by Francis King
‘All right. Let’s have the first, Sybil.’
Sybil raised an arm and the fine, beige cashmere scarf streamed away from it. She waved the arm back and forth. Then Hugo saw Henry turn up a card and show it to Lionel. Cyril drew his brows together, in intense concentration. His body was trembling slightly and, as in the past, the old sheen was glistening on his forehead.
Then yap-yap-yap. Mr Wu, who had been seated on his haunches, leapt up, his ears cocked. Was some walker about to appear? Hugo looked around him but the whole landscape lay deserted. ‘Oh, do tell that dog to shut up!’ he shouted at Sybil.
‘Mr Wu! Come here! Come!’ Mr Wu reluctantly moved towards her. ‘Naughty!’ He now began to slide along the ground. Then, having reached her, he rested his head on one of her shoes.
‘Sorry, Cyril. Did you get that?’
‘I – I think so, Hugo.’ By now, Cyril had learned to address Hugo by his Christian name. A large drop of sweat trickled off the end of his nose and fell on to his shirt. ‘Queen,’ he whispered. Hugo lifted his clipboard and wrote a ‘Q’ under the column headed One.
‘All right, Sybil. Let’s have the next.’
Sybil, Mr Wu still resting his head on her shoe, raised the scarf in the air to be tugged by the wind. Far away, a tiny Henry moved towards an even more tiny Lionel. Henry’s arm went out, presumably with the card. Sunlight flashed on his gold-rimmed glasses, mended at one side with some grubby Elastoplast.
There was a silence, as Cyril clearly strained himself, his jaws tense and his eyes half closed. Then, again, Mr Wu began to yap, in an ever-increasing frenzy. ‘Mr Wu!’ Sybil shouted. But, as she did so, the dog shot off, bouncing along the path, towards Henry and Lionel. ‘Mr Wu! Mr Wu!’ Her voice seemed to wail, as though in lamentation; but the wind snatched at it and she could only assume that, indomitably bouncing over stones and tussocks, he did not hear her. On and on, he bounced, on his short but powerful legs, his tail an orange plume. Eventually, in the distance, he looked more like a rabbit than a dog.
Suddenly it came to Hugo. He felt a terrible pain behind his breastbone. Dying must feel like this, he thought, the excruciating pain at the centre of one’s being, the world tipping sideways, the feeling that all stable relationships with the everyday things around one were on the verge of disintegration. He gazed at Cyril. Cyril opened his mouth, a thread of saliva glistening in the sunlight before the wind snapped it. ‘ Ten.’ Hugo saw, rather than heard, what he said. ‘Ten,’ the boy repeated.
‘Oh, fuck ten!’ Hugo swung round. ‘That’s it,’ he said to Sybil.
Sybil was astounded that the trivial annoyance of the dog should have affected her brother so deeply. ‘Oh, don’t be silly. I’ll go and get him and put him on the lead.’
‘He’ll bark just the same. That’s it. Come on. Come on, Cyril!’
She had heard him often enough speak with that roughness to Audrey, the girls and even to herself, but never to the boy. Hugo began to stride towards Henry and Lionel, from time to time tripping, as though he were walking in darkness, over the same tussocks and protruding stones over which the gallant little dog had bounced. Sybil looked across at Cyril, who was standing motionless, his eyes fixed, wide open, on Hugo’s retreating figure. Suddenly she felt sorry for the boy, as she had never thought that she would do. She shrugged at him, gave a nervous smile. ‘Well, we’d better go too. No point in waiting here. But what a lot of fuss about nothing.’
She began to walk off; then, glancing over her shoulder, saw that, instead of accompanying her, the boy had remained on the same spot, as though petrified, that ashen hair, sculpted around his face, seeming miraculously impervious to the slapping and tugging of the wind which was sending her own whirling about her. ‘Aren’t you coming?’ she shouted. ‘No use to wait there.’ A dread came over her, like the cloud which at that same moment briefly obscured the sun. The cloud passed, in seconds as it seemed; the dread somehow remained.
Suddenly Cyril began to totter, rather than ran towards her, his knees close together and his feet kicking outwards, as Sybil had so often seen unathletic, booksy girls run at her school. She waited for him, pardy compassionate and partly contemptuous. What a poor, pitiful creature he was!
