Ritual in the Dark

CHAPTER FOUR

As he wheeled the bicycle into the yard it began to rain. He covered it over with the tarpaulin. The light in the basement flat was on; as he turned away to leave the yard the curtain stirred and the girl looked out. He grinned and nodded, and her face disappeared abruptly. As he was about to insert his key in the front door, it opened. He said:

Thanks, Carlotte.

I'm glad you came. I'm going out. There's a message for you.

Really?

Someone rang you from Switzerland. He's going to ring back this evening.

Switzerland!

He rang just after you left. He'll ring back about seven.

Thanks very much. Has everything quietened down now?

Yes. Only we've had two reporters here.

Reporters, eh? What did they want?

Oh, details about the fire. Mrs Miller talked to them. I think she likes the idea of getting into the papers.

Mmmm. That's interesting. Did she tell them about me?

I don't think so. Why?

I was hoping to get the George Medal.

He saw, from her blank expression, that she didn't understand. He felt too tired to explain. As he advanced to the foot of the stairs, he asked:

Where's Mrs Miller now?

Back in her own house. Why?

Nothing. I'm just delighted.

This time she laughed. He noted the bouncing of her breasts as she passed underneath him, and was disturbed by it. He thought: Why do I always want a woman most when I'm nervously exhausted? His legs ached as he mounted the stairs.

In his room, he lit the gas, set the kettle on it, and sank into the armchair, yawning. His thoughts revolved round the German girl. The idea of making her his mistress was more appealing than it had been earlier. He put this down to his tiredness thinking: the body's exhaustion inflames the imagination.

The kettle began to steam. He reached out to the thermos on the table and found it half full of cold tea. He was too lazy to go to the lavatory to empty it. He shook it up, then poured the tea down the sink, turning on both taps to wash away the leaves.

What the hell could Austin be phoning me for? Where did he get the number?

Soon find out. He looked at his watch: it was ten past five. Two hours. I must eat.

Hungry. But after tea and a rest. The steam rose from the flask as he poured water into it.

Like Vaslav. I am god. Wonder if he is a sadist? They need to beat somebody. Must ask him.

The hot tea and the heat of the gas fire were too much for him. He retreated to the bed. As he drank he began to feel sleepy, and thought irritatedly: Why should I feel sleepy? I didn't get up till eleven. Nervous shock, perhaps. He resisted the impulse to lie down and close his eyes, and felt immediately overwhelmed by the desire to sleep. He stood up, and looked vaguely around the room for something to do. There was a case on top of the wardrobe, still not unpacked; he opened it on the bed, and began sorting out ties and handkerchiefs. In the bottom of the case he found the three Van Gogh prints, slightly corrugated with damp, that had been pinned on the walls of his old room. He selected the space over the mantelpiece for the Field of Green Corn. The Starry Night he placed at the head of the bed, where he could see it every time he faced the wall in bed.

He pinned the Cornfield with Crows in the centre of the opposite wall near the door. He stood opposite the Field of Green Corn for a long time, trying to recapture a mood, without success. He concentrated, staring at it:

To renew the fiery joy and burst the stony roof…

For everything that lives is holy, life delights in life.

And Nunne. And the old man. And a sadistic killer of four women. My body is not ill — it is my soul that is ill. Contempt. What else is there to feel? Not my body, but my soul. Poor Vaslav. He died.

The sleepiness came back and he restrained it. Dirt. Fatigue. This room. Not anonymous, my room, a prison. The wind blew a gust of rain against the windows. But it is my consciousness. Sick and exhausted, I choose it. I choose it. It is mine. Violence.

That's it. I contain violence. I don't want to be soothed. The violence is in the muscles, in the throat. When it explodes, I become myself. Everything that lives is holy.

He noticed the fading warmth on his shins. The flames of the gas fire were low.

He groped in his trouser pockets for a shilling. In the back pocket he found a folded slip of paper; written across it in a neat feminine hand: Gertrude Quincey; phone any day after five. He searched the pockets of his jacket without finding a coin. Pulling on his raincoat, he went downstairs. On his way back into the house again, five minutes later, he stopped by the hall telephone and smoothed out the paper on the coin-box. Her voice answered almost immediately. He pressed Button A, saying: Hello. This is Gerard Sorme speaking.

Gerard who? Oh, Austin's friend! Hello! How are you?

I'm fine. I thought I'd like to take you up on that offer to come over some time when you're not busy.

Yes, please do. Would you like to come to tea?

Well… perhaps. Are you going to be home this evening?

There was a perceptible hesitation. Finally she said: Yes… What time?

He wondered why she sounded so dubious, and felt chilled:

I don't mind. Make it some other time if this evening's not convenient. Would you prefer to make it next week?

He had decided abruptly that if she put him off he would not contact her again.

But her voice answered quickly:

No, do come this evening. I was simply wondering whether anyone else is likely to come. But I don't think so. Come round at about seven, if you like.

Thank you. I can't make it at seven. Austin's ringing me.

I thought he was abroad?

