The Making of Henry by Howard Jacobson Page A

against that. You can only battle with the nature you have, and Henry’s is pap.
    Something Henry remembers, from long after the Schubert days when nobody was lovelier than he was: his mother ringing him in his university digs at an odd hour of the night, her voice high and dangerous, to say she would like him to sit down and compose himself (if there is anywhere to sit down and be composed by the communal phone), because she has matter of grave and strange importance to impart, no, no one has died, not exactly, but she has caught his father out, actually seen him with her own eyes – with my own
eyes
, Henry! – going into the Midland Hotel in the company of a woman. ‘In broad daylight, that’s what I can’t forgive, the stupidity of the man. At least he owes it to me not to be seen, not to be caught, especially by
me
!’
    Henry is surprised to hear himself laughing. ‘Mother, what were you doing outside the Midland Hotel?’
    â€˜What bearing does that have on the matter?’
    â€˜It just makes it the more farcical.’
    â€˜I don’t know what it is that strikes you as funny. You think this is a farce I’m describing? Well, you’re right in one regard. Our marriage
is
a farce.’
    â€˜I didn’t mean that. I meant that the coincidence of your both being at the Midland Hotel at the same time is comical. Synchronicity is always ludicrous. Did he see you?’
    â€˜Henry, I haven’t rung so that you can lecture me on the nature of farce. And no, he didn’t see me. But I saw him. So what am I supposed to do now?’
    â€˜Nothing. He might only have been going in for afternoon tea.’
    â€˜It was the morning, and your father doesn’t have afternoon tea.’
    â€˜Then maybe he was going along to discuss a party, checking one of the reception rooms out or something. Are you sure he wasn’t there to
do
a party?’
    â€˜Certain. He didn’t have his tricks or his torches with him. Nor was it the right time of day. Who throws a children’s party at the Midland at eleven on a Monday morning? What is more he was wearing his suit. He never does parties in a suit. For parties, as you know, my husband – may God forgive me for ever choosing such a clown of a man – wears a top hat and a red nose. For seeing other women he wears a suit. And I’ll tell you something else, Henry – he was wearing
odd socks
!’
    â€˜How could you tell that?’
    â€˜I was six inches behind him. I could have trodden on his heels. One red, one black.’
    â€˜There you are, then. That proves he wasn’t on an assignation. When a man goes to a hotel with another woman he checks his socks.’
    â€˜Not your father. He wore odd socks the first time he took me to a hotel. That’s when he gets forgetful – when he’s excited.’
    Henry hears himself laughing again. (Safeguarding himself against too much feeling, is he?) ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘I just can’t treat this with the sort of seriousness you think it merits.’
    â€˜You think I’m making it up.’
    â€˜No. But I think you should be playing it down. What if you’re right – how much does it matter? It’s just a morning off.’
    â€˜Henry, you don’t take mornings off marriages. But then you’re a man – what would
you
understand.’ For a moment Henry thinks she is going to hang up on him, then: ‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘it’s worse than I’ve told you.’
    â€˜He hasn’t run off?’
    â€˜Of course he hasn’t run off. Your father doesn’t run off. He knows too well which side his bread’s buttered. He was back here at three the same day, back before I was, asleep on the sofa.’
    â€˜Still in his odd socks?’
    â€˜Yes, but not on the same feet.’
    â€˜Back, though.’
    â€˜Oh yes, back and snoring. With that