As they reached the others, Henry was saying, ‘I don’t see why we shouldn’t have another go. Sybil could take the dog for a walk. Or we could put him in the car.’
‘No,’ Hugo said. His face was anguished and stern; his left hand was gripping his right arm, just below the elbow, as though he had fractured it and was trying to contain the agony. ‘Come on. Home.’
Sybil saw Lionel give Cyril a surreptitous glance. Then, without his realizing, she intercepted a wink, a mere flicker of the upper lid, and a little smirk. Cyril at once turned his head away.
In silence they all walked towards the car. Mr Wu was wholly unconcerned at having disrupted the sitting. He strutted along, head and tail high.
‘Perhaps you could drop me off at the station,’ Sybil said to Henry, Mr Wu in her lap, as the car moved forward.
‘Oh, but you’re coming back for a cup of tea, aren’t you?’ Henry said, out of courtesy and not because he really wanted her to do so.
‘No, I don’t think so, thank you.’ She shut her mouth tight. She was becoming increasingly angry with Hugo, who, she had now decided, had terminated the sitting so abruptly in order to punish her for her presence with the dog. It was all so petty, so childish. She stared out ahead of her.
The car drew up in the station yard and Sybil got out, the dog in her arms. ‘Goodbye, Henry. Thank you for my lunch.’ She stared at Hugo in the back of the car for a moment, appraising him coolly, before she said, ‘Goodbye, Hugo. We’ll be in touch.’
‘Of course.’
‘Goodbye, boys.’ She waved the hand which was not holding the dog and then strode off.
‘Nasty little animal,’ Henry said. He did not really blame Hugo for feeling that they could not go on with all those interruptions from it. ‘ No discipline.’
Hugo did not reply. The journey continued in silence.
As they entered the house, Mrs Lockit, having heard the engine of the car, appeared from downstairs in slippers and petticoat, her head wound round and round in its turban of towel.
‘You’re back early,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting you all as soon as this. I can’t manage any tea for you until half-past four.’
It was Hugo, not Henry, who answered her. (Cheek! she thought. There were times when he carried on as though he were the master.) ‘Thank you, Mrs Lockit. That’s all right. I just want to discuss something with the boys.’
Mrs Lockit disappeared down the stairs again.
Hugo turned to Henry, ‘Do you mind if I talk to the boys in the dining room alone?’
‘Talk to the boys alone?’
Hugo nodded.
‘Well. I suppose I’ve no objection.’ But Henry thought it odd, in fact bloody rude.
‘Cyril, Lionel.’
Reluctantly, the two boys, Lionel first, went through the door held open for them. Hugo shut the door and then swiftly turned the key in the lock and put it in his pocket. He faced Lionel.
‘I’m going to have to look in your trouser pockets.’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘Oh, yes, I can!’
Hugo made an attempt to grab the boy but he darted away, as though in a game. Again Hugo flung out his arms, blundering into a dining chair, while the boy whipped round the table. On the third attempt, Hugo managed to grab Lionel, who first struggled and then kicked out at his shins. Cyril began to emit a low keening, as he stared in horror at their contest. Hearing the commotion, Henry came to the door, tried the handle and began simultaneously to rattle it and beat on the panels with the palm of the other hand. ‘What’s going on in there? What’s all this?’ he shouted.
The two bodies, one tall and slender and the other small and stocky, rocked and lurched. An elbow, whether accidentally or on purpose, jabbed Hugo in the test
icles; but he was impervious to an agony that would normally have doubled him up. He managed to insert a hand into the boy’s trouser pocket in a violent travesty of that tender moment, when he had inserted a hand into the trouser pocket of his twin and had felt his childhood throb away, an immediate, fleeting spasm, in his hand. He pulled, at the same moment as Lionel, jerking round, finally managed to fasten teeth, not in his violator’s hand as intended; but in his sleeve. ‘I thought so.’ Dishevelled and panting, Hugo held up his trophy.
It appeared to be an ordinary whistle; but attached to the end was what looked like the bulb of an eye-dropper. ‘You bloody little cheats! So that was what I paid for!’
Lionel eyed him with an unwinking contempt, his face red and his breath coming in short, heaving gasps from the exertion of their wrestling match. Cyril had covered his face with his hands. Then, all at once, he was sobbing. The sobs grew louder. They filled the whole room.
