Making Things Better Page 2

  Bathed and shaved he felt more confident, applied the pomade and the cologne that did little for his appearance but conformed with some gentlemanly ritual that must also have been a family characteristic, belonging to more spacious times before their translation to reduced circumstances. In this way he could confront the day, would repeat the grooming process with the brushing of his coat and shoes, with the final smoothing of his hair. The street beckoned, with its illusion of life, of company. At moments like this he envied no one, indeed he knew of few people to envy. Solitude had bred a stoicism which he hoped would see him through. He patted his breast pocket to assure himself that his pills were in a safe place. He did not consider these pills to be serious, but at his age, he supposed, everyone took pills. And the young man who was now his doctor had looked at him so trustingly, rather as if his own health depended on Herz’s obedience. And it was not raining for once. He thought he might telephone his former wife at some point and suggest lunch or dinner. Although they had parted without regret he still looked forward to seeing her, and thought she felt the same. The divorce had been amicable. He thought of it as the one good thing he had managed to bring off. So did his ex-wife. The memory brought a certain grim amusement. Strangely there was no bitterness. When he thought of her, which was not often, the smile found its place once more. Lunch, he thought, then a film, if she had the time. Thus armed with purpose he went out to buy The Times.

  2

  As he stepped out into Chiltern Street, under a cloudy sky, Herz could see that this was to be a day for memories. Dreams he would have to postpone for future nights. He reflected, as he always did, on the strength of that early imprinting which left so many faces intact. He could see, as if he had just left her at the bus stop, his mother’s friend Bijou Frank, who always came to tea on Saturday afternoons, when he was with Freddy in Brighton and his father at the shop. They were living in Hilltop Road at that time, in a flat that was too big for them. They had stayed there when they first came to London because Hubertus, who had many contacts, had arranged it through a friend of his. This friend happened to be a connection of Ostrovski, the owner of the music shop which had taken them both on. So that in their early days they were entirely dependent on Germans, and on what had been decided for them in Berlin.

  This eased the transition to a considerable extent but had kept them from making new friends. In any event they had not felt welcome, had been aware that critical eyes surveyed them in the street. Neighbours made no approaches. It was charitable to suppose that they had as yet little idea of circumstances in Germany. The flat was rent-controlled, which did something to disguise the fact that it was ultra respectable, bourgeois even; at some point they would have to leave. When this happened—and everything was uncertain, undecided—they would, advised Ostrovski, be better off in the flat above the shop in Edgware Road. This flat was small, too small, but it had the advantage of belonging to Ostrovski, who had taken on something of a god-fatherly role. His mother suspected that Ostrovski wanted the Hilltop Road property for another of his protégés, a woman, no doubt, but they were in no position to dissent. And in Edgware Road his father would avoid the long walk which was his only recreation, his only diversion. Again there was no way in which to point out that a move would not be entirely desirable. They were dependent on the kindness of strangers, even if this kindness took the form of decisions over which they had no control.

  It was in Hilltop Road that Bijou Frank visited his mother, on those terrible Saturday afternoons when he kept Freddy company. He could see her now, as plainly as anything: a small tremulous figure in her decent black coat and the stolid felt hat that overshadowed her anxious little face. She too was a contact from the old days, although she had been in England for some time, had married an elderly Englishman whose stultifying love had isolated her from the sort of company for which she craved. A widow, with more than adequate means, she had found herself virtually disabled from normal contacts, was more than delighted to meet Trude Herz in the local bakery, swiftly agreed to renew what had never been more than a vague friendship, was relieved in fact to have found a female confidant after years of attendance on a man she had not chosen. He had chosen her, she explained to her new-found friend, and never willingly allowed her out of his sight. She was free of him now, but not free of his influence, as nervous and as circumspect as if he were still watching her every movement. Although she was competent enough in other respects, she was frightened of most things and took comfort in Julius’s presence when he walked her slowly to the bus stop and waited with her until the bus arrived. This was a courtesy he would never dream of shirking. In any event his mother insisted on it. So that even on radiant summer evenings, when young men of his age were preparing to enjoy themselves, he was imprisoned by Bijou Frank’s little hand on his arm, and her slow steps, and her murmurings, which had all to do with her concern for his mother’s health (which was indeed poor), and her own despair at their present circumstances. Freed at last by the arrival of the bus, he would wait and wave for as long as she remained in view. It was her last sweet smile that went part way to reconciling him to the further duties that awaited him at home.