He is. He's ringing me from Switzerland.

Really! Well, come afterwards then. I'll expect you.

She hung up while he was still thanking her. Again he had difficulty in suppressing the irritation. He went upstairs swearing under his breath. All people are swine. In his room, he put two shillings in the gas, and relit it. He poured more tea from the flask, and tasted it. It was too strong. He put on the record of Prokoviev's fifth symphony and lay on the bed. Before the first side was half played, he had fallen asleep.

He woke up suddenly in the dark, and peered at his watch. The luminous hands seemed to be indicating eight o'clock. He fumbled to the light switch. It was precisely eight o'clock. The room was hot. He slipped his feet into slippers and hurried downstairs.

There was no one about. He went down to the basement flat and knocked. When no one replied, he opened the door a fraction; the room was in darkness. He swore obscenely under his breath. As he started back up the stairs, the phone started to ring. He snatched it before it had time to ring a second time. The woman's voice said:

Is Mr Sorme there, please?

Speaking.

Oh! This is Gertrude Quincey. Are you coming over?

Yes. I'm awfully sorry, but I fell asleep. I think Austin must have rung and got no reply. No one seems to be in.

Oh dear…

Don't worry. I'll start out immediately. See you in half an hour.

Good. I'd put some food out for you…

Thanks awfully. See you soon.

He hung up, and glared at his watch. His hair felt tousled and his eyes were still myopic with sleep. Almost immediately the phone began to ring again. A woman's voice said:

Is Mr Sorme there?

Speaking.

Would you hold on a moment? I have a personal call from Switzerland for you.

Thanks.

Nunne's voice sounded surprisingly clear and close.

Hello, Gerard!

Hello, Austin.

Hope I haven't kept you waiting? I've been trying to get through for the past bloody hour.

No. I've only just woken up.

Good. How are you, dear boy?

I'm OK. What's the idea of spending a fortune on long-distance calls?

Well… It's not really important. I want you to do me a favour.

Certainly. What have you done — forgotten your tooth brush?

Nothing as bad as that! Can you hear me clearly?

Yes, very clearly.

Good. You sound rather far off. Now listen, Gerard. I'm thinking of returning to England…

Good.

But I'd like you to do something for me first. Would you go along to my flat, and ask the porter if anyone has been enquiring for me while I've been away?

Yes. Is that all?

That's all. Just ask him if anyone has been enquiring, and who.

All right. What then?

If no one has been there, would you telegraph me here? Simply put: No one. If anyone has been enquiring, put: Please ring, and I'll ring you tomorrow. Is that OK?

All right. You want to get details of anyone who's enquired about you?

Yes.

Who are you trying to avoid?

Yes, I am trying to avoid someone. A rather unpleasant man. Can you do that?

All right.

You've got the address of the flat?

Yes. When will you ring back?

The same time tomorrow night — if anyone has enquired. Get full details, won't you? You might also ask the girl on the switchboard. Do you mind?

No, not at all.

Good. You'll go along there, won't you? Don't just phone.

No, I'll go along.

Good. Let's just recap. Go to my flat, ask the porter if anyone has been asking about me. Also ask the switchboard girl. If… If no one, telegraph you: No one. If anyone, get details, and telegraph you: Please ring. OK? Better give me your address.

Oh yes, of course. It's Pension Vevey, St Moritz. And I'm staying here under the name of Austin. Mr B. J. Austin.

Blimey! You are mysterious!

Not really. But don't give my address to anyone else, will you?

Good lord, no! Who should I give it to?

Good man…

The pips sounded. Nunne said:

Bye-bye, Gerard. You got that address, didn't you? Pension Vevey.

V-E-V-E-Y.

All right?

All right. Goodbye, Austin.

The rain had stopped, but the road was still wet and treacherous. He disliked riding on wet roads; the mudguards were inadequate, and the rain wet the bottoms of his trouser legs. He bent low over the handle-bars, and went into bottom gear to get up Haverstock Hill. Hills exhausted him; he usually wasted more energy swearing than pressing the pedals. A car came past, spraying him with muddy water; he stared after it with irritation and envy.

A clock struck the half hour as he turned out of Well Walk into the East Heath Road. He dismounted and walked up the hill.

He rang the doorbell, then leaned against the wall, perspiring and breathless. A light appeared on the other side of the glass panel. She stood there, smiling at him, looking cool and attractive.

Hello. Come in. You made it quickly.

I'm awfully sorry I'm late…

Don't bother. Luckily, it was a cold supper. Yes, hang your coat up there.

She was wearing a black-and-green dress of some shiny material, that left most of her arms bare. She had the figure of a sum teenage girl. He looked at her with admiration as she preceded him into the kitchen.

I hope you don't mind eating in the kitchen? It's easier.

Of course not.

You haven't eaten?

No. I fell asleep at about six. Austin rang me immediately after you'd rung.

Really? What did he want?

Oh… it seems rather odd. He wants me to find out if there are any messages waiting at his flat for him.

