Riders in the Chariot

8

THE HOUSE at Sarsaparilla to which Himmelfarb now returned did offer advantages, but of its own, and not all of them obvious. Certainly its boards held together, and resisted the inquiring eye. There were the willows, too, which stood around, lovely when their wire cages first began to melt in spring, more beautiful perhaps in winter, their steel matching the more austere moods of thought. Otherwise there was little to enhance the small house, nothing that could have been called a garden. To plant one would not have occurred to the actual owner, who, in his state of complete disinterest, was unable to conceive of any hierarchy of natural growth. So, at evening, when he was not otherwise employed, he would sit on his veranda, at the very edge, as if it did not belong to him, gratefully breathing the rank scent of weeds. He would sit, and at a certain point in light, as the green leaped up against the dusk, the pallor of his face appeared to form the core of some darker, greener flame. Now, on the evening of his parting from Miss Hare, the Jew was hurrying to reach his house. Dust floated, seed exploded. The backs of his hands met the thrust of thorn and nettle. Stones scuttled. Yet, his breathing had grown oppressed, and, in spite of his positive, not to say triumphant advance, began to rattle as he climbed the slope. When he arrived. When he touched the mezuzah on the doorpost. Then, when the Shema was moving on his lips, he was again admitted. He went in, not only through the worm-eaten doorway of his worldly house, but on through the inner, secret door. Silence was never silence in the Jew's house. Speculation alternated with faintest scratching of boughs on timber. Nor were the rooms bare which he had furnished with the utmost simplicity of worship. Now he moved in a wind of purpose over the dry, yielding boards, as far as the cell where necessity had bullied him into putting several sadly material objects: a bed, a chair, the pegs for clothes, and a washstand such as those which clutter country auction-rooms with yellow deal and white, sculptural china. There was nothing else. Except that one wall included a window, opening on green tunnels, and the obscurer avenues of contemplation. Arriving in this room, and centre of his being, the Jew appeared to hesitate, his hands and lips searching for some degree of humility which always had eluded him, and perhaps always would. There he stood on the faded flags of light, his knees still trembling from their recent haste, and in the absence of that desired, but unattainable perfection, began at last to make his customary offering: "Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, King of the Universe…" He flung his rope into the dusk."… who at Thy word bringest on the evening twilight, with wisdom openest the gates of the heavens, and with understanding changest times and variest the seasons, and arrangest the stars in their watches in the sky, according to Thy will…" So he twined and plaited the words until his ladder held firm. "With everlasting love Thou hast loved the house of Israel…" So he added, breath by breath, to the rungs of faith."… and mayest Thou never take away Thy love from us. Blessed art Thou, O Lord, who lovest Thy people Israel." By the time night had fallen, dissolving chair and bed in the fragile box in which they had stood, the man himself was so dispersed by his devotions, only the Word remained as testimony of substance.

On arrival in the country of his choice, Himmelfarb had shocked those of his sponsors and advisers who took it for granted that a university professor would apply for a post equal to his intellectual gifts. Whether he would have received one was a doubtful matter, but refusal would at least have provided him, and them, with that wartime luxury, an opportunity to grouse. Himmelfarb, however, had no intention of applying. His explanation was a simple one: "The intellect has failed us." Those of his own race found his apostasy of mind and rank most eccentric, not to say contemptible. To anyone else, it was not of sufficient interest that an elderly, refined Jew should allow himself to be drafted without protest as a wartime body; he was, in any case, a blasted foreigner, and bloody reffo, and should have been glad he was allowed to exist at all. He was, exceedingly, and did not complain when told to report at a piggery. There, he became attached to those cheerful, extrovert beasts, enough to experience distress as it was slowly proved he no longer had the strength for all that was expected of him. At the end of an illness, he was put to polishing floors in the same hospital where he had been a patient. He washed dishes for a time, in a military canteen. He cleaned public lavatories. And was grateful for such mercies. The reason the peace found him at Barranugli, employed in the factory for Brighta Bicycle Lamps, might be considered a shameful one. This man of ascetic and selfless aspirations had so far diverged from his ideals as to hanker after physical seclusion. He had taken to wandering at week-ends round the fringes of the city, and on his wanderings had come across the small brown house, standing empty in the grass, at Sar-saparilla. As soon as he discovered that white ant, borer, dry rot, inadequate plumbing and a leaky roof had reduced the value of the wretched cottage, and brought it within reach of his means, then his carefully damped desires burst into full blaze, quite consuming his strength of mind. He could only think of _his__ house, and was always returning there, afraid that its desirability might occur to someone else. He grew sallower, bonier, more cavernous than before. Until, finally, spirit was seduced by matter to the extent that he rushed and paid a deposit. He had to buy the derelict house. Installed at Sarsaparilla, he promised himself treasures of peace, and when he had collected such sticks of furniture as he considered necessary, and his joy and excitement had subsided by several days, he went in search of employment in the neighbouring town of Barranugli. It cannot be said he chose the job with Brighta Bicycle Lamps. Truthfully, it was chosen for him. "This Brighta Bicycle Lamps," said the official gentleman in the employment bureau, "is a new, but expanding business, like. There's other metal lines besides: geometry boxes, and bobby-pins. Several unskilled positions vacant. And let me _see__, I have an _idea__, I'm pretty sure the proprietor is a foreign gentleman of sorts. Mr Rosetree. Yes. Now, if you don't mind my _saying__, that is just the job for you. Kinda Continental." "Mr Rosetree," Himmelfarb repeated. Then, indeed, the Jew's eyes grew moist with longing. Then the Kiddush rose above the wall at sunset. "Very well thought of," continued the official voice. "Have any trouble with your English, well, there is Mr Rosetree on the spot. You will not find another place anywhere around that's made for you personally." Himmelfarb agreed the position could be most suitable, and allowed himself to be directed. To abandon self, is, after all, to accept the course that offers. So he presented himself at Brighta Bicycle Lamps, which functioned in a shed, on the outskirts of the town, beside a green river. Here, on arriving for his interview, he was told to sit, and was ignored for an appropriate length of time, because it was necessary that the expanding business should impress, and as the applicant was stationed right at the centre of Mr Rosetree's universe, impress it did. For, through one door, Himmelfarb could watch two ladies, so upright, so superior, so united in purpose, one plump and the other thin, dashing off the Rosetree correspondence with a minimum of touch, and through another door he could look down into the infernal pit in which the Brighta Lamps were cut out and put together with an excessive casualness and the maximum of noise. The machinery was going round and round, and in and out, and up and down, with such a battering and nattering, though in one corner it slugged and glugged with a kind of oily guile, and through a doorway which opened onto a small, wet, concrete yard, in which an almost naked youth in rubber boots officiated with contempt, it hissed and pissed at times with an intensity that conveyed hatred through the whole shuddering establishment. There was music, however, to sweeten the proceedings. There was the radio, in which for the moment a mossy contralto voice was singing fit to burst the box. "I'm looking for my speshul speshurrll," sang the voice, nor did it spare the farthest corner. Ladies sat at their assembly trays, and repeated with dainty skill the single act they would be called upon to perform. Or eased their plastic teeth. Or shifted gum. Or patted the metal clips with which their heads were stuck for Friday night. There were girls, too, their studied eyebrows sulking over what they had to suffer. And gentlemen in singlets, who stood with their hands on their hips, or rolled limp-looking cigarettes, or consulted the sporting page, and even, when it was absolutely necessary, condescended to lean forward and take part in some mechanical ritual which still demanded their presence. Bending down in the centre of the floor was a dark-skinned individual, Himmelfarb observed, whose temporary position made his vertebrae protrude in knobs, and who, when straightened up, appeared to be composed of bones, veins, and thin strips of elastic muscle, the whole dominated by the oblivious expression of the dark face. The blackfellow, or half-caste, he could have been, resumed possession of his broom, and pushed it ahead of him as he walked backwards and forwards between the benches. Some of the women lowered their eyes as he passed, others smiled knowingly, though not exactly at him. But the black man, involved in some incident of the inner life, ignored even the mechanical gestures of his own sweeping. But swept, and swept. As oil reveals secret lights, so did the skin stretched on the framework of his naked ribs. As he continued sweeping. It was an occupation to be endured, so his heavy head, and the rather arrogant Adam's apple seemed to imply. Himmelfarb began to realize that the plumper of the two typists was trying to attract his attention. While remaining seated in the office, she was, it seemed, calling to him. "Mr Rosetree," she was saying, "is free now, to see you." Both the typewriters were still. The thinner of the two ladies was smiling at the keys of hers, as she hitched up the ribbon of a private garment which had fallen in a loop over her white, pulled, permanently goosey biceps. Fascinated by all he saw, the applicant had failed to move. "Mr Rosetree," repeated the plumper lady louder, the way one did for foreigners, "is disengaged. Mr Himmelferp, " she added, and would have liked to laugh. Her companion did snicker, but quickly began to rearrange her daintily embroidered personal towel, which was hanging over the back of a chair. "If you will pass this way," almost shouted the plump goddess, perspiring on her foam rubber. She feared the situation was making her conspicuous. "Thank you," Himmelfarb replied, and smiled at the hand which indicated doors. She did not rise, of course, having reduced her obligations at the salary received. But let her hand fall. Himmelfarb went into Mr Rosetree's sanctum. "Good day, Mr Himmelfarb," Mr Rosetree said. "Make yourself comfortable," he invited, without troubling to consider whether that might be possible. He himself was comfortable enough. Formally, he was a series of spheres. His whole appearance suggested rubber, a relaxed springiness, though his texture was perhaps closer to that of _Delikatessen__, of the blander, shinier variety-_Bratwurst__, for instance. Now he might just have finished buffing his nails, and forgotten to put away his dimpled hands, while his lower lip reached out after some problem he would have to solve in the immediate future. There was no indication Himmelfarb was that problem, but the applicant suspected he was the cause of a bad taste which Mr Rosetree, it became obvious, would have liked to spit out of his mouth. "Any experience? No? No matter. Experience is not essential. Willingness is what counts." Mr Rosetree asked and answered in the tone of voice he kept for minor emergencies. "Only the remuneration," he said, "will be less. In the beginning. On account of you are lacking in skill." He dropped a rubber into a little Bakélite tray, where it plunked rather unpleasantly. "That is understandable," Himmelfarb replied, and smiled. For some reason he was feeling happy. Is this one clever, or just stupid? Mr Rosetree debated. In the one case he would have reacted with anger, in the other, merely with contempt. But now he was in doubt. And suddenly he would have liked to revolt passionately, against that, and all doubts. The air grew quite sultry with displeasure. Himmelfarb was inwardly so glad he remained unconscious of the change of climate. "You are not from here?" he had to ask, but very, very cautiously, for he himself had worn disguises. "I am an Australian," Mr Rosetree said. But saw fit to rearrange several objects on his desk. "Ah," sighed Himmelfarb. "It only occurred. Excuse me, won't you?" "But will not deny I came here for personal reasons. For personal reasons of my own." Mr Rosetree tossed the rubber up, and attempted to catch it, but he didn't. "I do not wish to appear inquisitive, but thought perhaps you were from Poland." Mr Rosetree frowned, and bent the nasty rubber double. "Well," he said. "Shall we call it Vienna?" "_Also, sprechen wir zusammen Deutsch__?" "Not on the premises. Not on no account," Mr Rosetree hastily replied. "We are Australians now." He would have flung the situation off, only it stuck to him, like discarded chewing-gum. For Himmelfarb was plunging deeper into a conspiracy. The latter lowered his voice, and leant forward. He was tired, but had arrived, as he very softly asked, "Surely you are one of us?" "Eh?" Mr Rosetree was not only mentally distressed, he was also physically uncomfortable; he could not detach the pants from around his groin, where they had rucked up, it seemed, and were giving him hell. "Yes," Himmelfarb persisted. "I took it for granted you were one of us." Then Mr Rosetree tore something free, whether material or not. He said, "If it is religion you mean, after so much beating in the bush-and religion in these countries, Mr Himmelfarb, is not an issue of first importance-I can plainly tell you I attend the Catholic Church of Saint Aloysius." Nobody was going to threaten Mr Rosetree. "The Catholic Church," he emphasized, "at Paradise East." "Ah!" Himmelfarb yielded. He sat back. Just then there came into the room a gentleman in his singlet. He was of such proportions that the cardboard walls appeared to expand in order to accommodate him fully. "There ain't no 22-gauge, Harry," the gentleman announced. "Not a bloody skerrick of it." "№ 22-gauge?" Here at last Mr Rosetree was given the opportunity to explode. "That is correct," said the gentleman of the singlet, who was mild enough once he had established himself; he stood there twiddling the hairs of his left armpit, and breathing through his mouth. "№ 22-gauge!" screamed Harry Rosetree. "But this chep-pie which I told you of, has promised already for yesterday!" "This cheppie has dumped us in the shit," the mild gentleman suggested. For want of other employment, Himmelfarb sat and observed the belly inside the cotton singlet. There are times when the position of the human navel appears almost perfectly logical. "What do I do to peoples? I would really like somebody to tell me!" Mr Rosetree begged. His mouth had grown quite watery. He had taken the telephone book, and was picking up the pages by handfuls, in ugly lumps. "Peoples are that way from the start. Take it from me, mate," the foreman consoled. At that point, the plumper of the two ladies in the outer office stuck her head in at the door. Her necklaces of flesh were turning mauve. "Mr Rosetree-excuse me, please-Mrs Rosetree is on the phone." "For Chrisake! Mrs Rosetree?" "Shall I switch her through, Mr Rosetree?" "For Chrisake, Miss Whibley! Didn't Mrs Rosetree let you know?" Mr Rosetree, it was obvious, would favour jokes about Men and Women. Now he took the phone. He said, "Yes, dear. Sure. And how! No, dear, I am never all that busy. Yup. Yup. Yup. What! You have decided for the epple pie? But I wish the _Torte__! Not for Arch, nor Marge, nor anybody else, will I never assimilate the epple pie. Arrange it for me, Shirl. Sure. I have business now." The pitching of his stick of gelignite into the domestic works made him look pleased, until he began to remember there was something else, there was, indeed, the treachery of all individuals connected with supply, but something, he suspected, more elusive. There was this fellow, Himmelfarb. Then Harry Rosetree knew that a latent misery of his own, of which he had never been quite able to dispose, had begun to pile up in the fragile, but hitherto protected office, assuming vast proportions, like a heap of naked, suppurating corpses. He could have spewed up there and then, because the stench was so great, and his considerable business acumen would never rid him of the heap of bodies. So he said thickly to the applicant, "Come along Monday. You better start then. But it will be monotonous. I warn you. Bloody monotonous. It will kill you." "I have been killed several times already," Himmelfarb replied. "Probably more painfully." And got up. These Jewish intellectuals, Harry Rosetree despised the bloody lot of them. Freud, and Mozart, and all that _Kaffee-quatsch__! If he did not hate as well, not only a class, but a whole race, it was because he was essentially a loving man, and still longed to be loved in a way that can happen only in the beginning. But there, his childhood was burnt down, not a trace of it left, except that the voices of the dark women continued to vibrate inside him. "What's up, Harry?" asked the foreman, whose name was Ernie Theobalds. "Done something to your leg? Never noticed it was crook before." "I done nothink." "You was limpin'." "It has these needles." And Harry Rosetree stamped to bear it out. How the two ladies in the outer office were bashing into their typewriters now. The bloke Himmelfarb had gone out, and was walking alongside the green river, where nobody had ever been seen to walk. The river glistened for him. The birds flew low, swallows probably, almost on the surface of the water, and he held out his hand to them. They did not come to him, of course, but he touched the glistening arcs of flight. It seemed as though the strings of flight were suspended from his fingers, and that he controlled the whirring birds. Presently he remembered he had forgotten to ask his future employer about the money. But his omission did not disturb him, not in that green effulgence, which emanated from, as much as it enveloped him. The water flowed, the light smote the ragged bushes. Nothing disturbed, except that for a choking moment he wondered whether he had dared assume powers to which he had no right, whether he might even accept, in his very humblest capacity, the benedictions of light and water.

