The Book of Ebenezer le Page Page 52

  ‘I have brought a few of my great works to show you,’ he said. ‘I won’t understand,’ I said, ‘I don’t know nothing about pictures.’ ‘There is nothing to understand,’ he said, ‘and you don’t have to know about pictures. All you got to do is look at ’em.’ He stood one up on a chair by the window, so as to catch the light. ‘Another Wildscape,’ he said. It was a picture full of wild and lovely colours, but I was frowning: I couldn’t make out what it was meant to be. ‘It is too near for you to be able to see it as a whole,’ he said, and moved the chair further away. ‘Why, that’s in Fontenelle Bay!’ I said. ‘Right first go!’ he said. The rough sea was pouring over a lop-sided rock, and there was clouds heavy with rain and rain falling, and rays of sunshine coming from between the clouds and across the rain and shining bright on the sea. It was so real to me I wouldn’t have been surprised if I had heard the wind blowing. ‘It’s good, that!’ I said. ‘At least it’s better than the one got the prize,’ he said. That was of the Pea-Stacks in a storm. ‘Too obvious,’ he said. A gentleman in Town bought it for twenty quid.

  I thought that was a lot of money to pay for a picture. ‘Well, that’s a good beginning, anyway,’ I said. ‘It will give me a couple of weeks off,’ he said, ‘but it is a warning.’ ‘How d’you mean?’ I said. ‘I mustn’t paint with the Market in mind,’ he said, ‘that would be the end of me.’ I said, ‘Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s.’ He gave me a quick look. ‘Something like that,’ he said. He raved on about painting; but most of it I didn’t understand. He had no use for this: he had no use for that. He was a modern; and against the moderns. He thought many of the old painters had more to teach the young painter than any modern. As for abstract art, it was long past the time to have grown out of such nonsense. He had more sympathy with the lunatic fringe. It was genuine to the painter: to start with, at least. He must beware. A chap can make a fortune by going fashionably mad. ‘I will be post-modern; or nothing,’ he said. ‘All I want to paint is the real feel of the actual thing in front of me. I will never get to it, I know; but I can try.’ I liked him very much when he was talking about his painting. For all his swagger, Neville is humble really.

  I couldn’t help thinking how, in his place, I would have put that twenty quid away for a rainy day; but I didn’t say anything and let him go on showing me the others. There was one of Birdo Harbour at low tide, and Herm quite close. It was evening, and shining peaceful with a few boats quiet on the sea. He thought it was the best he had done so far, and I thought it was good; but the one I liked best myself was of L’Ancresse Common. He had written underneath it Defences. It wasn’t L’Ancresse Common quite as it is now, for he had left out the bungalows and the new buildings; nor was there any sign of it being a golf links, and Fort Le Marchant with its many windows was not a ruin, but looked as if there might be soldiers living in it yet. There was a grey martello tower quite near, and the others in the distance guarding the full round of the bay. The colours of the sand and of the few rocks, and of the sea and the sky, was really wonderful in that picture; and as different as imaginable from those of the glaring colours of the views of Guernsey they sell in the shops in Town. ‘What I like about your pictures,’ I said, ‘is they are quite different from picture-postcards. They sing.’ He said, ‘That is the most encouraging remark ever made about my work. I only paint because I am not musical.’ I said, ‘What I don’t understand about your pictures is there are no human beings in them. There is not a living soul on L’Ancresse, or anywhere else.’ ‘Human beings spoil the picture,’ he said. ‘I can do with some of the things they have left behind.’

  He was in a hurry to get on with it, and picked up his stool and easel and box, and was going. ‘Don’t wait for me for tea,’ he said, ‘I won’t show up until I got something done.’ ‘You’ll have a meal before you go home, I hope,’ I said. ‘Thanks very much,’ he said. He hadn’t given me very much time to look at his pictures properly; and when he was gone I had another look at them. There was some of places on the island I had never been to: rocks and cliffs on the south coast, I think; and one glorious with golden gorse. Those of places I knew I thought even more of the second time I looked at them: there was so much I had missed the first. I couldn’t have been more wrong judging from the picture in the Press. There was nothing mixed-up or slapdash when you stood away and looked at the whole thing, and all the colours fell together. Afterwards, when I had washed up the dinner things and got the room tidy, I pottered round in the greenhouse and outside. I can’t say how happy I was to think he was down on the beach painting; and would be coming back to have a meal with me when he had done. He wasn’t in by five, so I made myself some tea; but didn’t eat much. I was wondering what he would like for his supper. I had some fresh whiting I could cook with fried potatoes; or he could have ham and eggs again. It was after seven when he came in. He looked dog-tired, and flopped down on the green-bed. ‘God, it does take it out of you!’ he said. ‘Well, food now!’ I said, and asked him which he would like. ‘The whiting, if it’s not too much trouble,’ he said, ‘but first have a look at your picture.’

