Free J by Howard Jacobson Page A

had made the mistake, the first time, of straightening his rug after he’d rumpled it. She saw him wince and then, without saying anything, rumple it again. Thereafter she simply stood by, expressionless, her arms beside her sides, as he locked up, confirmed that he had locked up, knelt to look inside the letter box, stood up, knelt down again to confirm that what he had seen he had seen, put his hand inside the flap, took it out, and then put it back again, looked one more time, then put his keys in his pocket. Sometimes he would send her on ahead so that he could do all this again.
    ‘Don’t ask,’ he said.
    And she tried not to. But she loved him and wanted to relieve him of some of the stress he was obviously under.
    ‘Couldn’t I?’ she asked once, meaning couldn’t she make sure
for
him that everything was OK. Share the burden, whatever it was. Pour the tea, rumple the runner, double-lock and then double-lock again, kneel down and lift the flap of the letter box, peer through (check to see if there was anything for her while she was at it) . . . she knew the routine well enough by now.
    ‘Unthinkable,’ he said.
    ‘Just try thinking it.’
    He shook his head, not liking her suddenly, not wanting to look at her. She knew. And was glad she was wearing trousers so he could not see her ankles.
    But that night, in bed, after exhaustively locking the house from the inside, he tried explaining why she couldn’t help him.
    ‘If anything happens it has to be my responsibility. I want at least to know I did all I could. If it happens because of something I have omitted to do, I will never forgive myself. So I make sure.’
    ‘Happens to the house?’
    ‘Happens to the house, happens to me, happens to you . . .’
    ‘But what can happen?’
    He stared at her. ‘
What can happen
. What
can’t
happen.’ Neither was a question. Both were statements of incontrovertible fact.
    They were lying on what she took to be a reproduction Biedermeier bed. He hung his clothes, as now she hung hers, in a fine mahogany wardrobe, two doors on either side of a full-length bevelled mirror, also imitation Biedermeier. It was far too big for the cottage, some of the beam had had to be cut away to make room for it, and she did wonder how anyone had ever succeeded in getting it upstairs. She knew about Biedermeier – it had come back into style. Everyone wanted reproduction Biedermeier. There was a small factory knocking it out in Kildromy, not far from where she grew up. Kildromy-Biedermeier – there was a growing market for it. But she did wonder whether Kevern’s furniture wasn’t reproduction at all. It looked at once far grander and more worn than anything that came out of Kildromy. Could it be the real thing? Everyone cheated a bit, keeping a few more family treasures than they knew they should. And this the authorities turned a blind eye to. But if these pieces were genuine, Kevern was cheating on a grand scale. She tried asking him about it. ‘This Kildromy-Biedermeier?’ He stared at her, lost for words. Then he gathered his wits. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Kildromy. Spot on.’
    So he was lying. She didn’t judge him. If anything, it thrilled her to be a silent party to such delinquency. But it explained why he went to such lengths to protect his privacy. No one was ever going to come to so remote a place, so difficult of access, to steal a wardrobe; but what if it wasn’t thieves he feared but, she joked to herself, the Biedermeier police?
    Once, although she hadn’t mentioned her suspicions, he explained that property wasn’t the reason he was careful.
    ‘
Careful
!’
    ‘Why, what word would you use?’
    ‘Obsessive? Compulsive? Disordered?’
    He smiled. He was smiling a lot so she shouldn’t take fright. He liked her teasing and didn’t want it to stop.
    ‘Well, whatever the word, I do what I do because I hate the idea of . . . what was that other word you used once, to describe my lack of sexual attack?