Hugo turned on him. He could bear it no longer. ‘Stop that!’ he shouted. ‘Stop it at once!’
Only then did he become aware that Henry was still rattling the door handle, still beating on it with the palm of his hand, still shouting, ‘What’s going on in there? Open up! What is all this?’
Transferring the whistle from his right to left hand, Hugo fished in his pocket for the key, inserted it and unlocked the door. Like wild animals let out of a cage, the two boys, heads down, pushed past Henry, all but knocking him over, and raced down the stairs to Mrs Lockit’s flat.
Hugo held up the whistle. ‘This is how they did it.’
Henry stared. ‘How do you mean?’
‘You’ve heard of a Galton whistle?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, you’ve heard of a dog whistle, haven’t you?’ Hugo was brutal in his impatience, like a master bullying some nit-witted pupil.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Well, a dog whistle is audible only to dogs – as a rule. Though some people, young people, can sometimes hear it. A Galton whistle is similar. You can adjust it so that few adults can hear it but it is perfectly audible to children.’
‘So you mean …?’
Hugo raised the whistle and then depressed the bulb. ‘Hear anything? No. Neither do I. But we’re both over forty – as is Sybil. Perhaps someone under forty might just hear something. A child, with normal hearing, like one of those two, certainly could. I pressed the bulb once. That was for ace.’ Now he pressed the bulb four times. ‘That was four presses. Jack. Simple, isn’t it?’
‘The little buggers!’
‘As you say, the little buggers.’ Suddenly Hugo sounded tired and ill. His voice sank away. But he rallied himself, ‘Of course, now we understand the fiasco at the Institute.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, there were young people there – in the audience. So Lionel – I’m sure Lionel was the leader – knew that to use the whistle would be to give away the trick. It was better to accept an afternoon of failure in order, later, to have more success. And more money,’ he added with the bitterness of the etiolated child’s sperm thin on his tongue.
‘Do you suppose that Mrs Lockit …?’
‘Oh, I’m sure of it. She may even have thought up the whole idea. But no. Probably it began, just as she said, as a parlour trick, a way of puzzling and entertaining their friends. I wouldn’t be surprised if there isn’t a Galton whistle in the lab of their school. One of their teachers may even have demonstrated it. It’s a common enough piece of equipment.’
‘And Mr Wu –’
‘Heard it. Thought you were whistling to him.’
‘Clever Mr Wu.’
‘As Sybil and Madge are always saying – clever Mr Wu. Just as Siamese-owners always think that their cats are cleverer than other cats, so Pekinese-owners always think that their dogs are cleverer than other dogs. Perhaps they are.’
‘What shall we do now?’
‘What can we do? La commedia è finita. That’s that. What you do about Mrs Lockit is your own aflair.’
Henry pondered. ‘ She suits me so well. I doubt if I could find anyone better.’ He frowned unhappily down at his unpolished shoes.
Hugo was sure that his friend could find someone better; but he was not going to interfere.
‘Oughtn’t we to try to get the money back?’ Henry ventured.
‘Pointless. No. Let’s just quietly wash our hands of the whole silly business.’
Something disturbed Henry. He peered for a time at the white face before him, as though repeatedly trying to bring it into focus, before he said, ‘But you’ll have to publish something in the Journal.’
Hugo had not thought of that. ‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled.
‘But you must. You can’t let people accept for real what we two now know to have been fraud.’
‘Yes, but … there are complications.’
‘Complications?’
‘Difficult to explain.’ Hugo sank into a chair. ‘Let me explain some other time. I have to think – have to think …’ He swallowed that bitterness, with an effort of the will, in order not to have to spew it out. ‘Let me think.’
‘Very well.’ Henry was already guessing; soon he would have guessed. He would be neither surprised nor shocked. He went over to his friend and put a hand, swollen because of the heart condition from which he was suffering, on to his shoulder. ‘A nip,’ he said. ‘That’s what you need. A nip of brandy.’
Hugo shook his head. ‘No, what I need is to be alone. Lie down. My room.’ He got to his feet, like someone recovering from a fainting spell. ‘I’ll be all right. In a moment or two.’