  There was enough light yet to see it by, and he stood it on a chair by the window. It was painted on thick card. Well, nobody could have any doubt what it was meant to be. It was Les Moulins and no other house; and even more old-fashioned than it is. It was childish and comic in a way. I had to laugh. The walls got narrower as they went up, and the chimney-stacks smaller; but the windows shone brightly in the sun. The wallflowers in front was really beautiful; and there was the old grey wall of the garden, and the white gate, and the green front door. The apple-tree at the side was skew-jiffy, and the windmill was peeping over the roof. There was no other house in sight, though there are several to be seen now from where he was looking; but those he had left out. He got in some of the rocks and sea, and a patch of beach, and the patch and the hill behind. A lot of it was rough done with thick paint, and the granite of the house looked as if it was really granite; but the sky behind and around was smooth, and in all the lovely colours from pink and pale yellow to a clear, clear blue I could see fading through the window. It made the house stand out real and solid on a foundation of solid earth at the edge of the sea. He was watching my face while I was looking at it. ‘Well, what’s the verdict?’ he said. ‘It’s lovely,’ I said, ‘it really is! It is my house; and yet it is not my house. It is something more.’ He took it off the chair and had a look at it, as if he was in doubt himself. ‘I hope it’s as good as you say,’ he said. ‘Anyhow, it takes two to make a picture: the chap who paints it and the chap who looks at it. It isn’t a thing in itself.’ ‘What’s it going to be called?’ I said. He gives names to all his pictures. ‘I haven’t done that yet,’ he said, ‘but I will now.’ He wrote with a thick pencil on the left-hand at the bottom in his beautiful handwriting The House of Ebenezer Le Page.

  I was going to say he must take great care of it because somebody would be sure to want to buy it, when he said, ‘Where are we going to hang it?’ I was so surprised I couldn’t speak. ‘It’s for you, you know,’ he said. I bustled about getting the supper ready, and didn’t even say thank you. I was afraid I might break down. He was looking round the room to find a place for it. ‘I think on the mantelpiece will do for now,’ he said. It is a high narrow mantelpiece; and he moved aside some of the things on it to make room. ‘I hope it won’t get dirty up there,’ I said. ‘It won’t for a day or two,’ he said. ‘I’ll make a frame for it, and bring it along: then we can think of the right place for it.’ When the supper was ready, I pulled down the blinds and lit the lamp. He drew a chair up to the table, as if he was the son of the house. ‘Golly, this is good!’ he said. ‘It look nice, my picture,’ I said, ‘even by the light of the lamp.’ ‘It’s not too bad,’ he said.

  He didn’t go until after eleven, and didn’t seem to want to go then. I don’t think he fancied going back to his lonely room in the attic. After sup
per he insisted on helping me wash up; and then we sat by the fire talking. He asked me if I had ever been married. I said I hadn’t. ‘Why not?’ he said, ‘I thought in your day every chap had to get married.’ ‘I don’t know why not,’ I said. I wanted to give him a truthful answer; and it was the only truthful answer I could think of. To this day I don’t know how it was Liza and me was always at cross purposes. He said, ‘Didn’t you want to?’ I said, ‘Yes, I wanted to; and I am not so sure she didn’t want to as well: but never when I wanted to.’ ‘You could have married somebody else,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t really,’ I said. ‘Then she must have been a fool,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it was me who was the fool,’ I said.

