The Complete Short Stories

by Muriel Spark

  ‘Everything all right, Father?’

  ‘Where have you been, dear?’

  ‘Only for a walk round the back streets to smell the savours.

  ‘Dora, you are a chip off the old block. What did you see?’

  ‘Brown limbs, white teeth, men in shirt-sleeves behind café windows, playing cards with green bottles in front of them.’

  ‘Good — you see everything with my eyes, Dora.’

  ‘Heat, smell, brown legs — it’s what we are paying for, Father.’

  ‘Dora, you are becoming vulgar, if you don’t mind my saying so. The eye of the true artist doesn’t see life in the way of goods paid for. The world is ours. It is our birthright. We take it without payment.

  ‘I’m not an artist like you, Father. Let me move the umbrella — you mustn’t get too much sun.

  ‘Times have changed,’ he said, glancing along the pebble beach, ‘the young men today have no interest in life.’

  She knew what her father meant. All along the beach, the young men playing with the air, girls, the sun; they were coming in from the sea, shaking the water from their heads; they were walking over the pebbles, then splashing into the water; they were taking an interest in their environment with every pore of their skin, as Father would have said in younger days when he was writing his books. What he meant, now, when he said, ‘the young men today have no interest in life’, was that his young disciples, his admirers, had all gone, they were grown old and preoccupied, and had not been replaced. The last young man to seek out Father had been a bloodless-looking youth — not that one judged by appearances — who had called about seven years ago at their house in Essex. Father had made the most of him, giving up many of his mornings to sitting in the library talking about books with the young man, about life and the old days. But this, the last of Father’s disciples, had left after two weeks with a promise to send them the article he was going to write about Father and his works. Indeed he had sent a letter: ‘Dear Henry Castlemaine, — Words cannot express my admiration …’ After that they had heard no more. Dora was not really sorry. He was a poor specimen compared with the men who, in earlier days, used to visit Father. Dora in her late teens could have married one of three or four vigorous members of the Henry Castlemaine set, but she had not done so because of her widowed father and his needs as a public figure; and now she sometimes felt it would have served Father better if she had married, because of Father — one could have contributed from a husband’s income, perhaps, to his declining years.

  Dora said, ‘We must be going back to the hotel for lunch.’

  ‘Let us lunch somewhere else. The food there is …’

  She helped her father from the deck-chair and, turning to the sea, took a grateful breath of the warm blue breeze. A young man, coming up from the sea, shook his head blindly and splashed her with water; then noticing what he had done he said — turning and catching her by the arm — ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ He spoke in English, was an Englishman, and she knew already how unmistakably she was an Englishwoman. ‘All right,’ she said, with a quick little laugh. The father was fumbling with his stick, the incident had passed, was immediately forgotten by Dora as she took his arm and propelled him across the wide hot boulevard where the white-suited policemen held up the impetuous traffic. ‘How would you like to be arrested by one of those, Dora?’ He gave his deep short laugh and looked down at her. ‘I’d love it, Father.’ Perhaps he wouldn’t insist on lunching elsewhere. If only they could reach the hotel, it would be all right; Father would be too exhausted to insist. But already he was saying, ‘Let’s find somewhere for lunch.’

  ‘Well, we’ve paid for it at the hotel, Father.’

  ‘Don’t be vulgar, my love.’

  In the following March, when Dora met Ben Donadieu for the first time, she had the feeling she had seen him somewhere before, she knew not where. Later, she told him of this, but he could not recall having seen her. But this sense of having seen him somewhere remained with Dora all her life. She came to believe she had met him in a former existence. In fact, it was on the beach at Nice that she had seen him, when he came up among the pebbles from the sea, and shook his hair, wetting her, and took her arm, apologizing.

  ‘Don’t be vulgar, my love. The hotel food is appalling. Not French at all.’

  ‘It’s the same all over France, Father, these days.’

  ‘There used to be a restaurant — what was its name? — in one of those little streets behind the Casino. Let’s go there. All the writers go there.’

