I hope you’ll talk Julian out of this stupid idea he’s got of running away to sea,’ Colette said to Myra while Julian was in the toilet.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, unhelpfully.
‘He has told you he’s running away to sea next week, hasn’t he?’
‘He said he’ll only be away during the week. He’ll come back every weekend. Or I might go down there . . .’
‘Oh might you?’ said Colette sarcastically, a little shocked to discover that plans had been formed without her knowledge. ‘And I suppose he’s told you all sorts of secrets and horrible things about me.’
‘No,’ Myra said, repositioning her dog-collar and scratching at the red rash it had produced, ‘he hasn’t told me anything.’
Colette wasn’t sure whether to feel glad or disappointed about this.
‘Tell me where you met Julian.’
Colette was keen to get as much information out of the girl as she could while Julian was absent.
‘At a school disco. My best friend’s brother goes to St Francis Xavier’s. I go to St Bernadette’s.’
‘So you’re a good Catholic girl?’
‘Not “good”.’
‘How odd that he should choose from within his religion.’
‘Why’s it odd?’ said Aldous.
‘Not odd. Encouraging,’ said Colette, ‘it’s become part of his identity when I never thought it mattered to him . . .’
‘It’s just coincidence,’ said Myra. ‘My school is the female version of Julian’s. Lots of the girls have brothers at St Frank’s, we’re always going to each other’s discos . . .’
‘So where does Julian take you?’
‘To the pictures sometimes. We saw The China Syndrome last week. Porridge the week before. The Bitch the week before that. Or we go out with O’Malley, or O’Hogarty . . .’
Colette moaned at the familiar names denoting the unfamiliar characters. They had stopped coming to The Volunteer recently, as had Julian.
‘Do they ever speak, those boys?’
‘Not much. O’Hogarty has fallen out with O’Malley. O’Hogarty wanted to go out with O’Malley’s sister, but O’Malley wasn’t keen because O’Hogarty’s a half-caste with epilepsy, and O’Malley’s a racist who plays rugby. I’ve told Julian to get rid of his friends, they’re too boring. He prefers mine anyway.’
Julian was back by this time. Colette’s interrogation of Myra continued.
‘And what do your parents do?’
‘My mum’s just a housewife . . .’
‘Just a housewife?’
‘Yes. My father – he left when I was little. I’m not sure what he does. I see him every now and then. My mum’s living with a bloke, he’s got a blotchy face – we don’t like him much . . .’
Colette was pleased to detect promising signs of dysfunction in Myra’s family. She always felt relieved to hear about unstable families, broken marriages, step-parents, absent fathers – it cast her own family in a better light. She may have a son in prison but at least she and Aldous were still together and the rest of their children thriving.
‘Does your mother take you to church?’
‘Once in a blue moon.’
‘You’re asking a lot of questions,’ said Julian.
‘I’m only interested. Did you go to church as a child?’
‘Nearly every week.’
‘Same as us,’ said Julian.
‘Tony, that’s mum’s boyfriend, he’s more strict. He goes every Sunday and tries to make us go too, but mum won’t go any more, though she still believes in God and all that . . .’
‘Can’t we just look at the Shredded Wheat factory?’ said Julian, ‘Myra hasn’t seen it yet,’ he began directing her gaze, ‘can you see that white strip between the yellow fields, just behind that forest? I once came here with binoculars and I could see that it was the Shredded Wheat factory . . .’
‘I can’t see anything . . . Do you come here a lot?’
‘We have this last few weeks. It’s what we like about the suburbs. In half an hour you can drive to beautiful countryside like this, or half an hour in the other direction and you can be at the door of St Paul’s.’
‘We never come out here,’ said Myra, ‘but then we haven’t got a car.’
Aldous suddenly held forth –
As one who long in populous city pent
Where houses thick and sewers annoy the air,
Forth issuing on a summer’s morn to breathe
Among the pleasant villages and farms
Adjoined, from each thing met conceives delight
The smell of grain, of tedded grass, or kine,
Or dairy, or Shredded Wheat, each rural sound . . .
‘Be quiet, darling,’ Colette said to her husband as he’d gigglingly recited, then, to Myra. ‘Forgive my husband, he’s prone to these outbursts.’
‘But I’ve never realized before what a paradise Hertfordshire is. We’ve always felt the need to go beyond – to Bucks or Berks for their hills and woods, or out the other way into Suffolk for its shingles and churches. I’d always thought of Hertfordshire as a bit boring, but it just takes longer to appreciate . . .’
