by Colin Wilson
Yes.
She stood up, and folded the top of the carrier bag. Again, he became aware that speaking of herself embarrassed her. She said:
Excuse me. I have to make a phone call before I forget.
I’ll go upstairs, if you don’t mind.
In the bathroom, he could hear the murmur of her voice as she telephoned. The room was agreeably warm; he felt drowsy and well-fed. He found the warm water, and the orange scent of the soap, so agreeable that he removed his shirt and washed his neck and face. He wiped the steam off the mirror, and regarded his pink face with approval. There was a two-day growth of beard on his chin, but his complexion was fair and it was hardly noticeable. He wiped away the soap from behind his ears, and made a face at himself in the mirror. Below, the doorbell rang. He went closer to the door and listened, but could hear nothing. She must have opened the door without replacing the phone, for the sound of her voice continued. As he came out of the bathroom, the phone pinged as she replaced it on its rest. She was in the kitchen as he came down the stairs; he asked her:
Has someone arrived?
My niece.
The girl was kneeling in front of the fire when he came into the room, warming her hands. He said:
How do you do?
She glanced up at him, then stood up, smiling.
Hello!
It was the girl whose photograph he had seen in the bedroom. The short blonde hair looked as if it had been recently cut and waved. When she smiled, he noticed that the two front teeth were irregular; one slightly overlapped the other. He guessed her to be about sixteen. She said:
I’m Caroline. Who are you?
Gerard Sorme.
Are you one of Aunt’s Jehovah’s Witnesses?
No.
I didn’t think you were. You don’t look like one!
Her smile left him in no doubt that she intended it as a compliment.
No? What do I look like?
I don’t know. She considered him with her head slightly on one side, then giggled. It betrayed her age, and contrasted with the controlled, sophisticated drawl with which she spoke. He was slightly repelled by her air of sophistication.
Miss Quincey came in.
Oh, you’ve introduced yourselves? Would you like a drink, Caroline?
Yes, please. Can I have a glass of sherry?
I didn’t mean that kind of a drink, Miss Quincey said. Your mother told me not to let you touch alcohol.
But I’m frozen, Caroline said plaintively. Feel.
She laid the back of her hand against Miss Quincey’s face.
All right. But don’t have a lot. I’m making some tea. She asked Sorme: Would you like some tea?
Please!
Don’t let Caroline drink too much sherry!
She went out of the room again. Caroline said: I’ll be hiccupping on the carpet when you come back!
Sorme looked at her with warming interest. Miss Quincey’s appeal to him introduced a flavour of intimacy. It placed him in the position of her guardian. He watched her moving bottles in the cupboard. She asked:
Are you drinking?
I was, he said. Brandy.
Have a refill!
He saw that Miss Quincey’s glass was still untouched. He said: I don’t think Gertrude intends to drink this. Perhaps I’d better.
I dare say you had, she said. She sat on the settee, and crossed her knees. She had shapely legs. She was wearing a simple black dress with elbow-length sleeves.
Well, tell me what you do, then! I can’t guess.
I write. . . .
Do you! A writer. Lovely! I’ve always wanted to know a writer.
Really? Surely I’m not the first?
Almost. Daddy used to be friends with a novelist called Dennis Scott years ago. I fell for him good and hard! He was terribly good-looking. . . .
He said, smiling:
I see. And did anything come of it?
Come of it? Lord, no! I was only about ten.
Sorme said teasingly: You must have been delicious!
She said: Oh yes! in a slightly American manner. It was a return to her drawl, which had begun to disappear.
And how old are you now?
Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen in three months. What do you write?
Tell me what you do first.
I act. That is, I’m learning to act. At Lamda.
Where?
Lamda. The rival of Rada. London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art. It’s in Kensington.
I see!
He was suddenly able to place her. Her combination of naïveté and sophistication had puzzled him, like her complete lack of shyness. He realised that probably in two years’ time she would speak with a drawl all the time, and call everybody darling; in the meantime, her manner was a hybrid of schoolgirl and theatre. She said:
I suppose you live in Hampstead?
No. I don’t, as a matter of fact.
Oh. I thought you were one of aunt’s arty friends.
No. I’m a friend of Austin’s.
Austin! I’ve never met him. I’ve always wanted to. Is he charming?
He wouldn’t interest you, Sorme said, smiling.
No, why? Unexpectedly, she seemed to understand: Oh, I see. He’s like that, is he?
You shouldn’t know anything about it!
No? Why not? We’ve got two in our class. They go around with their arms round one another.
That must be annoying for everyone.
It is. There’s one girl whose got a terrible crush on one of them—the one called Ernest. She’s really got it bad. I think queers are rather attractive—in a repulsive kind of way. Don’t you?
He said, smiling: I wouldn’t know. My tastes don’t lie that way.
She said: Good! He wondered whether it meant what it seemed to mean. He was trying to determine whether the warmth of her smile was intended for him particularly, or whether it was part of a general manner she had picked up at the drama school. She leaned back on the settee, and stared up at the ceiling. He looked hopefully at her knees, but the dress had not travelled far as she stretched. She said:
Tell me what you write.
Not now, he said. Some other time.