Strange. I wonder why he couldn't have rung them directly?

Sorme dried his hands on a small tea-towel, then sat down at the table. She asked: Soup?

Please.

As she stood over the stove, her back towards him, he could examine her figure at leisure. Her hips lacked roundness; they were almost a boy's hips; but the slimness of her waist appealed to him. He was trying to imagine how she would look undressed, when she turned round. He looked away hastily. She placed the bowl of soup on the cork mat, leaning across him to do so. If he had leaned forward slightly, he could have kissed her upper arm. The smell of her body was clean, but unperfumed. He asked her:

Do you live here completely alone?

Yes.

No one at all?

She said, smiling:

I'm very seldom alone. There's nearly always someone here. Members of the group usually come three or four evenings a week. Then I have a niece who stays frequently…

The Jehovah's Witnesses?

Yes. Then I have many friends in Hampstead.

He took a mouthful of the soup, and realised how hungry he was. A sensual gratitude rose from his stomach, and made him smile at her. She sat opposite him, and took a partly sewn tweed skirt from a white paper carrier which carried the inscription: Harrods. She took out a needle that had been pushed into the edge of the fabric, and began to sew carefully. He asked casually: What are you making?

A skirt.

Do you always do your own dressmaking?

Usually.

He finished the soup and pushed the plate away.

That was excellent.

Good.

She stood up silently and opened the refrigerator; it was taller than she was.

You're not a vegetarian, are you?

He said enthusiastically: Positively not! The plate contained a leg of chicken and three slices of ham.

Help yourself to salad.

Thanks.

Would you like a glass of beer?

I'd love some!

He ate hungrily and drank half a pint of brown ale. It gave him pleasure to see her sitting opposite him, her head bent over the sewing. He helped himself to more salad, selecting with care the leaves of chicory and fragments of green paprika. He asked her suddenly:

Were you never married?

He knew the answer already, but wanted to see her reaction to the topic. It surprised him. She looked at him with obviously suppressed irritation, and answered: No.

I hope you don't mind my asking?

Not at all.

Her voice still had a sharp edge to it. He went on eating, and poured a second glass of beer, wondering why the question had annoyed her. He said carefully:

You make me feel that I shouldn't have brought it up.

She went on sewing. He began to think she intended to ignore him, as a measure of her disapproval. Then she began to speak, still looking down at the sewing, her voice level and precise:

It doesn't annoy me to be asked. What annoys me is the assumption that usually underlies the question. Male bachelors are quite ordinary and acceptable, but unmarried women are called 'spinsters' and regarded as somehow incomplete. It's all this nonsense of Byron about love being a man's pastime, but a woman's whole life…

Normally, her sentiments would have struck him as dubious. But the meal had left him feeling good-humoured and in her debt. He said hastily:

I agree completely. It's utter nonsense. Of course women have every right to be as independent as men…

She interrupted:

I didn't say that. I don't believe most women are as naturally independent as men.

But I have my own work to do, and marriage would… distract me.

And what is your work?

She smiled at him suddenly, and the school mistressy expression was replaced by a charm that made her appear younger.

Are you really curious?

Very curious, he said seriously.

She went on sewing.

I used to think about being a… a woman with something to say.

A writer?

Yes. Not necessarily, though. When I was a girl I had a book of lives of the female saints — St Catherine of Siena and St Teresa of Avila and the rest.

You wanted to be a saint?

I don't know. I was too young then to know what being a saint meant.

Do you know now?

A little better, I think. I've been reading Simone Weil. She was a saint. I could never be like Simone Weil.

Why?

Because… oh, because I'm not clever enough and not strong enough and not… oh, I don't know…

And yet you don't want to marry and have a family?

Perhaps I might — if I met the man I wanted to settle down with.

She looked up and noticed his smile. She said:

I know what you're thinking. Another woman who needs the right man. I've met so many of them. Waiting for Mr Right.

He said: But in your case, it's not merely that. You'd like to do something worth while with your life?

She said, with a touch of tiredness in her voice: I don't believe marriage should be a dead end for women, anyway. Most of them behave as if it was a sort of last judgement…

And what do you think?

Oh, I… I think… It sounds pompous, but I think that all human beings ought to try to make the world a little better to live in, as well as living their own little lives.

And do you think that being a Witness helps?

I think so. I don't think of myself as a Witness. I think of myself as a Christian.

And the Witnesses are the only group among Christians who are trying hard to oppose the way things are going.

He opened a second bottle of beer, and poured it into the tumbler.

And which way are things going?

Oh… people are becoming more mean-spirited, more petty-minded.

Don't you think they've always been that way?

He was plying her with questions because he could see she enjoyed talking, and because he liked listening to her voice and watching her averted face. He was thinking that it would be pleasant to kiss her.

In a way, yes. But in the Middle Ages men and women devoted their lives to other people without making a fuss about it — monastic orders and Christian laymen. They did it naturally, out of love of God and their fellow human beings, and no one thought it odd, or accused them of being do-gooders. And it seems that nowadays — well, it's everyone for himself…

And how do you hope to alter that? By converting people?