‘Yes, have a little zizz. This, has been a shock to you. You’ve put so much into this business. Far more than I have.’ Henry spoke without any consciousness of the money, hundreds and hundreds of pounds, which Hugo had put into it. He spoke with little consciousness of the flood of suddenly undammed passion.
Hugo climbed wearily up the stairs, drew his curtains and then, without even taking off his jacket, shoes and tie, threw himself on the bed. The sheets, the pillowcases, smelled strangely sour. He had never noticed that before. He lay on his side, a hand under his cheek, and stared at the cheap, old-fashioned wallpaper, of ships, innumerable ships, on and on and up and up, bobbing on sunlit waves. Of course, Cyril had not conceived the plan, could not have conceived the plan. It was that dreadful Lionel or that even more dreadful woman. Poor Cyril, so timorous and pliable. The self-pity which he had been feeling, like some endless throbbing within him, now became a pity for the boy. Like himself, the boy had been a victim. ‘ Your mother needs that money. It’ll make all the difference in the world to her. And to you. You’ve got to think of her, you’ve got to think of yourself.’ He could hear the insistent, insidious voice and he could see the looming gypsy presence. Then Lionel would chip in, nasally gruff, ‘Don’t be such a twit. He’s rolling in it. And he wants a miracle. He wants it!’
Hugo groaned, rolled over on his back, covered his eyes with the back of a hand.
Suddenly, like the lunge of a spear beneath the heart, his own words came back to him: La commedia è finita. Did that mean that he would never see Cyril again? It could only mean that.
There was a knock at the door.
Hugo sat up on an elbow, his usually neat, grey hair sticking up in tufts; one side of his face creased. ‘Henry?’
But it was Mrs Lockit who entered, not bursting in as she usually did, but like some thief in the night.
‘Mr Crawfurd.’
‘Yes, Mrs Lockit.’
‘The boys have told me.’
‘Yes, Mrs Lockit.’ He could think of nothing else to say to this now terrible and terrifying woman.
‘I think you’re being foolish.’
He gave a bitter laugh, like a sob in the back of his throat. ‘ I’ve been foolish, Mrs Lockit. No longer.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t disagree with that either,’ she said, amazing him with her calmness and self-confidence.
She approached the bed. ‘You want to continue with the experiments.’
‘No. I don’t want to continue with them.’ He spoke with contemptuous harshness, but he also felt a strange foreboding.
‘The boys will miss that money.’
‘I’m sure they will.’
‘You wouldn’t wish to harm them.’
‘I have no wish to harm them. I just do not want to see them any more.’ (Not see Cyril any more? What was he saying?)
‘So they’ve served their purpose.’
‘In retrospect, I don’t think they ever served their purpose. They merely served their own ends.’
Mrs Lockit stared down at him, as he sat, head in hands on the bed. The eyes were narrowed in that face so dark that it might have been Indian. ‘I thought that Cyril had served his purpose.’ Her voice was sickly and sickening in its insinuation.
Hugo turned his head aside and away from her, his breath exhaling on a deep, shuddering sigh. She loomed over him, seemed to envelope him like a miasma off a swamp. ‘I don’t-know what you mean.’
She gave a snort. ‘I think you’ve made a fool of yourself, Mr Crawfurd. If you’ll forgive me saying so.’ Fastidious as he was about the use of language, Hugo felt a compulsion, absurd at such a moment, to correct her, as he might correct one of his students, ‘If you’ll forgive my saying so.’
‘Yes, I’ve made a fool of myself – or allowed those two boys to make a fool of me.’ He. laughed, ‘It took a dog to show me.’
‘I didn’t mean that.’ And, of course, in his heart, he knew that she had not meant it. ‘Cyril is an odd boy. Not like his twin. Well, you saw that for yourself, appreciated it. Given the right chance, he might do something with his life. But life will never be easy for him, as it’ll be for Lionel. It’s never easy for that kind.’ She put out a hand and picked up his hairbrush, the silver crest tarnished on its back, from the dressing-table against which she was now leaning. He rebelled against the idea of those grubby hands touching anything so intimate, as he had not rebelled when, in Sybil’s flat – Sybil away at her school, Lionel sent off to a cinema, three pounds in his pocket – those long, feeble fingers had held the brush and had gently and repeatedly drawn it across the fine, ashen hair. ‘You’ll want to go on helping him, won’t you? Even if there’s nothing more that he can do for you.’