Himmelfarb went on the Monday. He took his lunch with him in a brown fibre case, together with one or two articles of value he would not have liked to leave at home; a fire could have broken out. He caught the bus to Barranugli, and was put down before reaching the town, at Rosetree's, on the river bank. They sat him at a drill, with which he was expected to bore a hole in a circular steel plate, over, and over, and over. Ernie Theobalds, the foreman, showed him how, and made one or two accommodating jokes. They gave him his union card, and that was that. Each morning Himmelfarb took the bus to Barranugli, until the Sabbath, when the factory did not open-as on Sunday, of course. He became quite skilful at his unskilled job; there was a certain way of whipping off the steel plate. As he sat endlessly at his drill, it pained him to recall certain attitudes and episodes of his former life, which hitherto he had accepted as natural. There was, for instance, the arrogance of opinion and style of the monograph on an obscure English novelist, indeed, of his critical works in general. Many phrases of many prayers that he had mumbled down in his presumptuous youth, came to life at last upon his tongue. Most often he remembered those people he had failed: his wife Reha, the dreadful dyer, the Lady from Czernowitz, to name a few. Sometimes as he bored the hole, the drill grazed his flesh, and he accepted it. A few of his workmates might have joked with him, offering some of the worn remarks that were currency on the floor, but refrained on perceiving something strange. Nothing like his face had ever been seen by many of them. To enter in search of what it might contain, was an expedition nobody cared to undertake. If sometimes the foreigner found it necessary to speak, it was as though something preposterous had taken place: as though a fish had opened its mouth the other side of a glass wall, and brought forth faintly intelligible words instead of normally transparent bubbles. So the plastic ladies and the pursy men bent their heads above their benches. Toothless lads hawked up a mirthless laughter, while the faces of the girls let it be understood that nobody would take advantage of them. Once or twice the blackfellow paused in his rounds of sweeping, on coming level with the Jew's drill. Then Himmelfarb decided: Eventually, perhaps, I shall speak, but it is not yet the appropriate occasion. Not that there was reason to suspect affinity of any kind, except that the black would establish a certain warmth of presence before moving on. After one such _rapprochement__, a blue-haired granny left off assembling Brighta Lamps. She threw up her hands, and had to shout to the foreigner, "Dirty! Dirty!" As the machinery belted away. "No good blackfeller! Sick!" she shrieked. Even if the object of her contempt had missed hearing, or had closed his ears permanently to censure, Himmelfarb was made uncomfortable, when he should have returned some suitable joke. Mistaking embarrassment for failure to understand, a bloke approached, and whispered in the foreigner's ear, "She means he has every disease a man can get. From the bollocks up." As Himmelfarb still did not answer, his workmate went away. Foreigners, in any case, filled the latter with disgust. And the machinery belted on. Sometimes Mr Rosetree's shoes trod along the gangway, and appeared to hesitate beside the drill, but only hesitate, before continuing. Himmelfarb did not take it amiss that his employer had not spoken since the morning of the interview. It was only to be expected in a businessman of some importance, a husband, and a father, with a lovely home. For the ladies at the benches would often openly discuss their boss. Without having been there themselves, they seemed to know by heart the desirable contents of the rooms. Nor did they envy, except intermittently, perhaps when having a monthly, or payment on the washing-machine was overdue. On the whole, they admired the signs of material wealth in others. So, Mr Rosetree shone. Sometimes he would come out of his office, and stand upon a ramp, and scrutinize the rows of workers, and rackety, spasmodic machines. Then the ladies would tilt their heads, looking personally involved, and even those of the men who were the worst grumblers would aim shafts of such harmlessly blunt brutality as to cause only superficial wounds if they had ever reached their target. Good money had made the most sardonic amongst them sentimentally possessive of that harmless poor coot, their boss. As for Himmelfarb seated at his drill, he would at once grow conscious of his employer's presence on the ramp, though he had not raised his eyes to look in that direction.

Rosetrees lived at 15 Persimmon Street, Paradise East, in a texture-brick home-city water, no sewerage, but their own septic. Telephone, of course. Who could get through the morning without the telephone? It was already quite a good address, and would improve, but then Rosetrees would probably move on, to realize on the land. Because, what was land-such nasty, sandy, scrubby stuff-if not an investment? All around the texture-brick home, Mrs Rosetree listened mornings to the gumtrees thudding down. And all around, the homes were going up. The brick homes. Harry Rosetree was very proud of his own setting. Sundays he would stand outside his apricot, texture-brick home, amongst all the advanced shrubs he had planted, the labels still round them so as you could read the fancy names if a neighbour should inquire. Who wouldn't feel satisfied? And with the Ford Customline, one of the first imported since the war? Then there were the kids. He was an indulgent father, but had every reason to be proud of Steve and Rosie, who learned so much so fast: they had learnt to speak worse Australian than any of the Australian kids, they had learnt to crave for ice cream, and potato chips and could shoot tomato sauce out of the bottle even when the old black sauce was blocking the hole. So the admiration oozed out of Harry Rosetree, and for Mrs Rosetree too, who had learnt more than anyone. With greater authority, Mrs Rosetree could say: that is not Australian. She had a kind of gift for assimilation. Better than anyone she had learnt the language. She spoke it with a copper edge; the words fell out of her like old pennies. Of course it was really Shirl Rosetree who owned the texture-brick home, the streamlined glass car, the advanced shrubs, the grandfather clock with the Westminster chimes, the walnut-veneer radiogram, the washing-machine, and the Mixmaster. Everybody knew that, because when she asked the neighbours in to morning tea and scones, she would refer to: _my__ home, _my__ children, _my__ Pord Customline. There was a fur coat, too, still only one, but she was out to get a second while the going was good. Who could blame her? Shirl Rosetree had been forced to move on more than once. Put it into gold, she would have said, normally; you can hide that. And had bought the little gold Cross, before leaving, in the Rotenturmstrasse, which she wore still. Whenever she got excited it bumped about and hit her breasts, but it was comforting to wear a Cross. Except. Marge Pendlebury had said early on, "I would never ever of suspected you Rosetrees of being tykes. Only the civil servants are Roman Catholics here, and the politicians, if they are anything at all." Shirl's ears stood up straight for what she had still to assimilate. Marge said, "Arch and me are Methoes, except we don't go; life is too short." Then the little Cross from the Rotenturmstrasse bumped less gaily on Shirl's breasts. She said, "Do you know what, Harry? Arch and Marge are Methoes." "So what?" asked her husband. "That is what people are, it seems." He patted her. She was a plumpy thing, but not always comfortable. Her frown would get black. She could shout, "_Um Gottes Willen, du Trottel, du Wasserkopf! Muss ich immer Sechel für zwei haben__?" But would grow complaisant, while refusing to let him mess her perm. "There is all the rest," she insisted. And at times Rosetrees would cling together with almost fearful passion. There in the dark of their texture-brick shell, surrounded by the