She looked up and smiled; the tiredness was there underneath it.

I don't know. Sometimes I have friends in the Witnesses over for supper, and I think they… they seem to be rather naive, in spite of their seriousness. And sometimes I talk to these people who call themselves intellectuals, and they seem futile, in spite of their cleverness.

Sorme said, smiling: I'm afraid you have the makings of a first-class heretic.

She said softly: Perhaps I have.

Silence fell between them; he watched her hands as they held the fabric, and observed that it was easy to sit with her, unspeaking, feeling under no obligation to speak.

He wondered how far the beer was responsible for making him feel so relaxed.

She said suddenly: Did you know that Austin went into a monastery?

No. When?

Not long ago. Hardly a year. But he came out. It wasn't what he was looking for…

Were you glad or sorry?

Glad, of course. It was a Catholic monastery. But he still hasn't found what he's looking for.

No?

He pushed his plate further away, and leaned back in the chair. She said softly: Poor Austin.

There could be no mistaking the affection in her voice. He said curiously: You're fond of Austin?

Of course! I watched him grow up. I was nine when he was born. I used to take him out. He was a very strange child.

How?

Sometimes he seemed quite angelic. He was a very good-tempered little boy altogether. But at other times he behaved as if he had an evil spirit. He'd get moods when he had to break things, or hurt something.

Her eyes were looking beyond him; he could see she enjoyed talking of Austin.

Suddenly they came back to him. She had noticed that he was no longer eating.

Would you like coffee?

No, thanks.

Tea?

No, nothing, thanks.

Let's go into the other room then. There's some brandy if you like.

Ah!

She insisted on his going first into the sitting-room. He said: Thank you for a really delicious meal.

Not at all. It was only scraps. Will you have a little brandy?

If you're having some too…

Perhaps I will.

He sank into the armchair, sighing with satisfaction. When she handed him the brandy glass, he said happily:

Thank you. You're an angel!

He felt immediately that it was a mistake, then felt surprised to notice that she was slightly flushed. He was charmed; it made her look like a schoolgirl. He turned the stem of the glass in his fingers, saying:

It's big enough to drink a pint of beer from!

It's supposed to be!

Is it?

Haven't you ever drunk from a brandy glass before?

Never. I had a nautical grandfather who used to let me sip his brandy. But he drank it from a two-pint mug, with hot water and lemon..

She laughed at him: it was the first time he had heard her laugh. She held her glass up towards him:

You're supposed to hold it like this — to warm the brandy with your hands. That is, if it's good brandy, which this isn't.

Tastes all right to me!

Yes, but it isn't. A good brandy tastes far more gentle and smooth…

He said, laughing:

I'm afraid you have the making of an epicure!

Immediately she became serious. She said quietly: No.

He waited for her to go on; then, when he saw she had finished, said, with raised eyebrows: No?

No. I don't think I care for good living… I once lived in a women's hostel in the East End for a fortnight. It didn't make me long to be home. Except for the dirt. But dirt is bad anywhere…

What on earth were you doing in a women's hostel?

Helping.

Ah, I see.

She rearranged the needlework on her knee, and began to sew. He sipped the brandy, watching her with admiration. The glow of the electric fire was red on her stockings, and was reflected from the shiny material of her dress. Her serenity and gentleness filled him with a desire to touch her. An instinct in him warned him that she feared intimacy. He watched her sewing, and speculated about her past. Austin's father-theory sounded plausible. Certainly there was something. He began to wonder how he could lead her to speak of it. Her sudden coolness when he spoke of marriage made him cautious. He said finally:

Tell me about Austin.

What do you want to know about him?

What's this about a monastery?

I don't know. You should ask him.

Where was the place?

In Alsace — on the Rhine, I believe. Austin won't ever speak about it. Not to me, at least.

And you've no idea what happened?

Very little. Austin's mother is a Catholic, and there was a time when she wanted Austin to be a priest. Nothing came of it. Austin's father wanted him to go into business, but he didn't show any inclination for that either. He simply started to drink heavily.

Finally, he got into rather a lot of trouble, and his father decided to send him out to Brazil. Luckily, his mother decided to interfere with that scheme. She persuaded his father that he needed to see a psychiatrist. Which he did. He thought it was all nonsense, but he could see it would be better than Brazil. He even managed to persuade the psychiatrist to tell his father that he wasn't suited for business!

Sorme said: Poor Austin! It sounds as if they just wouldn't let him alone.

Quite! It was a pity, really, that he was the only one.

What happened then?

Then… then he started to take an interest in ballet, and said he wanted to write a book. So they made him an allowance, and simply left him to his own devices — which was what they should have done in the first place. And, as you probably know, he has written three very good books, and begun to make quite a name for himself as a journalist.

What about this monastery affair, though? When did that happen?

