Honeybath's Haven Read Free

The physicist loses his laboratory, the surgeon his beds, even the judge his bobbing barristers. But the artist goes on on his own: painting, scribbling, creating harmonies from catgut and a capful of wind.
    Only – Honeybath told himself as his bus turned into Goldhawk Road – Degas’ sight dims, Beethoven’s ear dies on him, Shakespeare is probably bedevilled by a mounting nominal amnesia and doesn’t even have Roget’s Thesaurus to help him out. So what then? The artist too has to pack up, sharpen not his wits and sensibilities but his secateurs, and get out among his wife’s roses.
    Honeybath had no roses, and no wife either. He often tried to look ahead – and this present mission, which was to pick up the threads with another artist as old as himself and perhaps wearing not quite so well, put him in mind of the problem now. One could make prudent plans, and this he had done. He had put money by as carefully as any stockbroker, and a kind of old folk’s home – one adequately corresponding to his station in life and his modest distinction – was already awaiting him. He wondered about Lightfoot. But Lightfoot’s situation was different. He had a wife, and a wife younger than himself. He must be reckoning that, with luck, she’d see him through without any radical alteration in his domestic circumstances. Unless, of course, there were any strains and stresses in the Lightfoot ménage here in Holland Park that were likely to militate against that sort of easy decline into the shades.
    Honeybath stood up, moved with caution along the swaying platform on which he was perched, and waited at the top of the stair until the bus jerked to a halt. Quite recently a friend of his, a famous pianist, had behaved incautiously with a rotary mower, and was now without an index finger. Honeybath had developed a mild phobia as a result of this. What terrified him was the thought of falling and breaking a wrist. If that happened they would patch it up marvellously, no doubt; within weeks it would be the same old wrist again for all common purposes. But in close proximity to paper or canvas how might it behave? The speculation was somehow even more alarming than the thought of an insidiously developing intention tremor.
    He got off the bus, and set out vigorously in the direction of Royal Crescent, the abode of the Lightfoots. At this reunion, he warned himself, he must keep clear of gloomy themes.

 
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2
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    Melissa Lightfoot opened the door of the flat. She stared at Honeybath and allowed herself a moment of blank non-recognition before she spoke. Since there was a good light on the landing, and since Honeybath was bareheaded, this was either offensive or absurd.
    â€˜It’s Charles,’ Mrs Lightfoot said, apparently for her own information. ‘Charles Honeybath. Something must have happened. Somebody has hit him on the head, and he doesn’t know where he’s wandering. Or is he a fugitive from the police?’
    â€˜Good evening, Melissa.’ Honeybath remembered that this sort of nonsensical banter had been Melissa Lightfoot’s notion of fun long ago. There was no particular animus in it. She might have made just these remarks if he were calling on his friends after no more than a fortnight by the sea. Melissa was a tiresome woman. It was perhaps one reason why Edwin had become (if Prout was to be believed) a tiresome man. ‘How are you, my dear Melissa?’ Honeybath asked firmly. ‘At least you look uncommonly well. And how is Edwin? I’m ashamed not to have seen either of you for so long.’
    â€˜He’s asking about my husband. Shall I tell him the truth at once? I don’t see why not. Edwin’s mad.’
    â€˜I’m very sorry to hear that.’ Honeybath closed the front door of the flat behind him – Mrs Lightfoot having shown no disposition to perform this action herself. ‘What sort of madness,