The Oracles

by Margaret Kennedy

  As he crossed to the table he caught sight of something unpleasant out of the tail of his eye and turned to look.

  It was on the piano dais—a mean, thin contrivance of rusty-looking metal, shapeless and jagged, yet oddly menacing, as though it might be about to hop down and attack him. The sight of it gave him quite a turn. What a bugger! he thought. She must have brought it this afternoon. She was up at Summersdown. Good God! The Apollo?

  He approached it reluctantly, violently repelled, for it had shattered the last fragment of his own private preoccupation. This was not a moment at which he could wish to look at anything by Conrad. He did not much like Conrad’s work, although he was fond of the man.

  Closer inspection robbed the thing of its formidability. Seen from behind, from either side, it looked like nothing at all. It was not even repulsive; it was merely silly.

  ‘Well?’

  He looked up. Martha was leaning over the smooth steel wall of the staircase. She must have been standing up there, watching him, for some minutes.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s Conrad’s Apollo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She came down the stairs, disappearing and reappearing round the central column, until she reached the floor.

  She had put on her cocktail clothes: skimpy black trousers fastened tightly round the ankles with a band of gold, and a short wide coolie coat of black and gold brocade. This exotic finery could not save her from looking like a conscientious governess. She asked him again what he thought of the Apollo. She seemed really anxious to know, which was not always the case when she demanded his opinion. Frequently she merely sought an endorsement of her own. Now, however, she had not quite made up her mind.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ he ventured.

  ‘But it’s very powerful, isn’t it? Didn’t it make you jump when you first saw it?’

  ‘Ye-es. But so would a turnip lantern.’

  ‘I’m not quite, quite sure what I think,’ she allowed. ‘It knocked me over at first sight. But then I’m inclined to be suspicious of things which knock me over at first sight.’

  She might well be, he reflected—remembering some incautious enthusiasms from which she had subsequently been obliged to retreat.

  ‘Why did you bring it?’ he asked.

  ‘Well,’ she said, sinking into a chair, ‘I went up to Summersdown this afternoon.’

  ‘Any news of Conrad?’

  ‘I don’t gather so. But Elizabeth is quite intolerable. I’m not going to that house again. Conrad must come here if he wants to see us, and come without her. Why should we put up with her insolence? I shall pass the word round; I think we’d much better, all of us, keep away from Summersdown. She’s made it pretty plain that she doesn’t want to see any of us.’

  ‘What did she say particularly?’

  ‘Oh, she was just incoherent and abusive. She accused me of expecting everybody to sing for their supper! Such ingratitude considering … I didn’t say anything. I just left her and went off to find the Apollo. It was in the shed.’

  She turned in her chair to have another look at it.

  ‘I must say,’ she added, ‘I find it … impressive. You know, Don, it is really Apollo. It has such ruthlessness, such non-humanity.… And then the thought crossed my mind that it might be in safer keeping. I’m not too sure that Elizabeth hasn’t got some understanding with that awful man. One doesn’t know what they’d do with it. So I put it in the car and brought it down here. Why don’t you like it?’

  ‘It just … says nothing to me.’

  ‘But his work is so different from yours.’

  ‘I know. But this isn’t like his work, somehow. You don’t get that impact of Conrad’s mind … his intellect.…’

  ‘I’m most anxious to hear what Alan says.’

  ‘Oh? He’s coming, is he?’

  ‘Yes. He’s looking in for a drink on his way back to Bristol. He’s been over at Ilfracombe, about a job there.’

  So that was the trouble. She did not want absolutely to commit herself until Wetherby had given judgment.

  ‘He’ll crab it,’ prophesied Don.

  ‘Why should he?’

  ‘He invariably crabs Conrad. You must have noticed that. He won’t want a Swann in his pavilion. He’ll be furious.’

  ‘I shan’t tell him about that. I shall let him think I mean to buy it myself, and ask his honest opinion.’

  ‘His honest opinion! When has he ever praised anybody?’

  The door bell rang.

  ‘There he is,’ she said. ‘Mix the Martinis, will you?’