Quite recently. He went off to Germany to live three years ago. He stayed there for over a year, and we didn't hear much from him. Then one day, he simply wrote to say he was in a monastery in Alsace, and hoped to become a monk. His mother was delighted, of course. She was quite sure that he wouldn't remain in the monastery after he'd become a priest. But nothing came of it. He spent about a month there — as a paying guest. Then he came back to England. Since then he's been writing a novel — or so he tells me. Probably you know more about that than I do?

No. He didn't mention it to me. But then, I haven't known him long. Have you always been very close to him?

She said quietly: He's always come to me when he's been unhappy or dissatisfied.

He looked at her, and felt again the beginnings of desire for the slim body. He said:

I wonder why?

Why?

Why he always came to you?

We were always fond of one another. He always trusted me. I think I was the most tolerant nursemaid he ever had!

Observing the softness of her expression as she spoke of Austin, Sorme wondered if she could be in love with him. Then, as she folded the skirt and slipped it back into its paper carrier, he decided it was impossible. Her attitude was far more that of a girl who worships a younger brother. He asked her curiously:

Were you an only child?

The change of subject seemed to startle her. She looked at him blankly for a moment, then said quickly: Yes.

She stood up, and folded the top of the carrier bag. Again, he became aware that speaking of herself embarrassed her. She said:

Excuse me. I have to make a phone call before I forget.

I'll go upstairs, if you don't mind.

In the bathroom, he could hear the murmur of her voice as she telephoned. The room was agreeably warm; he felt drowsy and well-fed. He found the warm water, and the orange scent of the soap, so agreeable that he removed his shirt and washed his neck and face. He wiped the steam off the mirror, and regarded his pink face with approval.

There was a two-day growth of beard on his chin, but his complexion was fair and it was hardly noticeable. He wiped away the soap from behind his ears, and made a face at himself in the mirror. Below, the doorbell rang. He went closer to the door and listened, but could hear nothing. She must have opened the door without replacing the phone, for the sound of her voice continued. As he came out of the bathroom, the phone pinged as she replaced it on its rest. She was in the kitchen as he came down the stairs; he asked her:

Has someone arrived?

My niece.

The girl was kneeling in front of the fire when he came into the room, warming her hands. He said:

How do you do?

She glanced up at him, then stood up, smiling.

Hello!

It was the girl whose photograph he had seen in the bedroom. The short blonde hair looked as if it had been recently cut and waved. When she smiled, he noticed that the two front teeth were irregular; one slightly overlapped the other. He guessed her to be about sixteen. She said:

I'm Caroline. Who are you?

Gerard Sorme.

Are you one of Aunt's Jehovah's Witnesses?

No.

I didn't think you were. You don't look like one!

Her smile left him in no doubt that she intended it as a compliment.

No? What do I look like?

I don't know. She considered him with her head slightly on one side, then giggled.

It betrayed her age, and contrasted with the controlled, sophisticated drawl with which she spoke. He was slightly repelled by her air of sophistication.

Miss Quincey came in.

Oh, you've introduced yourselves? Would you like a drink, Caroline?

Yes, please. Can I have a glass of sherry?

I didn't mean that kind of a drink, Miss Quincey said. Your mother told me not to let you touch alcohol.

But I'm frozen, Caroline said plaintively. Feel.

She laid the back of her hand against Miss Quincey's face.

All right. But don't have a lot. I'm making some tea. She asked Sorme: Would you like some tea?

Please!

Don't let Caroline drink too much sherry!

She went out of the room again. Caroline said: I'll be hiccupping on the carpet when you come back!

Sorme looked at her with warming interest. Miss Quincey's appeal to him introduced a flavour of intimacy. It placed him in the position of her guardian. He watched her moving bottles in the cupboard. She asked: Are you drinking?

I was, he said. Brandy.

Have a refill!

He saw that Miss Quincey's glass was still untouched. He said: I don't think Gertrude intends to drink this. Perhaps I'd better.

I dare say you had, she said. She sat on the settee, and crossed her knees. She had shapely legs. She was wearing a simple black dress with elbow-length sleeves.

Well, tell me what you do, then! I can't guess.

I write…

Do you! A writer. Lovely! I've always wanted to know a writer.

Really? Surely I'm not the first?

Almost. Daddy used to be friends with a novelist called Dennis Scott years ago. I fell for him good and hard! He was terribly good looking…

He said, smiling:

I see. And did anything come of it?

Come of it? Lord, no! I was only about ten.

Sorme said teasingly: You must have been delicious!

She said: Oh yes! in a slightly American manner. It was a return to her drawl, which had begun to disappear.

And how old are you now?

Seventeen. I'll be eighteen in three months. What do you write?

Tell me what you do first.

I act. That is, I'm learning to act. At Lamda.

Where?

Lamda. The rival of Rada. London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art. It's in Kensington.

I see!

He was suddenly able to place her. Her combination of naivete and sophistication had puzzled him, Like her complete lack of shyness. He realised that probably in two years' time she would speak with a drawl all the time, and call everybody darling; in the meantime, her manner was a hybrid of schoolgirl and theatre. She said:

I suppose you live in Hampstead?

No. I don't, as a matter of fact.

Oh. I thought you were one of aunt's arty friends.

No. I'm a friend of Austin's.

Austin! I've never met him. I've always wanted to. Is he charming?

He wouldn't interest you, Sorme said, smiling.

No, why? Unexpectedly, she seemed to understand: Oh, I see. He's like that, is he?

You shouldn't know anything about it!

No? Why not? We've got two in our class. They go around with their arms round one another.

That must be annoying for everyone,

It is. There's one girl who's got a terrible crush on one of them — the one called Ernest. She's really got it bad. I think queers are rather attractive — in a repulsive kind of way. Don't you?

He said, smiling: I wouldn't know. My tastes don't lie that way.

She said: Good! He wondered whether it meant what it seemed to mean. He was trying to determine whether the warmth of her smile was intended for him particularly, or whether it was part of a general manner she had picked up at the drama school. She leaned back on the settee, and stared up at the ceiling. He looked hopefully at her knees, but the dress had not travelled far as she stretched. She said:

Tell me what you write.

Not now, he said. Some other time.

She looked at him sideways.

When?

He felt a shock of pleasure that was controlled and softened by the effect of the brandy. Before he could reply, Miss Quincey came back in. She glanced disapprovingly at Caroline's position, which the girl seemed to feel without catching the glance: she sat up and began to rearrange the cushions. Miss Quincey said:

I didn't expect you until late, dear.

I know. I meant to come from the theatre, but they called the rehearsal off. I'm darned glad too. I'm really exhausted. We've had such a day! Am I interrupting any profound discussion?

No, dear, Miss Quincey said comfortably. She was pouring tea.

Gerard…

The use of his name surprised him. She was holding out a teacup.

Oh, thank you…

What have you been talking about? Caroline asked. Her voice was drawling again.

Mainly about Austin, Sorme said.

Oh!

Caroline, Miss Quincey said. The girl took the cup.

Are you hungry?

I am a bit. I haven't had anything since lunch time.

No tea?

Couldn't be bothered. I was learning my part.

Oh dear. You really ought to. I'll get you something in a moment.

Don't bother. I'll find myself a sandwich.

Sorme asked her: What part are you playing? He was not interested, but Miss Quincey's food-talk was beginning to irritate him. Caroline said vaguely:

I forget her name. She's the wife of a poet… We're doing a play about the French poet Rimbaud. I'm the wife of his best friend.

Verlaine?

That's right. I have to recite a poem in French. I hope my accent's all right. It begins…

Drink your tea, dear, Miss Quincey said.

All right, the girl said meekly. She sipped her tea.

Miss Quincey sat down. She asked:

What on earth did I do with my brandy?

Oh… I drank it. I'm sorry. I didn't think you wanted it.

That's all right. I didn't really. I just didn't want to waste it..

She had contrived to make him feel guilty, and given him an odd sense of kinship with Caroline. The girl looked at him over the top of her cup; her eyes looked bright. He stopped himself from answering her look. She set her teacup down, and stretched like a cat, her breasts curving. There was a faint noise of something giving way. She said with annoyance:

Damn. My bra's bust!

Caroline! Miss Quincey said.

The girl ignored her; she raised her elbow and felt down the back of her neck.

That's twice today, she said. Have you got a needle, aunt?

Miss Quincey got up silently, and crossed to the sideboard. Sorme was aware of her irritation and disapproval. Caroline seemed oblivious of it. He said, smiling: I hope it didn't happen under embarrassing circumstances?

He felt Miss Quincey's eyes on him. Caroline said:

No. Luckily I was on my own. But I know one poor girl who lost her pants in rehearsal…

She began to giggle breathlessly. Miss Quincey returned with a needle and a reel of white cotton. Caroline took it without looking at her. She said:

It was so funny… She had the kind that stay up with a button..

Caroline! Miss Quincey said.

And the button bust… She nearly broke her neck with a pair of nylon briefs round her ankles…

Really, Caroline!

But it was funny, the girl said defensively. She looked so silly trying to get off stage without falling over…

Sorme felt a desire to irritate Miss Quincey further. He asked:

What would you have done if it had been you?

Miss Quincey sat down again, as if the conversation had become too risque for her to take any further responsibility. Caroline said:

I'd have stepped out of them and gone on with the rehearsal.

Oh, really, dear! Miss Quincey looked flushed.

But it happens, Caroline said. What's wrong with being frank about it?

Miss Quincey said, with surprising mildness: It's not a nice subject, dear.

Nice, Caroline said scornfully: You are silly, aunt!

Sorme looked apprehensively at Miss Quincey, but she sipped her tea quietly, almost abstractedly. The girl stood up.

I'll go and get this sewn. Then I'll cut myself a sandwich, if I may.

I'll do it, dear.

No, don't bother.

She went out of the room, taking her teacup with her. She turned and flashed Sorme a quick smile at the door. When the door had closed, Miss Quincey stared into space, a faintly perturbed expression on her face. She said finally:

I do worry about her.