  Bijou Frank was a good friend to his mother, and he hoped that his mother was as good a friend to Bijou, who seemed, and was, devoted. He was spared much of their conversation, which he supposed consisted of Bijou’s marital experiences and his mother’s hypochondria. Each listened eagerly to the other, while waiting her turn to speak. Yet these occasions revived something of his mother’s assertiveness, before the advent of Freddy’s mysterious opposition to his destiny, or rather to the destiny she had decreed for him, had dealt her such a cruel blow. She would dress more carefully than usual, would prepare a dish of small delicacies, would retrieve, for a brief interval, the manners of a Berlin hostess, would in fact rise above her circumstances in a way she was never able to manage in the intervals between Bijou’s visits. She was greedy for Bijou’s company, but would never allow this to show. Nevertheless it was a friendship of some weight, though had they still been in Berlin they might not have seen each other more than a couple of times a year. The tea-table, like Bijou’s hat, which was never removed, reassured them both that standards were being maintained, that worldliness had not entirely deserted them. This reassurance was perhaps their last link with their former lives. They knew this too, and treasured the knowledge.

  ‘And how is our dear friend this evening?’ his father would enquire after his return from the shop, gallantly professing friendship on his own behalf while silently longing for a restorative glass of schnapps. This he was not allowed, for a further ceremony had to be enacted, a thimbleful of cherry brandy in which he joined the ladies. This was the signal that the visit was about to be concluded, that he, Julius, was soon to usher out again with Bijou on his arm.

  ‘Well, thank you, Willy, and yourself? Your work?’

  ‘Fine. Perfectly fine.’

  ‘What news from over there?’

  ‘What do you expect? Best not to think about it.’

  ‘I try not to. But it’s not easy.’

  ‘It will not be easy for a long time.’

  Here his mother would break in, saying that they must all try to live in the present. This she managed to do in a somewhat uncanny fashion, disguising her resentments and anxieties by concentrating on her physical condition, which she allowed to overshadow the physical condition of her husband, her younger son, and Freddy, in whose rehabilitation she appeared to place exaggerated faith. That her faith was misplaced Julius had had reason to reflect once more that afternoon, while sitting with Freddy in his barely furnished room in what he privately thought of as the hostel in Brighton which Freddy showed no disposition to leave. Both Julius and his father knew that when Bijou Frank took her leave Mrs Herz would revert to her former self, would remove her necklace and her earrings, and as like as not change into a dressing-gown. The inquest on Freddy’s health would take place later that evening, when they were all
exhausted, and would be exhaustive. What did they know of those bleak Saturday afternoons? What did he allow them to know? Making things better was his task, his obligation, and eventually, after another glass of cherry brandy, his mother would allow herself to be encouraged to go to bed. Their supper would consist of the smoked salmon canapés and the little macaroons that had been laid out for the guest. The guest, as if suspecting, had eaten sparingly. In some ways she was a delicate-minded woman. They were all careful of the friendship, for it was almost the only one they had.