  ‘Not any more, Father.’

  ‘Well, so much the better. Let’s go there in any case. What’s the name of the place? — Anyway, come on, I could go there blindfold. All the writers used to go …’

  She laughed, because, after all, he was sweet. As she walked with him towards the Casino she did not say — Not any more, Father, do the writers go there. The writers don’t come to Nice, not those of moderate means. But there’s one writer here this year, Father, called Kenneth Hope, whom you haven’t heard about. He uses our beach, and I’ve seen him once — a shy, thin, middle-aged man. But he won’t speak to anyone. He writes wonderfully, Father. I’ve read his novels, they open windows in the mind that have been bricked-up for a hundred years. I have read The Inventors, which made great fame and fortune for him. It is about the inventors of patent gadgets, what lives they lead, how their minds apply themselves to invention and to love, and you would think, while you were reading The Inventors, that the place they live in was dominated by inventors. He has that magic, Father — he can make you believe anything. Dora did not say this, for her father had done great work too, and deserved a revival. His name was revered, his books were not greatly spoken of, they were not read. He would not understand the fame of Kenneth Hope. Father’s novels were about the individual consciences of men and women, no one could do the individual conscience like Father. ‘Here we are, Father — this is the place, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, Dora, it’s further along.’

  ‘Oh, but that’s the Tumbril; it’s wildly expensive.’

  ‘Really, darling!’

  She decided to plead the heat, and to order only a slice of melon for lunch with a glass of her father’s wine. Both tall and slim, they entered the restaurant. Her hair was drawn back, the bones of her face were good, her eyes were small and fixed ready for humour, for she had decided to be a spinster and do it properly; she looked forty-six and she did not look forty-six; her skin was dry; her mouth was thin, and was growing thinner with the worry about money. The father looked eighty years old, as he was. Thirty years ago people used to turn round and say, as he passed. ‘That’s Henry Castlemaine.’

  Ben lay on his stomach on his mattress on the beach enclosure. Carmelita Hope lay on her mattress, next to him. They were eating rolls and cheese and drinking white wine which the beach attendant had brought to them from the café. Carmelita’s tan was like a perfect garment, drawn skin-tight over her body. Since leaving school she had been in numerous jobs behind the scenes of film and television studios. Now she was out of a job again. She thought of marrying Ben, he was so entirely different from all the other men of her acquaintance, he was joyful and he was serious. He was also good-looking: he was half-French, brought up in England. And an interesting age, thirty-one. He was a schoolteacher, but Father could probably get him a job in advertising or publishing. Father could do a lot of things for them both if only he would exert himself. Perhaps if she got married he would exert himself.

  ‘Did you see your father at all yesterday, Carmelita?’

  ‘No; as a matter of fact he’s driven up the coast. I think he’s gone to stay at some villa on the Italian border.’

  ‘I should like to see more of him,’ said Ben. ‘And have a talk with him. I’ve never really had a chance to have a talk with him.’

  ‘He’s awfully shy,’ said Carmelita, ‘with my friends.’

  Sometimes she felt a stab of dissatisfaction when Ben talked about her f
ather. Ben had read all his books through and through — that seemed rather obsessive to Carmelita, reading books a second time and a third, as if one’s memory was defective. It seemed to her that Ben loved her only because she was Kenneth Hope’s daughter, and then, again, it seemed to her that this couldn’t be so, for Ben wasn’t attracted by money and success. Carmelita knew lots of daughters of famous men, and they were beset by suitors who were keen on their fathers’ money and success. But it was the books that Ben liked about her father.

  ‘He never interferes with me,’ she said. ‘He’s rather good that way.

  ‘I would like to have a long talk with him,’ Ben said.

  ‘What about? — He doesn’t like talking about his work.’

  ‘No, but a man like that. I would like to know his mind.’

  ‘What about my mind?’