mechanical objects of value, Shirl and Harry Rosetree were changed mercilessly back into Shulamith and Haïm Rosenbaum. _Oÿ-yoÿ__, how brutally the Westminster chimes resounded then in the hall. A mouse could have severed the lifeline with one Lilliputian snap. While the seekers continued to lunge together along the dunes of darkness, arriving nowhere, except into the past, and would excuse themselves in favour of sleep, that other deceiver. For Haïm would again be peddling _Eisenwaren__, and as frequently compelled to take to his heels through the villages of sleep; and Shulamith, for all the dreamy validity of her little Cross, would suffer her grandmother, that gaunt, yellow woman, to call her home down the potholed street, announcing that the stars were out, and the Bride had already come. If daylight had not licked quickly into shape, this kind of nighttime persecution might have become unbearable. But morning arrived in Paradise East with a clatter of Venetian blinds. And there stood the classy homes in their entirety of brick. There were the rotary clotheslines, and the galvanized garbage-bins. By daylight Rosenbaums would sometimes even dare indulge a nostalgia for _Beinfleisch__, say, _mit Krensosse__. They would stuff it in, as though it might be taken from them. Their lips grew shiny from the fat meat, their cheeks tumid from an excess of _Nockerl__. Then Haïm Rosenbaum might ask, "Why you don't eat your meat, Steve?" "Mum said it was gunna be chops." "Shoot some of this tomato sauce onto the _Beinfleisch__. Then you can pretend it is chops," advised the father. But Steve Rosetree hated deviation. "Who wants bloody foreign food!" "I will not have you swear, Steve!" said the mother, with pride. She loved to sit after _Beinfleisch__, and pick out the last splinters, with a perfect, crimson fingernail. And dwell on past pleasures. Once Shirl Rosetree thought to inquire, "What about that old Jew, Harry, you told us about, down at the factory?" "What about this old Jew?" "What is he up to?" "For Chrisake! Who am I to know what is up to every no-hope Jew that comes to the country?" "But this one seemed, well, sort of educated, from what you said." "He talks good. He talks so good nobody can understand." Harry Rosetree had to belch. "You can smell the Orthodox," he said, "on some Jews." It made his wife laugh. "Times change, eh? When you have to _smell__ the Orthodox!" But she would have loved still to watch the hands lighting the Chanukah candles. The Scrolls themselves were not more closely written than the faces of some old waxen Jews. "Times change all right," her husband agreed. "But I do not understand why am I to keep a day-book of the doings of every Jew that comes!" "Let it pass!" his wife said. She manipulated her jaws to release a noise, half yawn, half laughter, punctuated by a gold tooth. But came out with a remark she immediately regretted: "You can't get away from it, Harry, the blood draws you." "The blood draws, the blood will run!" her husband said, through ugly mouth. "Have we seen, and not learnt?" "What blood?" asked the little girl. There were often things in her parents' conversation that made her tingle with suspicion. "Nothing, dear," said the mother. "Mum and Dad were having a discussion." "At the convent," Rosie Rosetree said, "there is a statue of our Saviour, and the blood looks like it's still wet." She made her mouth into the little funnel through which she would allow commendable sentiments to escape. "It was that real, it made me cry at Easter, and the nuns had to comfort me. Gee, the nuns are lovely. I'm gunna be a nun, Mum. I'm gunna be a saint, and have visions of roses and things." "There, you see, Shirl, Rosie has the right ideas." The father smiled. "And as she is her old dad's sensible girl, her visions will become more realistic. No one ever got far on the smell of roses." Shirl Rosetree sighed. She frowned. It was true, of course. But the truth was always only half the truth. It was that that made her act sort of _nervös__. And all these family situations, as breakable as Bakelite. Sometimes she was afraid she might be starting a heart, and would have liked to consult a good European doctor, only they all rooked you so. Or priest. Only you always came away knowing you had not quite told. And, in any case, what could a priest know to tell? Nothing. She never came away from the confessional without she had the heartburn. Some old smelly man in a box. Now she had got the heartburn real bad. It was after all that _Beinfleisch__, with the good _Krensosse__. She knew it must be turning her yellow. So Shirl Rosetree breathed rather hard, and fiddled with the little gold Cross in the shadow between her breasts, and said, "I think we had enough of this silly conversation. It's the kind that don't lead anywhere. I'm gunna lay down, and have a read of some nice magazine."

The voice of the Rosetrees proclaimed that a stranger was in their midst. If it hesitated to deride, it was for those peculiarly personal, not to say mystical reasons, and because derision was a luxury Rosetrees were only so very recently qualified to enjoy. The voice of Sarsaparilla, developing the same theme, laboured under no such inhibitions, but took for granted its right to pass judgment on the human soul, and indulge in a fretfulness of condemnation. "I would not of thought it would of come to this," Mrs Flack repeated, "a stream of foreign migrants pouring into the country, and our Boys many of them not yet returned, to say nothing of those with permanent headstones still to be erected overseas. So much for promises and prime ministers. Who will feed us, I would like to know, when we are so many mouths over, and foreign mouths, how many of them I did read, but forget the figure." Then Mrs Flack's friend, Mrs Jolley, would clear her throat and add her voice. "Yes indeed, it makes you think, it makes you wonder. Who counts? It is not you. It is the one that greases the palm of a civil servant or a politician. It is never you, but the one that comes." "Not that many a civil servant is not a highly respectable person," Mrs Flack had to grant. "That is correct, and I should know, seeing as my own son-in-law is one. Mr Apps, who took Merle." "I would not doubt that even a politician has high principles in the home." "Ah, in the home! Oh, a politician is a family man besides. It is the kiddies that makes all the difference." Abstraction would elevate the two ladies to a state so rarefied they dared not look at each other, but each would stare dreamily into her own bottomless mind, watching the cottonwool unfurl. Once Mrs Flack's eyes seemed to focus on some point. It was in actual fact a plaster pixy, of which she had a pair, out on the front lawn, beside the golden cypresses, amongst the lachenalia. "They say," she said, "there is a foreign Jew, living," she said, and appeared to swallow something down, "below the post-office, in Montebello Avenue, in a weatherboard home"-here she drew back her strips of palest lips-"a home so riddled with the white ant, you can hear them operatin' from where the curb ought to be." "In Montebello Avenue," Mrs Jolley confirmed. "I did see. Yes, a funny-looking gentleman. Or man. They say, a foreign Jew. And for quite some time." "Mind you the home is rotten," Mrs Flack pursued, "but you cannot tell me, Mrs Jolley, that a home is not a home, with so many going roofless, and so many returned men." "Preferential treatment is to be desired," said Mrs Jolley, "for everyone entitled to it." "What do you mean?" asked Mrs Flack. Which was terrible, because Mrs Jolley was not at all sure. "Well, " she said, "you know what I mean. Well, I mean to say," she said, "a returned man is a returned man." "That is so." Mrs Flack was mollified. But Mrs Jolley had decided she must go. She was perspiring uncomfortably behind the knees. Then Mrs Flack flung a bomb. "What do you say, Mrs Jolley, if I walk a little of the way? There's nothing like the fresh air." This was revolutionary, considering that Mrs Flack never, never walked, except when strictly necessary, on account of her heart, her blood pressure, her varicose veins, and generally delicate state of health. The fresh air, besides, was as foreign to her yellow skin as Jews to Sarsaparilla. "Why, dear, if you think you ought." Mrs Jolley had to speak at last. "But I must hurry along," she said. "My lady"-and here she had to laugh-"will be expecting me at Xanadu." "Only a little of the way," Mrs Flack insisted. "I was never a drag on anyone. But as far as Montebello Avenue." "Ah!" Mrs Jolley giggled. It was certainly entrancing to walk together past homes which failed any longer to conceal, from Mrs Jolley in her mauve eye-veil, from Mrs Flack in her flat black hat with its cockade of dust. "Here," said Mrs Flack, adjusting herself so that she became as much edge as possible, "are people who should not be allowed to live in any decent neighbourhood." Mrs Jolley almost dislocated her neck. "I could not tell you in detail-it would make your flesh creep," said the disappointing Mrs Flack, "only that a father and a young girl, well, I will put it bluntly-his daughter. There is a little motor-car in which you could not squeeze a third. She in slippery blouses that might be wet for all they hide." "What do you know!" Mrs Jolley clucked. She could not help but feel she had suddenly got possession of all knowledge, thanks to the generosity of Mrs Flack. Mrs Jolley walked, red, but brave. "There is the post-office," Mrs Flack continued. "There is that Mrs Sugden." "Oo-hoo! Mrs Sugden!" she had to call. "How are we today?" Mrs Sugden was good, thanks. Mrs Flack hated Mrs Sugden, because the postmistress would never be persuaded to tell. Then the two ladies began to tread more cautiously, for they had entered Montebello Avenue. Their ankles had begun to twist on stones. Where the pavement should have been, the grass, unpleasant in itself, oozing black juices when it did not cut the stockings, threatened to reveal the rarer forms of nastiness at some future step. "If you are not loopy to go on living at Xanadu!" Mrs Flack called from her wading. Mrs Jolley usually replied: A person must retain her principles; but today, it had to be admitted, Mrs Flack's grip on life was so much stronger, her friend had been reduced. So, instead, she answered, "Beggars cannot be choosers." "Beggar me!" shrieked Mrs Flack, somewhat surprisingly. Foreign parts and paspalum had made her reckless. Her waxen skin had begun to appear deliquescent. "There!" she suddenly hissed, and restrained her friend's skirt. It was as though an experienced huntsman had at last delivered a disbelieving novice into the presence of promised game. Not that the game itself was in evidence yet, only its habitat. The two ladies stood in the shelter of a blackberry bush to observe the house in which the foreign Jew was living. The small brown house was suitably, obscenely poor. The other side of the fence, from which previous owners had pulled pickets at random to stoke winter fires, mops of weed were threatening to shake their cotton heads. Of course there were the willows. Nobody could have denied the existence of those, only their value was doubtful because they had cost nothing. The willows poured round the shabby little house, serene cascades of green, or lapped peacefully at its wooden edges. Many a passer-by might have chosen to plunge in, and drown, in those consoling depths, but the two observers were longing for something that would rend their souls-a foetus, say, or a mutilated corpse. Instead, they had to make do with the sight of guttering that promised to fall off soon, and windows which, if glitteringly clean, ignored the common decencies of lace or net. "Not even a geranium," said Mrs Flack, with bitter satisfaction. Then, if you please, the door opened, and out came, not the Jew, that would have been electric enough, but a woman, a woman. It was a thickish, middle-aged woman, in shapeless sort of faded dress. Some no-account woman. It was Mrs Jolley who realized first. She was often quite quick, although it was Mrs Flack who excelled in psychic powers. "Why," Mrs Jolley said now, "what do you know! It is that Mrs Godbold!" Mrs Flack was stunned, but managed, "I always thought how Mrs Godbold was deep, but how deep, I did not calculate." "It is wonderful," said Mrs Jolley, "to what lengths a woman will go." For the owner himself had just emerged. The Jew. The two ladies clutched each other by the gloves. They had never seen anything so yellow or so strange. Strange? Why, dreadful, dreadful! Now the whirlwinds were rising in honest breasts, that honest corsets were striving to contain. The phlegm had come in Mrs Flack's mouth, causing her to swallow quickly down. Mrs Jolley, as she had already confessed, had noticed the man on one or two previous occasions as she came and went between Xanadu and Sarsaparilla, but had failed to observe such disgraceful dilapidation of appearance, such irregularities of stubble, such a top-heavy, bulbous head, such a truly fearful nose. In the circumstances, she felt she should apologize to her somewhat delicate companion. But the latter was craning now. "He is big," she remarked, between her moist teeth. "He is not small," Mrs Jolley agreed, as they stood supporting each other on wishbone legs. "Who would ever of thought," Mrs Flack just articulated, "that Mrs Godbold." Mrs Godbold and the man were standing together on the steps of the veranda, she on the lower, he above, so that she was forced to look up, exposing her face to his and to the evening light. It was obvious that the woman's flat, and ordinarily uncommunicative face had been opened by some experience of a private nature, or perhaps it was just the light, gilding surfaces, dissolving the film of discouragement and doubt which life leaves behind, loosening the formal braids of hair, furnishing an aureole, which, if not supernatural-reason would not submit to that-provided an agreeable background to motes and gnats. Indeed, the Jew himself began to acquire a certain mineral splendour as he stood talking, even laughing with his friend, in that envelope or womb of light. Whether the two had been strengthened by some event of importance, or were weakened by their present total disregard for defences, their audience was mad to know, but could not, could not tell. Mrs Jolley and Mrs Flack could only crane and swallow, beside the blackberry bush, beneath their hats, and hope that something disgraceful might occur. "What is that, Mrs Jolley?" Mrs Flack asked at last. But Mrs Jolley did not hear. Her breath was roaring through her mouth. For the Jew had begun to show Mrs Godbold something. Whatever it was-it could have been a parcel, or a bird, only that was improbable, a white bird-their attention was all upon it. "I believe he has cut his hand," Mrs Jolley decided. "She has bandaged up his hand. Well, that is one way!" Mrs Flack sucked incredulous teeth. She was quite exhausted by now. Then, as people will toss up the ball of friendship, into the last light, at the moment of departure, and it will hang there briefly, lovely and luminous to see, so did the Jew and Mrs Godbold. There hung the golden sphere. The laughter climbed up quickly, out of their exposed throats, and clashed together by consent; the light splintered against their teeth. How private, and mysterious, and beautiful it was, even the intruders suspected, and were deterred momentarily from hating. When they were again fully clothed in their right minds, Mrs Jolley said to her companion, "Do you suppose she comes to him often?" "I would not know," replied Mrs Flack, though it was obvious she did. "Tsst!" she added, quick as snakes. Mrs Godbold had begun to turn. "See you at church!" hissed Mrs Jolley. "See you at church!" repeated Mrs Flack. Their eyes flickered for a moment over the Christ who would rise to the surface of Sunday morning. Then they drew apart. Mrs Jolley walked on her way, briskly but discreetly, down the hill, towards Xanadu. She would have liked to kill some animal, fierce enough to fan her pride, weak enough to make it possible, but as it was doubtful any such beast would offer itself, scrubby though the neighbourhood was, she drifted dreamily through the series of possible ways in which she might continue to harry the human soul.