  But even those exhausted Saturday evenings were a relief after the day that had preceded them. Those Saturdays! Even at the age he had become, even on the verge of extinction, as he supposed himself to be, Herz hated weekends. Sundays were just possible; on Sundays he took a walk, stopping off at churches for a few minutes, to see if he liked the programme, as it were, and, inevitably, wandering out again as if he knew that he was out of place, or rather that his place was elsewhere, in some harsher environment. God was not present for him on these occasions, but then he knew that God was not to be approached in so casual a fashion. It was the absence of Jesus that saddened him, for surely he should have felt some sort of call? His ancestral religion, which he did not practise, seemed to him an affair of prohibitions, of righteous exclusiveness for which he could see no justification. He would have welcomed some sort of approach, some sort of solicitation, but it was not to be. Although resolutely secular in outlook, as were his parents, he had been expelled from Germany as if guilty of some ancestral flaw. And he supposed this to be the case, for he was not filled with love, as he knew that Christians were, rather the opposite. For example, he felt a dawning hostility towards his brother. And what had he to do with the puerile sentimentalities that surrounded the Infant Jesus? He knew that he had to make things better, but without supernatural aid this seemed too difficult for him. He supposed that he would do his duty, since that was what was required of him. Nevertheless if he had known of some kindly deity he would have requested some sort of temporary exemption from the task, just enough time to get his own life on its course, and allow him to exert a choice.

  In later life he marvelled that his parents had had so little idea that pleasure and freedom were due to the young. He excused them finally, for their own youth was somehow unimaginable, as if they had been careworn adults as soon as they were born. He felt pity for them, an exasperated love, a kind of acceptance, but he also knew that he had not come into a proper inheritance, the inheritance of the truly young. Nor had Freddy, despite the indulgence they had lavished on him. In later life he came to understand that Freddy was braver than himself, for Freddy acknowledged his resentment of those parents who had set him on so vertiginous a course, one that he was not able to sustain. Freddy’s nervous breakdown, if that was what it was, had more to do with rebellion than with genuine suffering. That he had become ill was not in any doubt, yet in his mother’s desire to attribute the illness to Freddy’s artistic temperament, to nothing more fundamental or more radical, to discontent, in a word, was part of her blindness, and of her continued favour. This made Freddy’s incarceration bearable, acted as an interval in which she could make new plans for him. It was also part of her blindness that she could not see that these plans were no longer necessary.

  Saturdays, therefore, were surrounded by melancholy. He would make his way, by bus, by train, and by another bus, to the outpost where his brother now had his being. It was a house which had formerly been a private hotel, now converted into a long-stay facility for those in need of refuge. There was some nursing care, but patients, or residents, were expected to look after themselves, under the benevolent guidance of Mrs Walters, who owned the place and lived on the premises. This excellent woman always greeted Julius with every appearance of a good will he knew to be genuine. It was another instance of the mystery of the Holy Spirit, for Mrs Walters was religious. Freddy, on the other hand, showed little good will, was probably unaware that Julius had given up his free time to visit him, received the newspaper and the bag of fruit without apparent appreciation, and waved his brother to a chair as if preparing to give an interview to a journalist. His habit of referring to ‘my mother’ and ‘my father’ also had something autobiographical about it. He seemed to be kept going by the fantasy that he was still a performer, a prodigy, yet at some point in their conversation the fantasy broke down and he would dissolve into tears. That was when Julius himself felt tears rising, not merely for Freddy but for the wreckage of his family.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ he would say. ‘You look so much better. Here, have some of this chocolate.’ And the shaking hand would reach out eagerly for the offer of sweetness that he thought was still his due.

  His looks were altered, his hair thinning, his body slack and unused. Yet he was not discontented, except when he referred to the past. Retrospectively he felt the monstrous injustice of those artificial expectations, seemed to prefer this small bare room to the home he had once known, seemed to be at ease until the time came for him to animadvert against those pressures which had brought him to this place. This was the ritual that informed these visits, and the complaints were always the same.

  ‘I was too young,’ he would say. ‘I didn’t know how to refuse. I was sick before and after every performance. Even so my mother forced me to practise, sat in the front row— in the middle of the front row—whenever I performed. My father went along with it, although he could have saved me. But he had no character. And my mother always overruled him. A terrible woman.’

  He did not ask how any of them were getting along. Imperceptibly the tone had become grandiose, dismissive, for the benefit of the imaginary interviewer. Except that Freddy did not seem to know that the interviewer was in fact his brother. The soliloquy was routine, but Julius never heard it without embarrassment. In vain he would look out of the window, at the white sky. It was as cold in the room as it had been out of doors. Even on the rare days of sunshine the winds were penetrating.

  ‘Don’t you get bored?’ he would ask, in an effort to break the monotony of the afternoon. Boredom and discomfort were the essence of the place. ‘Don’t you want to do some sort of work?’

  At this Freddy looked evasive. ‘I help out here,’ he said. ‘In the kitchen sometimes.’

  ‘You could do that at home.’

  ‘I couldn’t leave Mrs Walters.’ He looked agitated. ‘I could never leave Mrs Walters.’

  ‘You will have to at some point. We can’t afford . . .’

  ‘They’ll give me a job here. That way I can keep my room.’

  This was what in fact had happened. They gave him a small wage to help out as a general assistant, mainly as a cleaner. The rags and polishes made his hands rough and swollen but did something to arrest the tremor. The shame of this was unbearable to Julius, yet he knew that there was no alternative. If they were to move to the flat over the shop there would be no room for Freddy. Exert good will as he might, Julius could not accommodate the thought that he might once again be displaced by his brother. Therefore he kept quiet about the arrangements, merely told his father that less money would be needed for Freddy’s upkeep. His father had looked at him sharply, then subsided. ‘The heartbreak,’ he said. ‘My beautiful boy.’

  ‘You’ll have to go now,’ Freddy would say. ‘It’s nearly time for tea. I said I’d wash up afterwards.’

  ‘I’ll see you next week,’ they both said, as if this were somehow necessary. They embraced at the door of Freddy’s room. In that embrace there was something of the fervour of two originally loving siblings. Then the visit would be over.

  Julius accepted that his parents were unequal to the task he shouldered every week. Those parents (and Freddy too knew this) were too fearful of confronting the shipwreck of their hopes, and lived an obstinate illusion of normality in absolute denial of the facts of the case. It was a tactic which had ensured their survival, and one on which they fiercely relied. The burden was shifted to their younger son, who became gu
ardian to all three of them, unaware of his own entitlements. Yet on the way back to the station he was habitually engulfed in a sadness that coloured the entire landscape. It was then that the full tragedy of Freddy’s life appeared at its most significant. And it was not yet over: his decline from cherished prodigy to general handyman would take place without interruption, without intervention. For he had been young enough to believe in all-powerful agencies which would somehow reverse a process so ineluctably under way. He accepted without question that Freddy no longer wished to listen to music, but thought that art should not let one down in so deliberate a fashion. Art was surely the key to a better world, yet Freddy had renounced it as if his engagement with it had been a mere flirtation, and moreover a flirtation which had failed to develop into a mature relationship. His mother still listened to music on the radio, beating time with her hand, and they were, after all, surrounded by music in the shop, but for his father and himself it held no message. What held a message was Freddy and his rebellion, which had ended in an almost willing acceptance of defeat. Or was there freedom in that defeat? Was Freddy in some ghastly way appeased? It was as if he had cast off his previous life and with it all those earlier attachments which had filled it. It was Mrs Walters who was his new parent, and Julius saw no value in trying to bring him home, in all senses of the word. ‘My mother’ and ‘my father’ had become almost mythical personages, quite without application to the present day, and Julius himself too humble an interlocutor to arouse much interest. It was probably preferable that he should not be disturbed by echoes of the wider world, but Julius wondered what would happen if and when his parents died. Would that occasion some sort of reawakening, some cataclysm of buried feeling? That was to be avoided, if possible, for he could still break down again. And what would happen if Freddy were to die before his parents was not to be contemplated. The ruin of two other fragile lives, of three, if he were to count his own, would be complete. He had no doubt that other deaths would follow swiftly, and his own need to make things better, the task to which he still gave his loyalty, would be exposed for what it was: a wish, a vain wish that his efforts would be crowned, if not with glory, then at least with a sense of honour.