  ‘You’ve got a lovely mind. Full of pleasant laziness. No guile.’ He drew his forefinger from her knee to her ankle. She was wearing a pink bikini. She was very pretty and had hoped to become a starlet before her eighteenth birthday. Now she was close to twenty-one and was thinking of marrying Ben instead, and was relieved that she no longer wanted to be an actress. He had lasted longer than any other boyfriend. She had often found a boy exciting at first but usually went off him quite soon.

  Ben was an intellectual, and intellectuals, say what you like, seemed to last longer than anyone else. There was more in them to find out about. One was always discovering new things — she supposed it was Father’s blood in her that drew her towards the cultivated type, like Ben.

  He was staying at a tiny hotel in a back street near the old quay. The entrance was dark, but the room itself was right at the top of the house, with a little balcony. Carmelita was staying with friends at a villa. She spent a lot of time in Ben’s room, and sometimes slept there. It was turning out to be a remarkably happy summer.

  ‘You won’t see much of Father,’ she said, ‘if we get married. He works and sees nobody. When he doesn’t write he goes away. Perhaps he’ll get married again and —’

  ‘That’s all right,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to marry your father.’

  Dora Castlemaine had several diplomas for elocution which she had never put to use. She got a part-time job, after the Christmas holidays that year, in Basil Street Grammar School in London, and her job was to try to reform the more pronounced Cockney accents of the more promising boys into a near-standard English. Her father was amazed.

  ‘Money, money, you are always talking about money. Let us run up debts. One is nobody without debts.’

  ‘One’s credit is limited, Father. Don’t be an old goose.’

  ‘Have you consulted Waite?’ Waite was the publisher’s young man who looked after the Castlemaine royalties, diminishing year by year.

  ‘We’ve drawn more than our due for the present.

  ‘Well, it’s a bore, you going out to teach.’

  ‘It may be a bore for you,’ she said at last, ‘but it isn’t for me.

  ‘Dora, do you really mean you want to go to this job in London?’

  ‘Yes, I want to. I’m looking forward to it.’

  He didn’t believe her. But he said, ‘I suppose I’m a bit of a burden on you, Dora, these days. Perhaps I ought to go off and die.’

  ‘Like Oates at the South Pole,’ Dora commented.

  He looked at her and she looked at him. They were shrewd in their love for each other.

  She was the only woman teacher in the school, with hardly the status of a teacher. She had her own corner of the common room and, anxious to reassure the men that she had no intention of intruding upon them, would, during free periods, spread out on the table one of the weekly journals and study it intently, only looking up to say good morning or good afternoon to the masters who came in with piles of exercise books under their arms. Dora had no exercise books to correct, she was something apart, a reformer of vowel sounds. One of the masters, and then another, made conversation with her during morning break, when she passed round the sugar for the coffee. Some were in their early thirties. The ginger-moustached science master was not long graduated from Cambridge. Nobody said to her, as intelligent young men had done as late as fifteen years ago, ‘Are you any relation, Miss Castlemaine, to Henry Castlemaine the writer?’

  Ben walked with Carmelita under the trees of Lincoln’s Inn Fields in the spring of the year, after school, and watched the children at their games. They were a beautiful couple. Carmelita was doing secretarial work in the City. Her father was in Morocco, having first taken them out to dinner to celebrate their engagement.

  Ben said, ‘There’s a woman at the school, teaching elocution.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Carmelita. She was jumpy, because since her father’s departure for Morocco Ben had given a new turn to their relationship. He would not let her stay overnight in his fiat in Bayswater, not even at the weekends. He said it would be nice, perhaps, to practise restraint until they were married in the summer, and that would give them something to look forward to. ‘And I’m interested to see,’ said Ben, ‘what we mean to each other without sex.

  This made her understand how greatly she had become obsessed with him. She thought perhaps he was practising a form of cruelty to intensify her obsession. In fact, he did want to see what they meant to each other without sex.

  She called at his flat unexpectedly and found him reading, with piles of other books set out on the table as if waiting to be read.

  She accused him: You only want to get rid of me so that you can read your books.

  ‘The fourth form is reading Trollope,’ he explained, pointing to a novel of Trollope’s among the pile.

  ‘But you aren’t studying Trollope just now.

  He had been reading a life of James Joyce. He banged it down and said, ‘I’ve been reading all my life, and you won’t stop me, Carmelita.’ She sat down. ‘I don’t want to stop you,’ she said.’

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  ‘We aren’t getting on at all well without sex,’ she said, and on that occasion stayed the night.

  He was writing an essay on her father. She wished that her father had taken more interest in it. Father had taken them out to dinner with his party face, smiling and boyish. Carmelita had seen him otherwise — in his acute dejection, when he seemed hardly able to endure the light of day.

  ‘What’s the matter, Father?’

  ‘There’s a comedy of errors going on inside me, Carmelita.’ He sat at his desk most of the day while he was in these moods, doing nothing. Then, during the night, he would perhaps start writing, and sleep all the next morning, and gradually in the following days the weight would pass.

  ‘There’s a man on the phone wants you, Father — an interview.’

  ‘Tell him I’m in the Middle East.’

  ‘What did you think of Ben, Father?’

  ‘A terribly nice man, Carmelita. You’ve made the right choice, I think.’

  ‘An intellectual — I do like them best, you know.’

  ‘I’d say he was the student type. Always will be.’

  ‘He wants to write an essay about you, Father. He’s absolutely mad about your books.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I mean, couldn’t you help him, Father? Couldn’t you talk to him about your work, you know?’

  ‘Oh, God, Carmelita. It would be easier to write the bloody essay myself.’

  ‘All right, all right. I was only asking.’

  ‘I don’t want any disciples, Carmelita. They give me the creeps.

  ‘Yes, yes, all right. I know you’re an artist, Father, there’s no need to show off your temperament. I only wanted you to help Ben. I only …’

  I only, she thought as she walked in Lincoln’s Inn Fields with Ben, wanted him to help me. I should have said, ‘I want you to talk more to Ben, to help me.’ And Father would have said, ‘How do you mean?’ And I would have said, ‘I don’t know, quite.’ And he would have said, ‘Well, if you don’t know what you mean,
how the hell do I?’

  Ben was saying, ‘There’s a woman at the school, teaching elocution.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Carmelita jumpily.

  ‘A Miss Castlemaine. She’s been there four months, and I only found Out today that she’s the daughter of Henry Castlemaine.’

  ‘But he’s dead!’ said Carmelita.

  ‘Well, I thought so too. But apparently he isn’t dead, he’s very much alive in a house in Essex.’

  ‘How old is Miss Castlemaine?’ said Carmelita.

  ‘Middle-aged. Middle forties. Perhaps late forties. She’s a nice woman, a classic English spinster. She teaches the boys to say “How now brown cow.” You could imagine her doing wood-engravings in the Cotswolds. I only found out today —’

  ‘You might manage to get invited to meet him, with any luck,’ Carmelita said.

  ‘Yes, she said I must come and see him, perhaps for a weekend. Miss Castlemaine is going to arrange it. She was awfully friendly when she found I was a Castlemaine admirer. A lot of people must think he’s dead. Of course, his work belongs to a past world, but it’s wonderful. Do you know The Pebbled Shore? — that’s an early one.

  ‘No, but I’ve read Sin of Substance, I think It —’

  ‘You mean The Sinner and the Substance. Oh, it has fine things in it. Castlemaine’s due for a revival.’

  Carmelita felt a sharp stab of anger with her father, and then a kind of despair which was not as yet entirely familiar to her, although already she wondered if this was how Father felt in his great depressions when he sat all day, staring and enduring, and all night miraculously wrote the ache out of his system in prose of harsh merriment.

  Helplessly, she said, ‘Castlemaine’s novels aren’t as good as Father’s, are they?’

  ‘Oh, there’s no comparison. Castlemaine is quite different. You can’t say one type is better than another — goodness me!’ He was looking academically towards the chimney stacks of Lincoln’s Inn. This was the look in which she loved him most. After all, she thought, the Castlemaines might make everything easier for both of us.