She looked at him sideways.
When?
He felt a shock of pleasure that was controlled and softened by the effect of the brandy. Before he could reply, Miss Quincey came back in. She glanced disapprovingly at Caroline’s position, which the girl seemed to feel without catching the glance: she sat up and began to rearrange the cushions. Miss Quincey said:
I didn’t expect you until late, dear.
I know. I meant to come from the theatre, but they called the rehearsal off. I’m darned glad too. I’m really exhausted. We’ve had such a day! Am I interrupting any profound discussion?
No, dear, Miss Quincey said comfortably. She was pouring tea.
Gerard . . .
The use of his name surprised him. She was holding out a teacup.
Oh, thank you. . . .
What have you been talking about? Caroline asked. Her voice was drawling again.
Mainly about Austin, Sorme said.
Oh!
Caroline, Miss Quincey said. The girl took the cup.
Are you hungry?
I am a bit. I haven’t had anything since lunch-time.
No tea?
Couldn’t be bothered. I was learning my part.
Oh dear. You really ought to. I’ll get you something in a moment.
Don’t bother. I’ll find myself a sandwich.
Sorme asked her: What part are you playing? He was not interested, but Miss Quincey’s food-talk was beginning to irritate him. Caroline said vaguely:
I forget her name. She’s the wife of a poet. . . . We’re doing a play about the French poet Rimbaud. I’m the wife of his best friend.
Verlaine?
That’s right. I have to recite a poem in French. I hope my accent’s all right. It begins . . .
Dr
ink your tea, dear, Miss Quincey said.
All right, the girl said meekly. She sipped her tea.
Miss Quincey sat down. She asked:
What on earth did I do with my brandy?
Oh . . . I drank it. I’m sorry. I didn’t think you wanted it.
That’s all right. I didn’t really. I just didn’t want to waste it. . . .
She had contrived to make him feel guilty, and given him an odd sense of kinship with Caroline. The girl looked at him over the top of her cup; her eyes looked bright. He stopped himself from answering her look. She set her teacup down, and stretched like a cat, her breasts curving. There was a faint noise of something giving way. She said with annoyance:
Damn. My bra’s bust!
Caroline! Miss Quincey said.
The girl ignored her; she raised her elbow and felt down the back of her neck.
That’s twice today, she said. Have you got a needle, aunt?
Miss Quincey got up silently, and crossed to the sideboard. Sorme was aware of her irritation and disapproval. Caroline seemed oblivious of it. He said, smiling:
I hope it didn’t happen under embarrassing circumstances?
He felt Miss Quincey’s eyes on him. Caroline said:
No. Luckily I was on my own. But I know one poor girl who lost her pants in rehearsal. . . .
She began to giggle breathlessly. Miss Quincey returned with a needle and a reel of white cotton. Caroline took it without looking at her. She said:
It was so funny. . . . She had the kind that stay up with a button. . . .
Caroline! Miss Quincey said.
And the button bust. . . . She nearly broke her neck with a pair of nylon briefs round her ankles. . . .
Really, Caroline!
But it was funny, the girl said defensively. She looked so silly trying to get off stage without falling over. . . .
Sorme felt a desire to irritate Miss Quincey further. He asked:
What would you have done if it had been you?
Miss Quincey sat down again, as if the conversation had become too risqué for her to take any further responsibility. Caroline said:
I’d have stepped out of them and gone on with the rehearsal!
Oh, really, dear! Miss Quincey looked flushed.
But it happens, Caroline said. What’s wrong with being frank about it?
Miss Quincey said, with surprising mildness:
It’s not a nice subject, dear.
Nice, Caroline said scornfully: You are silly, aunt!
Sorme looked apprehensively at Miss Quincey, but she sipped her tea quietly, almost abstractedly. The girl stood up.
I’ll go and get this sewn. Then I’ll cut myself a sandwich, if I may.
I’ll do it, dear.
No, don’t bother.
She went out of the room, taking her teacup with her. She turned and flashed Sorme a quick smile at the door. When the door had closed, Miss Quincey stared into space, a faintly perturbed expression on her face. She said finally:
I do worry about her.
Why?
She continued to stare, without replying. She said suddenly:
Oh well, I dare say it doesn’t matter. . . . She’ll get married. . . .
Of course, Sorme said.
She looked at him.
It’s different for you. You’re a man. Besides, you’re older than she is.
What do you mean?
She began to sew again, not replying. He watched her curiously, wondering what her feelings were. He could think of nothing to say that would open the subject. He asked finally:
Don’t you approve of the drama school?
It isn’t that. . . .
He waited, staring into the fire. She was looking at him, but he kept his eyes on the red bars. She said:
I try not to force my beliefs on other people, you see. I don’t force them on Austin or Caroline, or on you, do I?
No.
But . . . Well, I’m supposed to, really. It’s a part of our belief that everyone should have a chance to . . .
He waited for her to say ‘repent’, but she went on:
. . . hear about our message.
Sorme said:
Perhaps you don’t believe in it to that extent?