Why?

She continued to stare, without replying. She said suddenly:

Oh well, I dare say it doesn't matter… She'll get married…

Of course, Sorme said.

She looked at him.

It's different for you. You're a man. Besides, you're older than she is.

What do you mean?

She began to sew again, not replying. He watched her curiously, wondering what her feelings were. He could think of nothing to say that would open the subject. He asked finally:

Don't you approve of the drama school?

It isn't that…

He waited, staring into the fire. She was looking at him, but he kept his eyes on the red bars. She said:

I try not to force my beliefs on other people, you see. I don't force them on Austin or Caroline, or on you, do I?

No.

But… Well, I'm supposed to, really. It's a part of our belief that everyone should have a chance to…

He waited for her to say 'repent', but she went on:

… hear about our message.

Sorme said:

Perhaps you don't believe in it to that extent?

Oh yes, I believe, she said; her voice was as unmoved as if she was admitting to the possession of a front-door key. People have different ways of behaving about their beliefs. I don't mind speaking to strangers about it, because they are under no obligation to listen. But if I forced it on those nearest to me, I'd feel guilty. Do… you understand me?

Quite. Perfectly.

All the same, when I see Caroline living as if nothing mattered but getting on the stage, I feel worried.

He said: Ask her to come to one of your Bible classes…

The suggestion was not made seriously; he had no interest in talking about Caroline. She said immediately:

Oh no. I don't think she'd be in the least interested. I know she wouldn't. No…

I'm afraid she'd need to be approached by someone nearer her own age.

Preferably someone she'd get on with, Sorme said, remembering the pale-faced, dowdy girls he had seen singing hymns at the Speakers' Corner on a Sunday afternoon.

He looked round to meet her eyes, and was embarrassed to find them regarding him with troubled seriousness. She said:

You might be able to do it.

Me? But I'm not a Jehovah's Witness, after all.

You could attend one or two of our meetings.

Of course. But that doesn't guarantee that I'd finish up with your beliefs, does it?

That doesn't matter. You're a fundamentally serious person. That's the important thing…

I'm glad you think so.

But it is the important thing, isn't it?

Possibly, he said carefully. But there's an immense difference between my outlook and yours, for all that.

Is it so great?

He said:

I act on the assumption that the world is meaningless, that life is meaningless.

Meaningless? She looked almost scared.

Quite.

But how… how can it be meaningless? Surely you don't believe that? No one could believe it.

Why not?

Life wouldn't be worth living…

Not at all. It is pleasant to live. That's quite a different thing from believing life has a meaning.

She was regarding him with a doubtful, penetrating look, as if suspecting him of making fun of her, and being prepared to laugh when he acknowledged it. He smiled at her. She said suddenly:

But what do you write about if you think life has no meaning?

Ah! That's a good question. I'll tell you. I want to write a book about all the different ways people impose a meaning on their lives. It's to be called The Methods and Techniques of Self-deception. It will deal with every possible way that people hide themselves from the meaninglessness of life. I shall start with a chapter on businessmen and politicians called The Efficient Man. Then there'll be a chapter on the artists and writers and theatre people called The Aesthetic Man. Then a chapter on revolutionaries and men motivated by envy and discontentment. And, finally, several chapters on all types of religious self-deception…

Her face had begun to clear as he spoke. She was smiling as she interrupted him:

But that's a wonderful idea! I agree completely with you. A book like that would make our work much easier. After all, it's really a religious conception, isn't it? People won't think about the really important things…

I shall write a chapter on the Jehovah's Witnesses too. I intend to be impartial.

But you know nothing about us.

I do. A little. You base everything on the Bible, don't you? That's a good starting-point.

She said excitedly:

But you say life is meaningless. The Bible contains the meaning of life. How can you condemn us without knowing the Bible?

He said patiently:

You don't understand. That isn't my point. My point is that our experience is bitty.

We live more or less in the present. If we were honest, we'd acknowledge that life is a series of moments tied together by our need to keep alive, to defeat boredom. Our experience is all in bits. But the Surbiton businessman sticks it together by believing that the purpose of life is to get him a bigger car. The politician sticks it together by identifying his purpose with that of his party. The religious man sticks it together by accepting the guidance of his church or his Bible. They're all different kinds of glue, but they all have the same purpose… to impose a pattern, a meaning. But it's all falsifying. If we were honest, we'd accept that life is meaningless.

She asked practically: And what good would that do?

It might make us less lazy and complacent. It might make us turn our lives into a search for a meaning.

But you just said it was meaningless?

Anything is meaningless until you've discovered its meaning.

That's quite a different thing! That's quite different from saying it has no meaning.

But supposing there had been a few men who had seen the meaning? Men who had a vision sent from God…?

What good would that do me? Why should I take anybody else's word for it? I'd want to see the meaning myself.

He was so intent on her face that he started when the door behind him opened.

Caroline said:

Do you mind if I bring my sandwiches in here? I won't make any crumbs.