Later, when Aldous had driven them all back to London, Myra and Julian went off on their own to The Bamboo Palace for a meal. As usual, they were the only customers. A red-tasselled, frosted panelled Chinese lampshade rotated solemnly above their heads, almost identical to the one that had sat on a bookcase in Janus’s bedroom for several years. The Bamboo Palace had been Windhover Hill’s first Chinese restaurant. Before then Chinese food couldn’t be obtained outside Soho. Its opening, therefore, had caused a stir. The whole family had pored over a takeaway menu James had brought home one evening, and lively discussions followed as to the meaning of Sweet and Sour, or what exactly Spring Rolls were. It must have been around that time that Janus had stolen the lampshade. By now The Bamboo Palace was just one amongst many exotic restaurants, and the crowds had gone elsewhere, leaving the waiters and chefs looking forlorn and lonely.
A waiter in white shirt and bow tie, a permanent look of shock and disgust on his face, observed Julian and Myra from a safe distance, and occasionally delivered food to their table.
‘Always the same, always the same,’ said Myra pityingly as Julian poured orange sauce over his battered pork, ‘why do you never try anything different?’
‘Because I know I’ll like this.’
‘But you might like something you haven’t tried before even more.’
‘But I might hate it, and then I’ll have wasted all that money . . .’
‘But you’ve got to take the chance.’
‘Are you saying I’m unadventurous?’
Myra’s food arrived, an indecipherable mêlée of things looped together in a bowl, and something else sizzling dangerously on a hot plate.
‘Yes, I think you are.’
‘You can’t say that. I’m just about to join the navy. I’m going to be off around the world soon . . .’
‘So what will you do if you land in Shanghai or Bangkok and you need to get something to eat?’
‘They’ll do sweet and sour pork out there won’t they?’
‘Not like that they won’t. Not with chips.’
They laughed and were silent for a while as they ate.
‘Your mother seemed very interested in me today, she kept asking me all these things.’
‘I know.’
‘All the way home she was asking me. Her sharp little elbows were digging into me. Why’s she so interested?’
‘Just being nosy.’
‘What did she mean when she said she hoped you hadn’t told me all your secrets?’
‘Oh,’ Julian thought carefully, chewing pork, what had she meant? ‘Probably . . . I’ve got a brother who’s in prison. We slept in his bed last night.’
‘Prison?’ Myra’s eyes rounded, ‘that’s fantastic. You’ve really got a brother in prison?’
Julian nodded cautiously, not quite sure of how to read Myra’s response.
‘That’s just so brilliant. You live in that big house in that posh street and you’ve got a brother in prison, while I live in a broken home on a council estate in Enfield Highway, and my brother’s training to be an accountant. What’s he in prison for?’
Previously unaware that Janus’s incarceration might be something with which to impress young women, Julian exaggerated his brother’s crime.
‘Attempted murder,’ he said, quietly and casually.
‘Christ,’ said Myra, twiddling her silver earring, then giggling, ‘fantastic.’
‘Before he went inside I couldn’t have taken you round to my house. It would have been too dangerous. He was very violent, and very unpredictable. He used to drink . . . If he was around now I would be worried all the time that he would know we were here and would come and find us and cause trouble, we’d have had to have taken steps to make sure he didn’t know where we were going . . .’
Julian spent the rest of the meal offering more details of Janus’s career, exaggerating the violence once he’d learnt it brought low whistles and ‘wows’ of wonder from Myra.
‘But your house seems so calm. Your mum and dad are so calm. And it’s such an interesting house. It’s so full of things. All those paintings. And that mural of a waterfall in the hall. That piano. Do you play the piano?’
‘No. My brother was the pianist.’
‘The one in prison? He was a pianist?’
Julian nodded.
‘Quite a famous one, or he could have been . . .’ Julian added the second part of the sentence below the level of Myra’s hearing.
‘Does anyone else play it?’
‘Mum and dad play a little bit, although they seem to have stopped now. It never gets used.’
‘Why don’t you start learning it? It’s such a waste of a piano.’
‘Me?’
‘Let me look at your hands . . .’
She grabbed hold of Julian’s hands and spread the fingers out.
‘You’ve got piano-playing hands. You should learn. Did you know I could read palms?’
She turned Julian’s hands over, and read through the lines with her fingertips as though tracing text. Suddenly she discarded the hands and returned to the remains of the meal.
‘Aren’t you going to tell me what they said?’
‘They said you’re going to drown in the South China Sea.’