The morning Himmelfarb's hand was gashed by the drill which bored those endless holes in the endless succession of metal plates, was itself an endless plain, of dirty yellow, metallic wherever sweating fanlight or louvre allowed the sword to strike. The light struck, and was fairly parried by defensive daggers, of steel, as well as indifference. Equally, wounds were received. Their past lives rose up in a rush in the throats of many of the singleted men, and gushed out in tongues of sour air, while a few went so far as to fart their resentment, not altogether in undertone. Some of the ladies, who had bared themselves as much as was decent, and who were in consequence looking terribly white, swore they must win the lottery, or leave their husbands. Over every surface, whether skin or metal, humidity had laid its film. Flesh united to mingle with it. Only metal appeared to have entered into an alliance with irony, as the machinery continued to belt, to stamp, and to stammer with an even more hilarious blatancy, to hiss and piss with an increased virulence. Just after smoke-o, Himmelfarb's hand came in contact with the head of the little drill. Very briefly and casually. The whole incident was so unemotional, probably nobody noticed it. At the time, it caused Himmelfarb very little pain. As he had succeeded by now in withdrawing completely from his factory surroundings, he was usually unperturbed by such wounds as they might deal, even the mental ones. But here was his hand, running blood. There was a fairly deep gash along the side of the left palm. After a little, he went quietly to the washroom to clean the wound. There was nobody there-except, he then realized, the blackfellow, who could have been staring at himself in the glass, or else using the mirror as an opening through which to escape. Himmelfarb rinsed his hand beneath the tap. The blood ran out of the wound in long, vanishing veils. At moments the effect was strangely, fascinatingly beautiful. So it seemed to appear also to the blackfellow, who was now staring at the bleeding wound, whether in curiosity, recollection, sympathy, what, it was impossible to tell. Only that his active self seemed to have become completely submerged in what he was witnessing. Then the pain began to course through Himmelfarb. For a moment he feared his workmate might address him for the first time, and that he would not be able to answer, except in the words of common exchange. But was saved. Or cheated. For the black was going, discarding some vision still only half crystallized, retreating from a step he did not know how to, or would not yet allow himself to take. The blackfellow had, in fact, gone, and Himmelfarb, after wrapping an almost clean handkerchief round his left hand, returned to his drill for what remained of the working day. That night his dreams were by turns bland and fiery. His wife Reha was offering, first the dish of most delicious cinnamon apple, then the dish of bitter herbs. Neither of which he could quite reach. Nor was her smile intended for him, in that state of veiled bliss which he remembered. Finally she turned and gave the apple to a third person, who, it was her apparent intention, should hand the dish. But he awoke in a sweat of morning, less comforted by his dead wife's presence, than frustrated by his failure to receive the dish. He rose groggily, but prepared as usual to say his prayers, arranging the shawl, not the blue-striped _bar mitzvah tallith__-that had been destroyed at Friedensdorf-but the one he had received with fervour in Jerusalem, and worn henceforth, touching its black veins in remembrance of things experienced. But when it came to the laying on of the phylacteries, that which should have wound down along his left arm caused him such pain, he could hardly bear it. But did. He said the prayers, he said the Eighteen Benedictions, because how else would it have been possible to face the day? Then, after packing the _tallith__ and _tephillin__-they were those few possessions he could not entrust to empty houses-into the fibre case, together with a crust of bread and slice of cheese, he caught the bus for Barranugli, and was soon rocked upon his way, amongst the _goyim__, on a sea of conversation dealing exclusively with the weather. That morning the shed almost burst open, with sound, and heat, and activity. Until Ernie Theobalds approached. "What's up, Mick?" asked the foreman. "Nothing," the Jew replied. Then he raised his hand. "See," he said. "It is only this. But will pass." When Mr Theobalds had examined the wound-he was a decent bloke, as well as practical-he became rather thoughtful. "You go home, Mick," he advised at last. "You got a bad hand. You see the doc up at Sarsaparilla. See what he says. You'll get compo, of course." "You never know," said Ernie Theobalds afterwards to the boss, "when one of these buggers will turn around and sue you." Himmelfarb took his fibre case, and went, as he had been told. He saw Dr Herborn, who treated him according to the book, and told him to lay off. Every day he went to the surgery for his needle. For the rest, he sat surrounded by the green peace of willows, and that alone was exquisitely kind. Gruelled by his throbbing hand, exalted by the waves of fever, he began again to doubt whether he was worthy of those favours of which he was the object, and in his uncertainty imposed upon himself greater tests of humility, in themselves negligible, even ludicrous, but it became most necessary that his mind should not accept as unconditional that which his weaker body urged him to. For instance, he set himself to scrub out his almost empty house, which he did accomplish, if awkwardly. With less success, he made himself wash dirty linen rather than allow it to accumulate. As he paddled the clothes with one hand and the tips of his excruciating fingers, he was almost overcome by his limitations, but somehow got his washing pegged out on the line. There he was one day. The sky had been widened by afternoon. A cold wind from out of the south slapped his face with wet shirt; inseparable, cold folds of cotton clung to his shoulder. When a person came through the grass, and stood behind him. He looked round, and saw it was a woman. Respect for his dignity seemed to prevent her breaking the silence immediately. "I could have done that," she said at last, after she had stretched the possibilities of discretion to their utmost. "Any little bits that you have. If you would give them." She blushed red, all over her thick, creamy skin. It could have been blotting paper. "Oh, no," he replied. "It is done." And laughed, idiotically. "It is nothing. Always I do a little. As it comes." He had grown quite frail on the windy hillside, like some miserable, scrubby tree unable to control its branches. He was clattering. Whereas the thick woman, with all her shortcomings of speech and behaviour, was a rock immovable in the grass. As they stood for that moment, the wind seemed to cut through the man, but was split open on the woman's form. Then Himmelfarb was truly humbled. He began to walk towards the house. He was rather shambly. His head was bumpy on his shoulders. "Why should you offer, I wonder, to me?" Was this, perhaps, a luxury he was begging to enjoy? But he had to. "It is only natural," she said, following. "I would offer to do it for anyone." "But I am different. I am a few," he replied, from behind his back. "So they say," she said. In the silence, as they walked, one behind the other, he could hear her breathing. He could hear the motion of the grass. When she said, "I do not know Jews, except what we are told, and of course the Bible; there is that." She paused because it was difficult for her. "But I know people," she said, "and there is no difference between them, excepting there is good and bad." "Then you, too, have faith." "Eh?" Almost at once she corrected herself, and continued very quickly. "Oh, yes, I believe. I believe in Jesus. I was brought up chapel, like. At Home. We all believe." But added: "That is, the children do." It was very awkward at times for the two people, who were by now standing in the bare house. "So this is the Jew's house," she could not help remarking. Her eyes shone, as if with the emotions occasioned by a great adventure. She had to look