Miss Quincey said: Yes, dear. Do. Her voice was level, and betrayed no annoyance or surprise. Sorme felt baffled by her placidness. Caroline said: Thanks. She came into the room, carrying a tray. Miss Quincey shot a quick smile at Sorme that was almost coquettish. She said:

Anyway, it's most brave of you to try to take all the responsibility on yourself. I hope you achieve what you want.

Sorme glanced at Caroline, feeling embarrassed. She asked: What's brave of him?

He said: Oh nothing…

He remembered then that he had still not promised to attend one of the meetings, or to "speak to" Caroline; he felt suddenly pleased with himself.

Caroline said: Gerard looks terribly serious!

Sorme grinned at her:

I've been talking about all the people I'll have shot when I'm dictator.

So long as I'm not on the list…

He looked at her, and started to say: Shooting's the last thing I'd want to do with you, then checked himself. She was looking through the Radio Times, chewing the sandwich. She said suddenly:

Ooh, can we have the radio on, aunt? There's a recording of Dylan Thomas reading his own poetry at ten-fifteen.

Sorme looked at his watch; it was ten minutes past. He said:

Maybe I ought to go anyway. You go to bed early, don't you?

You don't have to go, Miss Quincey said. I don't always go to bed at ten o'clock!

The other night was an exception.

Caroline asked: Don't you like Dylan Thomas, Gerard?

I've never read him, Sorme said. He stood up. I think I'd better be off anyway.

He would have welcomed spending another hour with either of them alone, but to have them both together was frustrating. He sensed obscurely that he was making headway with Miss Quincey; and that she wanted him to stay.

You're not going early because of me, I hope? Caroline said.

Not at all. You wouldn't drive anyone away, I assure you.

Thanks!

I've got a book that might interest you, Miss Quincey said. I think you ought to read it.

Who's it by?

Well, our books are always issued anonymously, but I do happen to know who wrote this one. It's by Brother Macardle of Manchester. I've met him. He's a brilliant man — a biochemist.

She was searching through the bookcase as she spoke. She said:

I… can't see it. It must be upstairs. I won't be a moment.

Sorme followed her out of the room, and took his raincoat from the hat stand. He went back into the sitting-room to put it on. Caroline looked at him, chewing. She said: I'm sorry you've got to go.

Maybe we can meet again?

I'd love to. I'd like you to tell me about your book.

He belted the raincoat.

When are you free?

Almost any evening — and just occasionally in the afternoon.

He was being deliberately casual, yet listening hard for the sound of Miss

Quincey on the stairs, afraid she might come back too soon. He asked:

Are you free tomorrow evening?

I… think so. If I'm not, where can I contact you?

He gave her his phone number, and she wrote it in a notebook which she took from her handbag. He asked:

Where shall I see you?

Where do you live?

Camden Town.

Miss Quincey's step sounded on the stairs. She said quickly:

Six o'clock at Leicester Square Underground?

That's fine.

She was returning the notebook to her handbag as Miss Quincey came into the room. He felt absurdly tense and embarrassed. Caroline, looking completely unhurried, bit into the sandwich. Miss Quincey held out a green-bound book to him.

Have you got a copy of the Bible?

Er… yes, of course.

It's not of course. Most people haven't.

No?

No. I soon found that out when I did some door-to-door work with Brother Robbins. We visited thirty houses in one road in Putney, and only two had a Bible.

He slipped the book into the inside pocket of his raincoat. It was not large.

You'll find it marked in many places. It's one of the best books we've ever published, I think. It gives you everything we believe in a nutshell. If you intend to write about us, you ought to base it on that. But you'll need a Bible to refer to as well.

Thanks… Er… when shall I see you again?

In front of Caroline, he felt his phrasing was preposterously ill-chosen.

You ought to read that first. No, I don't really mean that. You're very welcome whether you've read it or not. Come any time. Not over the weekend though.

Later this week?

Yes… Not Wednesday or Friday, though, unless you want to attend a meeting. And Thursday I've got some people coming. You could come tomorrow if you wanted to.

Not tomorrow. I think I'm doing something.

Then it will have to be next Monday at the earliest. Will that be all right?

Yes, that's fine…

He turned at the door. Caroline was still eating.

Goodbye.

Bye-bye, Gerard.

He deliberately refrained from calling her 'Caroline', feeling a constraint in Miss Quincey's presence.

At the front door he said:

Look here, I feel rather guilty about this…

About what?

About coming here and eating your food. I don't want you to feel that… well, you know…

Oh nonsense. I know you don't. There's always food here whenever you want to come in. Don't feel guilty.

He said: Perhaps I might take you out for a meal one evening?

She smiled, shrugging, then suddenly met his eyes, and seemed to colour slightly.

She said briskly:

Well, we can talk about that.

He took her hand.

Goodnight.

Goodnight, Gerard.

To his surprise she took his hand in both hers, and squeezed it. He turned away quickly, and hurried down the drive. She called:

Can you see all right?

Yes, thank you.

The dark closed around him as the door clicked to.