  She rose and wandered about the room, examining the Apollo from various angles, her small ferret’s head a little on one side. They heard Ahmed, their houseman, going to the door. Presently Wetherby appeared. He could not have failed to see the Apollo as soon as he got into the room, but he took no notice of it. He advanced upon them, rubbing his hands, and exclaimed in solemn tones:

  ‘Have you heard the news?’

  ‘No?’ cried Martha, looking startled.

  ‘East Head,’ he told them, ‘is to have a new public convenience.’

  They smiled uneasily.

  ‘On the parade, beside the car park. It’s to be a most striking affair. Your friend the Mayor has got the contracts, and if you’ll take a tip from me you’ll keep an eye on his estimates or he’ll do you down. I’ve worked with him. But what a town you are! Always on the move. Always up to something. Thanks, Don.’

  He sipped his Martini and stared blandly round the room, at everything except the Apollo.

  ‘I thought you’d had news of Conrad,’ said Martha.

  ‘News of Conrad? Why should I? Hasn’t he turned up yet?’

  ‘No. We’ve no idea where he is.’

  ‘Ah well! Never question a man too closely when he tells you he must go. Martha, you’re a cultivated woman, but I bet you sixpence you don’t know who wrote that. Do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I knew you didn’t. Ella Wheeler Wilcox! Wonderful woman. Said what nobody else dares say. It wouldn’t be a bad inscription to put up over your new amenity. Well, Don? Very busy?’

  ‘No,’ said Don, wondering, not for the first time, why anybody ever let Wetherby into the house.

  Martha could no longer control her impatience.

  ‘Alan,’ she said, with a gesture at the dais, ‘I want you to look at this.’

  He gave a dramatic start, went up to it, examined it carefully, and commented:

  ‘Very fetching. But what is it, exactly?’

  ‘Conrad’s Apollo.’

  ‘What?’

  Sheer amazement, for an instant, ruffled his composure.

  ‘You say … Swann … did this?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Quite sure. I’ve just brought it from Summersdown. It was in the shed, where he put it on Thursday.’

  ‘If you say so.… But what about Gressington?’

  Don had been wondering how she would explain that, but she did not seem to find the question embarrassing.

  ‘It’s not going,’ she said, ‘unless Conrad comes back and insists on sending it. In his absence, we’ve decided not to.’

  ‘No? Really? Why?’

  ‘Some rather disquieting information has come to my ears … I had a talk today with Mr. Archer … you know whom I mean?’

  ‘I should say I do, considering what he did to us on Sunday night. It’s my opinion he put vodka in that brew. Conrad’s dealer, isn’t he?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Martha crossly. ‘He doesn’t handle Conrad’s affairs any more. But he dropped a few hints about Gressington. Of course he knows all the people there. He didn’t exactly say so, but I gather the prize is a foregone conclusion. All this business of an open competition is mere publicity. So, if there is no chance that Conrad could win the prize, I don’t think he should consent merely to be exhibited along with all the o
ther entries. A good deal of second-rate work will probably be sent in; a lot of headaches for the adjudicators, as Mr. Archer put it. Since I’m in charge of Conrad’s concerns I think I shan’t send this in. I wouldn’t have urged him to compete if I’d known as much as I do now about Gressington.’

  Wetherby nodded. He might be swallowing all this. He might not. His accustomed sly inscrutability had returned to him.

  ‘So now tell me frankly,’ she finished. ‘What do you think of it?’

  ‘I?’ He looked startled. ‘Oh … I’m only an engineer, though I call myself an architect. What I think can’t matter.’

  ‘Of course it matters. I … I rather thought it might look well in this room. But I’m not quite sure … you don’t get the … the impact of Conrad’s intellect … do you?’

  Wetherby had a sudden attack of coughing.

  ‘Personally,’ began Don, ‘I …’

  Martha silenced him with a peremptory look. They watched Wetherby, who was again scrutinising the Apollo. He went up to it, pulled it unceremoniously towards him, and ran a finger along one of its spikes. Then he turned and gave judgment:

  ‘I didn’t know he had it in him.’

  ‘You like it?’ cried Martha.