  ‘I am not walking three paces behind any woman,’ he said, ‘however wonderful she may think she is; and I don’t want a woman walking three paces behind me. I would say for Christ’s sake team up with a bloke your own measure. Anyhow, why the hell get married at all, if it is only to be divorced in a few years?’ ‘Ah well, you can always live in sin,’ I said, ‘It might last longer. I had a great uncle who lived in sin for donkey’s years; and they never got divorced.’ ‘I don’t want to live in sin!’ he said; and out came that obstinate chin I was getting to know so well. I said, ‘It don’t matter what you do in this world, you will find you got to live in sin, one way or the other.’ ‘You’re cheerful, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘That is my experience,’ I said. ‘It is mine too,’ he said. ‘The kids think sex ad lib is heaven; but it isn’t. It isn’t more sex is wanted: it’s less and better. Or something else.’ I thought goodness, who is it who is the puritan now? I said, ‘All I hope is you are luckier than me.’

  ‘Fuck having a woman!’ he said, ‘I am going to buy a car.’ ‘Whatever do you want to buy a car for?’ I said. ‘To get round with my gear,’ he said. ‘Why else?’ ‘They cost a lot of money, cars,’ I said. ‘I will be able to afford it, just,’ he said. His motor-bike was going to pay for part of it, and the balance was coming from what little was left over from the sale of the house. ‘My last extravagance!’ he said. ‘Henceforward, hard labour!’ I was angry with him for going to throw away his money on a car; and yet, I thought, there is nothing mean about him. He is not one to bury his talent in the ground. All the people I have liked most in my life have been the very opposite to me. Jim, Liza, Raymond, Tabitha, my Uncle Nat: none of them was mean; but, if the truth was known, I have always been a mean little sod myself. I have always held something back, and seen to it I kept on the safe side. It is good to be shown up in your old age for what you are.

  He had got up then and was gathering together his things ready to go. I said, ‘What is yours is yours, my boy; and it is for you to spend it how you like. I want you to remember I said that: and, if ever it comes to hard labour, I can always find you work to do here for a living.’ ‘Thanks a lot,’ he said. ‘It is work I would enjoy; but I am not sure I want to earn my daily bread working for a friend.’ He gave me a quick, shy smile, and was gone in a flash. I said, ‘Thank you for the picture,’ but I don’t think he heard me.

  17

  I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I was afraid to. I lay down on the green-bed; but every time I felt myself going off, I sat up with a jerk. I didn’t want to wake up and find myself dead. I was up with the sun, and washed and shaved and having my breakfast, before young Ogier turned up for work. I had no doubt in my mind any more about it being good for Neville to have the house. He would always have somewhere to live, and a way of making a living; and he liked the place and felt at home in it already, and was willing to work. I put the papers in my pocket and caught an early bus to Town and got off at the Weighbridge. I collected my money from the States Offices, but wasn’t going to risk going up those Pier Steps again. I went back along the front and up the Pollet; and had a cup of coffee in a café on the way. It was stuff out of a bottle, and no good, but it helped to pass the time. When I got to the top of Smith Street, it was only a quarter to eleven by the clock in the Post Office, but I thought I might as well go straight along to Mr de Lisle’s office. It didn’t matter if I was a few minutes early. I could wait.

  I didn’t have to. The she-iceberg said, ‘Mr de Lisle is expecting you,’ and led the way through her office, and out by another door into his. I had expected an untidy room, hanging with cobwebs and stacked with dusty old papers, but it was new and clean with steel cupboards against the walls. There was another room I could see through a glass door where several young chaps was writing, and a girl typing. ‘Mr Ebenezer Le Page by appointment,’ said Miss Beehive. Mr de Lisle was sitting at his desk. ‘Thank you, Miss Fitch,’ he said; and she went out and shut the door. He wasn’t at all my idea of a lawyer. He looked more like a young doctor. I had imagined a crafty old man with wrinkles and a bald head, but he was quite young, hardly forty I would say, and had a smooth face, and fair silky hair neatly parted on one side. It was a clever face, I thought, but kind too. He got up from his chair, and came round the desk and shook hands with me. ‘I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr Le Page,’ he said, ‘I have heard of you, of course, but hitherto haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you.’ I wonder what it is everybody have heard about me. People seem to know more about me than I know myself. He arranged a comfortable chair for me to sit in and then sat down at his desk facing me. I was glad it was him I had come to.

  ‘Now how can I be of service to you?’ he said. ‘I want to make a will,’ I said. ‘I am getting on in years.’ ‘A sensible course of action,’ he said, ‘at any time of life.’ ‘At my time of life, at any rate,’ I said. ‘Have you not previously made a will?’ he said. ‘No, never,’ I said, ‘I am not one who believes in going to lawyers.’ ‘Very wise of you, no doubt,’ he said, ‘but there are occasions when we have our uses.’ ‘When my mother was alive,’ I said, ‘our family affairs was in the hands of Advocate Randall. He is dead now, so I couldn’t go to him.’ ‘Quite so,’ he said. ‘I saw your name on the pillar of the door,’ I said, ‘and I thought you would do as good as any.’ I wasn’t going to tell him I knew he was Neville’s lawyer. ‘I hope I do,’ he said, ‘I mustn’t let my name down.’ ‘Aw, it is not going to be much of a will,’ I said, ‘I am leaving all I got to one person, so it won’t cost much to draw up; and you won’t make much out of it.’ He raised his eyebrows, and opened his eyes wide. It was a way he had for he did it a number of times while I was with him.

  He got out his fountain pen, put a clean sheet of paper in front of him, and wrote across the top Ebenezer Le Page, Esquire. ‘Have you any other name, or names?’ he said. ‘No, no other names,’ I said. ‘Les Moulins, now let me think,’ he said, ‘is it in St Sampson’s, or the Vale?’ ‘The Vale,’ I said. He wrote down my address. ‘Have you any near relations, or legal descendants?’ he said. ‘None,’ I said, ‘the nearest are third or fourth cousins.’ ‘Now may I have the name and address of the person you propose to make your sole legatee?’ he said. ‘Neville Falla of Sea View, Paradise, Vale,’ I said. His eyebrows went up again, and he put down his pen. ‘Is he a connection by marriage?’ he said. ‘He is no relation,’ I said. He said, ‘I want you to understand you are at perfect liberty to dispose of your possessions as you feel inclined, provided they are legally disposed of, but may I ask you, as a matter of interest, why it is you have chosen Mr Neville Falla to benefit?’ I didn’t mind telling him really, but, after all, he was only a lawyer and there was some things he wouldn’t understand. ‘He is not a sheep,’ I said.

  ‘I happen to be acquainted with Mr Neville Falla,’ he said, ‘and I concur with you entirely, when you say he is not a sheep. He is in that respect different from a great many, perhaps the majority, of his generation. They make a loud noise and are often a downright nuisance, here as elsewhere; but they blindly follow the trend of the moment and, taken singly, are not much of a menace. Neville Falla, on the other hand, can be a dangerous nuisance, if he sets his mind to it, for he is not a coward, and he is not stupid; but, given his own head, he is not malign. He may
well prove a notable credit to our island yet. He has more than talent as a painter.’ ‘I know,’ I said. ‘All-in-all,’ he said, ‘far from saying you are ill-advised, I congratulate you on giving Neville a chance.’ I could have hugged him for sticking up for Neville.

  ‘Well, it isn’t I got all that much to leave him,’ I said. ‘I am not a rich man. There is the house and the furniture and the ground and the greenhouse and the out-houses; and some money I have saved. That is all.’ I handed him the papers I had brought with me; and explained the house was my grandfather’s first, and then my father’s and, when my father died, came to me as the eldest and only son. It was for my mother to live in while she lived; and my sister was living with me her last years. She had no children. I had lived in it on my own since. It was in good condition and repair; and there was nothing owing on it. I had included among the papers the last receipt for tax for him to see. He gave the lot a quick glance, and said it all appeared to be straightforward and in order; but he would have to check up at the Greffe, and would like to keep the papers while the will was in preparation. It sounded as if I was going to have to wait another week. ‘That will mean me having to wait,’ I said, ‘I may not be here so long.’ He said I looked hale and hearty; and if he looked as fit as I did, and had his wits about him as I have, when he was my age, he would consider himself a very lucky man. However, he would get it done as quickly as possible to put my mind at rest, but I must be patient. He didn’t want to draw me up a will about which there could be any dispute later on. ‘I notice you haven’t included a bank statement,’ he said. ‘Who are your bankers?’ ‘Goodness, I don’t have no money in the bank!’ I said. He said, ‘I understood you to say a sum of money was involved.’