about, at the few pieces of furniture, and through a doorway, at the small fibre suitcase under a bed. "Sir," she apologized at last, "I am sticking my nose into your business. Excuse me," she said. "I will come again, just passing, and take any things you may have for the wash." Then she went, quickly and quietly, lowering her head, as if that might have been necessary to pass through the doorway. "Oh," she remembered, when she had already reached the step, "I forgot to say. My name is Mrs Godbold, and I live with my husband and family in that shed." She pointed. "And I am Himmelfarb," replied the Jew, with dignity equal to the occasion. "Yes," she answered, softly. She would not allow herself to appear frightened of a name, but smiled, and went away. Two days later she returned, very early, when, through the window, the Jew was at his prayers. She saw with amazement the striped shawl, the phylactery on his forehead, and that which wound down along his arm as far as his bandaged hand. She was too stunned at first to move, but watched the prayers as they came out from between the Jew's lips. Through the window, and at that distance, the words appeared solid. When the intruder forced herself to leave, it did not occur to her to walk in any other way than with her head inclined, out of the presence of the worshipper. Nor had it occurred to him to interrupt his worship. Never before, it seemed, as he stood exposed to the gentle morning, was he carried deeper into the bosom of his God. Afterwards, when he went outside, he found a loaf of bread, recently risen, still warm and floury, that the woman must have baked, and wrapped in a cloth, and left lying on the edge of the veranda. Mrs Godbold did not dare immediately to come again, but in the afternoon six girls appeared, of various sizes, some walking with a first appearance of grace, some struggling, one carried. There was a puppy, too, wearing a collar which could have been a piece of salvaged harness. As the children approached, they had been indulging in argument and giggles, Himmelfarb suspected, for some of the younger girls appeared mysteriously congested, and the eldest, who had reached the age where shame is easily roused, was rather primly disapproving. It could have been the middle child who presented the Jew with a bunch of green. "Silly thing!" hissed the eldest. Then they all waited, silent, but explosive. "For me?" asked the Jew. "That is kind. What is it?" "Cow-itch," replied the child who had made the presentation. Then, with the exception of the eldest, who began to blush and slap, all burst. The baby hid her face. "T'is-urn't! It's cobblers'-pegs!" shrieked one. "It's whatever you want it to be," shouted the official donor. "Lay off, Else! You kill me! Why do you always pick on me?" "Silly old weeds!" There were times when Else could hate her sisters. "I am honoured and touched by your recognition," Himmelfarb replied truthfully. "Next time we'll bring flowers," yelled a small and rather runny girl. "Where from?" shouted another. "We'll steal 'em over some fence." "Grace-ie!" moaned the unhappy Else. "We ain't got a garden at home," somebody explained. "Mum's too busy." "And Dad's too drunk." "When he's there." Else had begun to cry a little, but said, very quick and determined, "Me mother said if you have any things for the wash to give them to us she will do them early and return tomorrow afternoon if it don't rain and probably it won't." She was a slender girl, whose hair could not be relied on to stay where it had been so recently put. In the circumstances, Himmelfarb could only go to fetch his dirty linen, and while he rummaged, the Godbold children began a kind of ritual dance, forging chains of girls round the rotten veranda-posts, shoving one another by force into fresh extravagancies of position, shouting, of course, always, and laughing. Only Else stood apart, opening seed-pods, examining leaves and secrets. Once she threw up her head, on its long and slender neck, and looked between the bushes at a face she could almost visualize. Once Maudie, of the cow-itch, paused in the frenzy of the dance, and stuck out her tongue at the eldest sister. "Soppy cow!" Maudie shrieked. "Luv-a luv-a luv-a, Who's a lovesick plover?" chanted Kate. Which was so unjust, because untrue. Else Godbold bit her lips. She was not in love, but would have liked to be. When, at last, Himmelfarb produced the bundle of clothes, and his visitors had departed, the air remained turbulent. Physical forms, when they have existed with any intensity, leave their imprint for a little on the surroundings they have relinquished. So the golden chains continued to unwind, the golden circles to revolve, the dust of secrecy to settle. Himmelfarb was glad even for his wilting bunch of lush, yellow-green weeds. It did seem as though goodness had been sown around the brown house below the post-office, and might grow, provided the forces of evil did not stamp it flat. The Godbold children would come, in twos or threes, _en masse__, but never singly; whether by instinct, up-bringing, or agreement, was never made clear. Yet, the mother would allow herself the luxury of an unaccompanied visit to her neighbour, as if, perhaps, nothing worse could befall one of her experience. Or, it could have been, she enjoyed protection. She had come on such a visit the evening Mrs Flack and her familiar, Mrs Jolley, were passing judgment from the blackberry bush. She had helped dress her neighbour's improving hand, very competently, binding it up with a rag she had washed so clean, it was positively stiff. She had conducted a consoling conversation on several small subjects, including that of laundry soap. "During the war," she said, with that dreaminess for past events, "I would boil the soap up myself. In big tins. And cut it into bars." How Himmelfarb immediately became convinced of the importance and virtues of yellow soap, really did not puzzle him. "You know," he could even joke, "we Jews are suspicious of such crude soap since we were rendered down." But Mrs Godbold did not seem to hear, or the matter to which he referred was too distant and improbable to grasp. It could have been, within her scheme, that evil was only evil when she bore the brunt of it herself; she alone must, and would deflect, receiving the fist, if necessary, between the eyes. He rather sensed this, but could not accuse her innocence. Besides, he suspected it of being a vice common to Christians. They had come out by then onto the front veranda, and were suddenly faced with assault by the setting sun. Digging in their heels, so to speak, to resist, they frowned and laughed. "Tonight," she mentioned, "we are having corned breast of mutton. It is what my husband likes best. He will be home tonight," she said. And made a little noise as though to apologize for some untidiness of life. "I cannot imagine your husband," he had to confess. "You do not speak about him." "Oh," she laughed, after a pause. "He is dark. Tom was good-looking. He is jack-of-all-trades, I suppose you might say. He was an iceman when we met." The two people, standing on the front steps, were helpless in the solid amber of the evening light. The woman had perhaps reached that point where the obsessed are wholly their obsession. "Tom," she said, managing the thick words, "I must tell you, although I do not like to, sir-our business is not yours-well, Tom, I must admit, has never been saved." So that the Jew remembered, in a cold gust, the several frontiers he had almost failed to cross. "Of course," she said, wetting her lips against difficulties to come, "I will not let him down. I am myself only on sufferance." Then she added, more for her own consolation: "It could be that some are forgiven for something we ourselves have forgotten." But continued to search with her inward eye for that most elusive needle of salvation. Until the Jew, whose own future was still obscure, deliberately brought her back. "At least, Mrs Godbold," he suggested, "you have possibly saved my left hand by your great kindness and attention." She had to laugh. They both did. So complete was their momentary liberation, something of their simple joy shot up glistening out of them, to the complete bafflement of those who were watching from behind the blackberry bush.

Mrs Jolley saw her friend Mrs Flack, as they had expected, that Sunday after church, but such occasions are never for confidences, nor is it possible, desirable, after a service, to peel right down to the last and most revealing skin of that doubtful onion-truth. So the friends chose to wait. It was not until several days later that Mrs Jolley had the opportunity for looking in. If to _look in__ suggests a casualness that one does not associate with such a delicate operation as the tidying-up of truth, it must be remembered that ladies of refinement go scavenging rather in the manner of crabs-sideways. So Mrs Jolley was wearing her second-best. She was carrying, only carrying her gloves, because there was something accidental about her being there at all. Nor was she made up-not that Mrs Jolley ever made up to the extent of acquiring the patent-leather look-but she had at least licked the end of a lipstick, ice-cream-wise, before setting out. There she was, then. Mrs Flack professed to be surprised. "I only looked in," Mrs Jolley apologized, but smiled. Mrs Flack closed the kitchen door, and stood across it, in the hall. Mrs Jolley realized there was some reason for doing so. "Well, now," said Mrs Flack, so dry. Mrs Jolley smiled, some for friendship, but more for what she did not know was happening beyond the kitchen door. "Did you have your tea, then?" she had to ask, in the name of conversation. "You know I never take nothing substantial of an evening," replied the offended Mrs Flack. "My stomach would create on retiring. But I have, I must admit, just finished a weak cup." "I am sorry if I have come inconvenient." Mrs Jolley smiled. "You have a visit. A relative, perhaps." "That is nothing," protested Mrs Flack, walking her friend towards the lounge. "A young man has come, who sometimes looks in, and I will give him a bite of tea. Young people are casual about their insides." "I dare say you have known him since he was a kiddy," Mrs Jolley assisted. "That is correct. Since a kiddy," Mrs Flack replied. "As a matter of fact, he is my nephew." By this time they were in the lounge, seated on the _petty point__, beside the window. Today Mrs Jolley failed to notice the two plaster pixies, normally inescapable, and of which their owner was so very proud. "Ah," said Mrs Jolley, climbing stairs, as it were, scuttling down the corridors of memory at such a pace, her words could only issue breathless. "A nephew," she said. "I understood, Mrs Flack, seeing how you told, that you was quite without encumbrances." Then Mrs Flack sat and looked, calmly enough, out of her yellow face, only for rather a long time. "It must have escaped my mind," she said at last, with equanimity. "It is liable to happen to anyone. Although a nephew," she said, "who is no closer than a nice piece of steak makes him, cannot strickly be called an encumbrance. As I see it, anyway." Mrs Jolley sympathized. "It is only a kindness that I sometimes do." Mrs Flack set the seal. "Of course, you are very kind," Mrs Jolley admitted. Then they sat, and waited for the furniture to give the cue. It was Mrs Jolley, finally, who had to ask, "Did you hear any more about, well, You-Know-Who?" Mrs Flack closed her eyes. Mrs Jolley shivered for fear she had broken an important rule. Mrs Flack began to move her head, from side to side, like a pendulum. Mrs Jolley was reassured. Inwardly, she crouched before the tripod. "Nothing that you could call Somethink," the pythoness replied. "But the truth will always out." "People must always pay," chanted Mrs Jolley. She herself was, of course, an adept, though there were some who would not always recognize it. "People must pay," repeated Mrs Flack. And knocked over a little ash-tray, which probably no one had ever used, with a transfer of Windsor Castle on it. Windsor Castle broke in half. Mrs Flack would have liked to blame somebody, but was unable to. Mrs Jolley sucked her teeth, and helped with the pieces. "It always happens so quick," she said, "and yet, you know it's going to." "That reminds me," said Mrs Flack. "A dream. I had a dream, Mrs lolley, and your late hubby featured in it." Mrs Jolley was stunned by the roses on the wall-to-wall. "Fancy now! Why should you?" she said. "Whatever put it into your head?" "That is beside the point," said Mrs Flack. "They were carrying out your late hubby on the stretcher. See? I was, it seems-if you will excuse me, Mrs Jolley-you." Mrs Flack had turned pink, but Mrs Jolley grew quite pale. "What do you know!" the latter said. "What a lot of nonsense a person dreams!" "I said: 'Good-bye, Mr Jolley,' I said," said Mrs Flack. Mrs Jolley pleated her lips. "He said to me: 'Kiss me, won't you'-then he mentions some name which I forget; 'Tiddles,' was it? — 'kiss me before I set out on me Last Journey.' I-or you-replied: 'I will do it voluntary for the first and last time.' He said: 'Who killed with a kiss?' Then they carried him out." "He was dead before they put him on the stretcher! Died in his chair! Just as I handed him his cup of tea." "But in the dream. See?" "What a lot of rot! Killing with a kiss!" Mrs Flack, who might have been enjoying a view from a mountain, it was so exhilarating, said, "Who will ever decide who has killed who? Men and women are hardly responsible for their actions. We had an example only last week in Montebello Avenue." Mrs Jolley had grown emotional. "And did you kiss him?" she asked. "I don't remember," Mrs Flack replied, and smoothed her skirt. Mrs Jolley's nose sounded soggily through the room. "Fancy," she said, "us talking like this, and that nephew of yours only in the kitchen." Or not even. For just then the door opened, and no bones about it, there stood a young fellow. It appeared to Mrs Jolley that his exceptionally fine proportions were not concealed by sweatshirt and jeans; he was obviously not used to clothes. Nor was Mrs Jolley to sculpture. She began to sniff, and look at other things. "Oh," exclaimed Mrs Flack, turning her head, supple now that she had strengthened her position. "How was the steak?" The young man opened his mouth. If his gums had run to teeth, he would have gone through the pantomime of sucking them to expel the shreds. Instead, he merely ejaculated: "Tough!" — from between two remaining fangs. Although classical of body, it had to be admitted the young man's head was a disappointment: skin-dry and scabby, wherever it was not drawn too tight and shiny, giving an impression of postage stamps; eyelashes-might have been singed right off; hair-a red stubble, but red. Nor did words come out of his mouth except with ugly difficulty. "Ahlbeseeinyer!" the young fellow announced. "Whereyergoin?" asked Mrs Flack, who had apparently succeeded in mastering his language. "Muckinaround." Then Mrs Flack's brick residence shuddered as the nephew withdrew from it. Mrs Jolley appeared thoughtful. "A sister's, or a brother's child?" she asked. Mrs Flack was thoughtful too, and might have wished to remain so. "Oh," she murmured. "A sister's child. A sister's." But only eventually. "I did not catch his name." "Blue is what he answers to." Mrs Jolley decided she would not penetrate any farther, and was soon startled enough from the distance at which she had chosen to halt. "I will tell you somethink of interest," Mrs Flack suddenly said, and had drawn herself right together, into a needle-point. "Blue," she said, "works-rather, I should say, he is _in charge of__ the plating-shop-good money, too-at Rosetree's factory at Barranugli." "Rosetree's factory?" "Don't be silly!" said Mrs Flack. "Where the Jew works, that Mr Godbold's wife is conducting herself so peculiar with." "You don't say!" "I do. "What is more," Mrs Flack added, "Blue has eyes which will see what I want to know. I will make no claims for his brains. He was never ever a clever boy, but always most biddable. Blue will act upon an idea, if you know what I mean, Mrs Jolley, and no harm done, of course, if it is the right idea, and the right person in control." Mrs Jolley threw up her head, and laughed, but in such a way that Mrs Flack wondered whether her friend realized what a respectable hand her superior held. "I will tell you something too," Mrs Jolley began. "My lady is in the habit of meeting the Jew. Under an old tree. In the orchard. There now!" she said. And trembled, not from fear. Principle prevented Mrs Flack receiving reports from others with anything but reserve. So, when she had wet her lips, she merely offered, "What is it that gets into people?" But, if her voice suggested old shammy, her mind was already trying out its steel. Mrs Jolley had purpled over. "Mrs Flack," she gurgled in a thick stream, "it is not right the way some people carry on. And what is to be done?" "What is to be done?" Mrs Flack recoiled. "I am not the one, Mrs Jolley, to ask. Am I the constable? Am I the Government, or the Shire Council? Clergymen are in a position to act, but seldom do. We are no more than two ladies of decent feeling. I would not dream of dirtying my hands. Besides, a person might get burnt. No, Mrs Jolley. It does not pay to hurry cooking. You must let it simmer, and give it a stir, like, to keep it nice. Then, when it is ready, you can be sure someone will be only too glad to step in and eat it up." But Mrs Jolley was sputtering. "But her! Her! Under a tree! The squintiest thing I ever laid eyes on! And cracked, into the bargain!" Mrs Flack could only respect the passion which inspired her friend's hate. "I would of gone long ago, if I mightn't of been doing her a service. Mrs Flack, have you ever laid in bed, and listened for a house to crumble, and if you was to crumble with it, what odds, let it crash?" "You would never catch me under any roof in such a poor state of repair." "If circumstances had ordered it," Mrs Jolley snapped. "Circumstances is not as cranky as some people like to think," Mrs Flack replied. "You could be as snug as Jackie, under the blue eiderdown, in my second room, if you was not so stubborn." Mrs Jolley was pricked. Her skin subsided. "I still sort of hesitate," she simpered between looser teeth. "Xanadu will crumble without you ever give it a shove. Dust to dust, as they say." "Oh, will it though? Will it though? Will I see the neat brick homes, with sewerage, gutters, and own telephone?" Mrs Jolley was entranced. "Will I see an end to all madness, and people talking as if it was stuff out of dreams? Nobody should ever be allowed to give way to madness, but of course they will never want to in the brick homes. It is in those big old houses that the thoughts of idle people still wander around loose. I remember when I would come downstairs to turn out the rooms. I can remember the loose thoughts and the fruit-peelings. And Them, laying upstairs, in Irish linen. Dreaming."