  ‘A terrific power went to the making of it. You must buy it, Martha. You really must. Just what this room needs! And if you give a penny less than two hundred pounds for it you’ll be doing poor old Conrad dirt.’

  ‘You do think it’s wonderful?’ she urged.

  ‘I’m stunned. It’s a miracle. I can’t think how he did it. I’ve never encouraged you to buy anything before, have I? But I do now. Thanks, Don!’

  Wetherby took his second cocktail and grinned at them.

  ‘Exactly what I think,’ said Martha, in great satisfaction.

  ‘And Don? What does Don think?’

  ‘Oh, he’s a little bit frightened of it, aren’t you, Don?’

  ‘He’d better get over that, hadn’t he?’

  Don put down a bottle hastily. He had nearly thrown it at Wetherby’s head.

  ‘It so defiantly gets away from the grocer’s idea of Apollo,’ suggested Martha.

  ‘Which grocer?’ asked Wetherby.

  ‘Oh … you know! Clive Bell’s grocer.’

  ‘I know nothing about Clive Bell’s grocer. Why should I? My grocer lives in Bristol, but I don’t expect anybody knows about him.’

  ‘Oh, Alan, don’t be tiresome. You know perfectly well what I mean. “Art and what the grocer thinks he sees are two quite different things.”’

  ‘I never met a grocer who thought he’d seen Apollo.’

  ‘All grocerdom will shriek at this, thank goodness.’

  ‘Very likely. Which reminds me; there was some grocerdom at the party on Sunday. Our Mr. Pattison in a natty lounge suit, looking rather puzzled. Why was he there?’

  ‘Conrad asked him.’

  ‘Is that so? You seemed to be oiling him in a marked way.’

  ‘I think it’s time that the town began to realise something of Conrad’s importance.’

  ‘I see. They won’t dare shriek as soon as they’ve got it into their heads that Conrad is a Good Thing. That’s the trouble with grocers. They can’t even shriek honestly. Anybody can bully them. They haven’t even the guts to stand up for what they think they see.’

  ‘They’re beginning to acquiesce,’ allowed Martha.

  ‘Then they get what they deserve.’

  ‘Quite. I mean, look at your Pavilion! Think of all the opposition there was at first. Now they’re getting used to it.’

  ‘Just like them,’ said Wetherby, looking at his watch. ‘Well, I must be off!’

  He took another long stare at the Apollo.

  ‘If only it had gone to Gressington,’ he sighed. ‘I really think you ought, you know.’

  ‘I don’t believe Conrad despises grocers,’ exclaimed Don suddenly. ‘I don’t believe he despises anybody.’

  ‘Man! Where’s his integrity if he doesn’t? Must go. Goodbye, Martha. Thanks for the drinks. Don’t bother to come to the door with me, Don. A little grocerish, that. I’ll find my way out.’

  He strode from the room and shut the door smartly behind him.

  ‘You heard?’ exulted Martha. ‘He thinks it’s a masterpiece. And he’s given me a figure too. I shall keep two hundred in mind when I get to work on our grocers.’

  ‘If they’re honest grocers they won’t give you tuppence.’

  ‘Now, Don! I must please count on your support. It’s everything that I can quote Alan. They have got it into their thick heads that he knows what he’s talking about. I might bring half a dozen famous critics down here, to praise the Apollo, without making anything like the same impression.’

  Don wondered if any famous critic would have come to East Head at Martha’s bidding. But he held his peace. It was not worth a squabble. And yet … He looked again at the Apollo.

  ‘You’re quite sure,’ he said slowly, ‘that Conrad … that it is … that he really did it?’

  ‘Why! My dear Don! Who else could have done it?’

  6

  ‘A SLIGHT chill and anno domini, that’s all,’ said Dr. Browning over the telephone. ‘This changeable weather tells on old men. Nothing to worry about. I’ve sent him to bed for a day or two. Your wife was round there this morning arranging things with his housekeeper.’

  Dickie had just returned from Weston and had an afternoon appointment at Brinstock, but he drove round at once to see his father. He found the old man somewhat petulant at being kept in bed, where he had nothing to do, while a great deal was waiting to be done in his garden. Christina had brought him some books to read, but he never read books in the daytime, except occasionally on wet Sundays. All this coddling was nonsense.

  He cheered up at the sight of Dickie, however, and listened with eagerness to all the latest news. The most surprising item concerned Mr. Pethwick, who had decided suddenly to leave East Head and end his days with a married daughter in the Argentine. The sale of Brinstock House was to be put into Dickie’s hands; he was going over that afternoon to discuss it, since Pethwick was immobilised with lumbago.

  ‘I wonder Christina didn’t tell me about that,’ said Mr. Pattison. ‘She might have known I’d be interested. You say he rang you up yesterday? I wonder she said nothing.’

  ‘I don’t think I happened to mention it,’ said Dickie.

  This was an extraordinary statement, and he knew it. Pethwick’s departure should have been the main conversational dish at supper last night. He had meant to tell her, but had suddenly, in a fit of irritation, decided to keep the news to himself. He had told her about Sir Gregory’s objections to the sewage disposal scheme, and she had said that it was just like Sir Gregory to object. He had told her about Prescott’s tenant, and she had said that it was just like Mr. Prescott not to mend the roof. It seemed to him that he could not bear to hear her say that it was just like Mr. Pethwick to go to the Argentine. This phrase, so frequently upon the lips of Christina and her friends, had always annoyed him. It was the inevitable comment, whatever anybody did, good or bad, wise or foolish. The pattern of events must never be disturbed by conduct which might be called unexpected or unusual. People in East Head were always found to be just like themselves. To be told so, much oftener, was more than Dickie could stand.

  His father was looking at him—sharp old eyes peering out of a strangely wasted face. He’s aged, thought Dickie. Aged since I saw him last. He’s ill.

  ‘Is the doctor coming again tomorrow?’ he asked.

  ‘I believe so. I didn’t think Christina was looking quite her usual self, by the way. Is she all right?’

  ‘Quite all right. She’s very well.’

  ‘Not another …?’

  ‘Oh no. Not yet.’

  ‘Nothing wrong at all?’

  ‘Why no, Dad. What could there be?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just got the impression …’

  Mr. Pattison sighe
d and turned his head wearily upon the pillow. He looked towards the window, where a slow white cloud was sailing behind the branches of a copper beech. A mournful remoteness fell about him as he gazed, as though he could no longer see these things as he once had. He might already have taken farewell of them.

  He is going to die, thought Dickie, and remembered that it was only a chill. Browning had said that there was no need to worry. But a whisper of uneasiness remained.

  ‘I can remember my father planting that tree,’ said Mr. Pattison, ‘when I was a lad. It’s twice your age. Fancy that now!’

  He mused for a while and then he said:

  ‘Women! It doesn’t do to criticise them. They get ideas. They start thinking you don’t love them any more.’

  ‘Did you never criticise Mother?’

  ‘Not I! Once I got to understand her. They take a bit of understanding, don’t you find?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Dickie, without conviction.

  ‘I don’t mean I wouldn’t speak up if she did anything I didn’t like. If she fed me prunes and tapioca too often I’d say so. But … well … you can’t change them. If they think you want them to be different, then they start thinking you’d rather have married another woman. Then there’s trouble.’

  ‘Honestly, Dad, there’s no trouble between Tina and me.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. I just wondered. There’s a way a woman goes round smiling when she’s got a grievance.… If you want your own way about anything, don’t start trying to convince her that it’s the right way. That only makes them stubborn. She’ll take a lot of trouble to please you, yes, and give in to you, because she loves you, not because she thinks you’re right.’

  ‘I’ve been married nearly two years,’ Dickie observed.

  ‘I took longer than that to find out what I mustn’t say to your mother. I’ve been through it all, remember.’

  Dickie made no reply to this save that he must be getting along to Brinstock.

  He left the house in a rebellious mood. The assurance that his father had been through it all before him was depressing. He was only too conscious of treading a well-worn path; older people were always claiming to have preceded him upon it and insisting that nothing done, felt, thought, or said, by him could be in any way original. They knew every inch of the road, and could foresee everything that lay before him until he finished the journey in his coffin.