Oh yes, I believe, she said; her voice was as unmoved as if she was admitting to the possession of a front-door key. People have different ways of behaving about their beliefs. I don’t mind speaking to strangers about it, because they are under no obligation to listen. But if I forced it on those nearest to me, I’d feel guilty. Do . . . you understand me?
Quite. Perfectly.
All the same, when I see Caroline living as if nothing mattered but getting on the stage, I feel worried.
He said: Ask her to come to one of your Bible classes. . . .
The suggestion was not made seriously; he had no interest in talking about Caroline. She said immediately:
Oh no. I don’t think she’d be in the least interested. I know she wouldn’t. No. . . . I’m afraid she’d need to be approached by someone nearer her own age.
Preferably someone she’d get on with, Sorme said, remembering the pale-faced, dowdy girls he had seen singing hymns at the Speakers’ Corner on a Sunday afternoon. He looked round to meet her eyes, and was embarrassed to find them regarding him with troubled seriousness. She said:
You might be able to do it.
Me? But I’m not a Jehovah’s Witness, after all.
You could attend one or two of our meetings.
Of course. But that doesn’t guarantee that I’d finish up with your beliefs, does it?
That doesn’t matter. You’re a fundamentally serious person. That’s the important thing. . . .
I’m glad you think so.
But it is the important thing, isn’t it?
Possibly, he said carefully. But there’s an immense difference between my outlook and yours, for all that.
Is it so great?
He said:
I act on the assumption that the world is meaningless, that life is meaningless.
Meaningless? She looked almost scared.
Quite.
But how . . . how can it be meaningless? Surely you don’t believe that? No one could believe it.
Why not?
Life wouldn’t be worth living. . . .
Not at all. It is pleasant to live. That’s quite a different thing from believing life has a meaning.
She was regarding him with a doubtful, penetrating look, as if suspecting him of making fun of her, and being prepared to laugh when he acknowledged it. He smiled at her. She said suddenly:
But what do you write about if you think life has no meaning?
Ah! That’s a good question. I’ll tell you. I want to write a book about all the different ways people impose a meaning on their lives. It’s to be called The Methods and Techniques of Self-deception. It will deal with every possible way that people hide themselves from the meaninglessness of life. I shall start with a chapter on businessmen and politicians called The Efficient Man. Then there’ll be a chapter on the artists and writers and theatre people called The Aesthetic Man. Then a chapter on revolutionaries and men motivated by envy and discontentment. And, finally, several chapters on all types of religious self-deception. . . .
Her face had begun to clear as he spoke. She was smiling as she interrupted him:
But that’s a wonderful idea! I agree completely with you. A book like that would make our work much easier. After all, it’s really a religious conception, isn’t it? People won’t think about the really important things. . . .
I shall write a chapter on the Jehovah’s Witnesses too. I intend to be impartial.
But you know nothing about us.
I do. A little. You base everything on the Bible, don’t you? That’s a good starting-point.
She said excitedly:
But you say life is meaningless. The Bible contains the meaning of life. How can you condemn us without knowing the Bibl
e?
He said patiently:
You don’t understand. That isn’t my point. My point is that our experience is bitty. We live more or less in the present. If we were honest, we’d acknowledge that life is a series of moments tied together by our need to keep alive, to defeat boredom. Our experience is all in bits. But the Surbiton businessman sticks it together by believing that the purpose of life is to get him a bigger car. The politician sticks it together by identifying his purpose with that of his party. The religious man sticks it together by accepting the guidance of his church or his Bible. They’re all different kinds of glue, but they all have the same purpose . . . to impose a pattern, a meaning. But it’s all falsifying. If we were honest, we’d accept that life is meaningless.
She asked practically: And what good would that do?
It might make us less lazy and complacent. It might make us turn our lives into a search for a meaning.
But you just said it was meaningless?
Anything is meaningless until you’ve discovered its meaning.
That’s quite a different thing! That’s quite different from saying it has no meaning. But supposing there had been a few men who had seen the meaning? Men who had a vision sent from God . . . ?
What good would that do me? Why should I take anybody else’s word for it? I’d want to see the meaning myself.
He was so intent on her face that he started when the door behind him opened. Caroline said:
Do you mind if I bring my sandwiches in here? I won’t make any crumbs.
Miss Quincey said: Yes, dear. Do. Her voice was level, and betrayed no annoyance or surprise. Sorme felt baffled by her placidness. Caroline said: Thanks. She came into the room, carrying a tray. Miss Quincey shot a quick smile at Sorme that was almost coquettish. She said:
Anyway, it’s most brave of you to try to take all the responsibility on yourself. I hope you achieve what you want.
Sorme glanced at Caroline, feeling embarrassed. She asked: What’s brave of him?
He said: Oh nothing. . . .
He remembered then that he had still not promised to attend one of the meetings, or to ‘speak to’ Caroline; he felt suddenly pleased with himself.
Caroline said: Gerard looks terribly serious!
Sorme grinned at her:
I’ve been talking about all the people I’ll have shot when I’m dictator.
So long as I’m not on the list. . . .
He looked at her, and started to say: Shooting’s the last thing I’d want to do with you, then checked himself. She was looking through the Radio Times, chewing the sandwich. She said suddenly:
