by Colin Wilson
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 o.k. 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 o.k.?
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. O.k.? 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 slim 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 yo
ur 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 naïve, 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 woman’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 in
to 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:
