‘Won't you be telling us this evening how he came into existence?’ Andrew said.
Amory joined in the conversation. ‘Of course she will, and she'll be asked how she thought of him, and did she write her stories by hand or on to a typewriter, and how long did it take her to write one of her books, and where do her ideas come from, and who are her favourite writers of children's books, and did she take any of her plots from real life or are they all imaginary. They're the questions one always gets asked, I've found. Usually the one about the typewriter comes first. To go by my own experience, one's got to assume that it's the most important literary interest of the average reader.’
‘And do you, in fact, work by hand or straight on to a typewriter?’ Andrew asked. ‘Or perhaps nowadays one should say a word processor.’
He thought he saw a trace of annoyance on Amory's face.
‘By hand, as a matter of fact,’ he said.
‘Of course, getting things typed is terribly expensive,’ Mina Todhunter said. T type most of my own work myself, though that's becoming a bit of a problem, because my back's beginning to trouble me, which also makes doing the illustrations a bit difficult. And I haven't got on to a word processor yet. I stick to my dear old electric type-writer, which seemed the most modern thing in the world when I bought it.’
From across the table Peter said, ‘I've taken to dictating most of my stuff on to tape. When I tried it first I thought I'd never manage it, I felt such a fool wandering around the room, talking out loud to myself. But by degrees I began to find it rather exciting. It can feel very dramatic, specially the love scenes, though one's got to make sure they don't carry one away. Do you think perhaps I shouldn't mention that this evening?’
‘You'll be the success of the evening if you do,’ Edward Clarke said in his oddly high voice. ‘It's true you may offend a few people, but we aren't such prudes in Gallmouth as perhaps you expect. Of course, if you can get some sex into your talk you'll do splendidly.’
‘He was talking of love scenes, not sex scenes,’ Rachel Rayne said. 'They aren't necessarily identical.’
‘Ah well, a hint of understanding of some of the more popular perversions,’ Edward Clarke said, ‘as our dear Simon has understood, is a sure winner. Can't you do anything with that?’
‘Not my line,’ Peter said. ‘My characters are all of them utterly normal. A bit mad at times, but only in a very normal way.’
Amory smiled. ‘And mine, I suppose, are very sane, but in a somewhat abnormal way. I'd advise you against talking much about that sort of thing this evening, how-ever. Stick to those questions I mentioned, and you'll be giving people what they really want.’
‘Well, you should know about that, if anyone does,’ Rachel said.
‘You don't really approve of success, do you, dear?’ Mina Todhunter said. 'So many people don't. It's really rather a pity.’
‘Ah, I do, if the right people get it,’ Rachel said.
There was irony in her tone, and it brought a frown to Amory's face, but he made no reply. It was soon evident to Andrew, however, as the meal continued, that there was no love lost between Amory and his sister-in-law and it made him wonder what had brought her to stay with him. It might be, of course, that during her years in America she had forgotten what he was like, supposing that they had known each other before she went there. Her sister's marriage might not have come about until after Rachel had gone away. This might be a first meeting for the two of them.
The meal was consumed rather hastily, for after all there was not a great deal of time to spare before they were due at the Pegasus Theatre. This turned out to be very small, with a tiny stage at one end and only a dozen or so rows of seats for the audience. There was also a doorway that led into a bar, in which there were tables where food of some kind seemed to be available. The place was pleasantly decorated and had a certain cosy charm. Andrew was driven there by Amory in his Rolls, together with Peter and Rachel, but the others drove in their own cars in which they had arrived earlier at Simon Amory's house. It intrigued Andrew, in view of her slightly ostentatious parade of poverty, that Mina Todhunter's car was a BMW.
They did not go into the town by the steep road up which Peter had brought Andrew from the hotel, but along a road that took them straight into the centre of the town. It was only a few minutes’ drive. The audience seemed to be trickling in at the main entrance of the theatre when they arrived, although they did not go in there, but at a door at the side of the building, which led into a space under the stage, where there were two or three small rooms, into one of which Edward Clarke, whom Andrew by now had learnt was a solicitor, besides being Chairman of the Literary Society, led the way.
There was a mirror on the wall, with a collection of what Andrew took to be materials for the make-up that the actors would be needing on the following evening spread out on a table before it, and a chair facing it on which Mina Todhunter immediately sat down to touch up her own make-up. She had a comb and a lipstick in the small black handbag that she was carrying, and ran the comb through her short grey hair, making it stand up in an even more bristly fashion than it had before, then she spread lipstick lavishly on her wide mouth. She looked pleased with the result and smiled at herself contentedly in the mirror.
Meanwhile Andrew had addressed Edward Clarke. ‘Do you do this every year?’
‘Good heavens, no!’ Clarke replied. 'This is the first time we've ever attempted it. It's been strictly experimental. But I must say we've been very satisfied with what we've achieved. We've had good audiences every evening. We've stuck to evenings only, though another year we might include mornings and afternoons. It depends on how much publicity we get. This year we've depended on local people for our audiences, but if people showed signs of coming from some distance, even London perhaps, and filling up our hotels, we'd be more ambitious.’
‘And organizing the whole thing has been in your hands, has it?’ Andrew said. ‘You must have had to work very hard.’
‘Ah, I can't lay claim to being the sole organizer,’ Clarke replied with a laugh, which like his voice was thin and shrill. ‘We've a splendid committee of very hard-working people; Mina for one.’
‘And I suppose Amory is on it too.’
‘Well, no, as a matter of fact, he isn't. Of course, when he came to live here we immediately invited him to be on the committee of our Literary Society, but though he's helped us from time to time he wouldn't be a member of it. I suppose he's so involved with work connected with his play and his film and all that that he hasn't got time for it. I don't blame him. He's really a public figure nowadays, and when he comes down to Gallmouth what he wants is to escape from all the attention he normally has to put up with. He and his poor wife Lizbeth used to come down here sometimes, you know, when she was alive and before he'd ever thought of writing. They used to stay with friends who lived in the house he lives now. That's how he got to know it. The friends, Mr and Mrs McCall, left for New Zealand some time ago, and sold it to him. And although he keeps himself to himself, he's really been a great acquisition.’
‘And Miss Rayne is Mrs Amory's sister, is she?’ Andrew asked.
‘Yes, but I don't think they ever saw much of each other,’ Clarke replied. ‘Miss Rayne went off to a job in America almost as soon as she'd got her doctorate at Cam-bridge. They were really very unlike. Miss Rayne's got such a strong personality, don't you think? Whereas Lizbeth Amory was very quiet and reserved. Very intelligent, of course. She seemed to have a great deal of understanding of other people, at least I always thought so. But she was very shy compared with her sister.’
‘Did Miss Rayne never come over to see her sister even when she knew she had leukaemia?’
‘I'm not sure. Perhaps she did. The Amorys were a good deal in London then, of course. But Miss Rayne talks as if it's ten years since she was last in this country.’
‘Are you talking about me?’ Rachel Rayne said, coming to stand beside Andrew. T seemed to hear my name.’<
br />
‘Only about how long it is since you were last in England,’ Clarke said. ‘I was saying I thought it was ten years.’
‘That's correct,’ Rachel said. ‘And no doubt you were saying how callous of me it was not to come when I knew my sister was dying. Well, of course it was callous. But she told me not to come, and I suppose she had her reasons. They puzzled me at the time, but as a matter of fact I understand them better now than I did then. I think she knew that Simon and I would never be exactly friends, which must sound a very discourteous thing to say about my host, but it's true all the same. He wouldn't argue about it. And all that she wanted at the end was to be alone with him. We used to write to each other occasion-ally and once, before she got ill, she came out to stay with me. I'm very glad she did that.’
‘Didn't you know her husband then before you left for America?’ Andrew asked.
‘Oh, yes, she married when she was only twenty-five and I was still a student. I went to the wedding. But I can't say I really knew him. She was six years older than I was.’
A sudden cry came from the doorway. 'Simon!’
Everyone in the room turned to look towards the open door.
A small woman stood there. She looked as if she might be a little over forty, though she had the slimness and the air of vitality of someone much younger. But her face was not young and this was not because of the fine wrinkles that had appeared at the corners of her eyes and her mouth. It had something to do with an air of poised self-assurance. She had abundant auburn hair and eyes of the colour that is usually called green, though it is really grey, and which had been heavily made up. Her mouth had been coloured by a very dark lipstick. She was dressed in a black trouser-suit with a bright silk scarf thrown carelessly over her shoulders. Behind her in the passage along which she had come was a man, but he did not advance into the room behind her as she came into it, but remained standing in the passage as if he did not intend to follow her.
She went straight up to Simon Amory, threw her arms round his neck and kissed him warmly on both cheeks. That it was on both cheeks made the gesture somehow a little more formal, a little more merely friendly than a single kiss on one cheek would have done. But still he made no response to it. His body had gone rigid and a look of acute irritation, or perhaps of something graver than that, had appeared on his face.
‘What on earth are you doing here, Magda?’ he asked harshly.
‘I've come to hear you speak, of course,’ she answered.
‘It must be the first time you've ever thought of doing that,’ he said.
‘Darling, you aren't trying to pick a quarrel with me, are you?’ She had linked an arm through one of his and though he did not actually push her away, he looked as if it was what he would have liked to do. ‘We never quarrel, you know we don't. Now aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?’
He spoke glumly to the room at large. 'This is Magda Braile. Tomorrow's Duchess of Malfi, I believe.’ Then he recited the names of all the people in the room. ‘And what about your friend? Aren't you going to introduce him?’
The man in the passage looked as if he would have preferred not to have been noticed. He had the air of being ready to turn and walk away if only he could detach the woman he was with from her old friend. For an old friend, Andrew thought, was a fairly safe description of her relationship with Amory. It might not be an adequate one, but at least he felt it could hardly be wrong.
‘Oh, of course, but he's very shy,’ she said. ‘He doesn't really like meeting strangers. Do come in, Desmond, darling, instead of lurking in that doorway. Desmond Nicholl,’ she added. ‘You've probably heard of him. He's a very clever photographer. Out of sheer good nature he's going to take some photographs of the show tomorrow, and that'll help to give your festival some nice publicity. It may help you if you ever want to have another.’
The man took a step backwards into the passage, as if he were in a hurry to leave and expected the woman to follow him. He looked about the same age as she did, was tall and thin and had a pale, cadaverous face. The skin of it looked as if it were stretched a little too tightly over the bone behind it. His eyes were deep set, dark and bright. He had very little hair left, but what there was was black, and he had a well-shaped head which carried off his baldness with a certain dignity.
Edward Clarke advanced on him at once with an outstretched hand.
‘Delighted to have you here, Mr Nicholl,’ he said. ‘If only we'd known you were coming we could perhaps have arranged some special scenes for you to photograph. We've one or two of the local photographers on the job, of course, and their work's been appearing in our press here for the past week, but someone with your reputation would be quite different.’
‘Now you mustn't say that sort of thing to Desmond,’ Magda Braile said. ‘He'll only tell me he's sure you've never actually heard of him. Well, darling, we'd better be going up and getting our places in the hall. I'm so looking forward to hearing you speak about your writing, Simon, love. You're usually so unwilling to do it. Now, good evening, everyone, and the best of luck for the show.’
She withdrew her arm from Amory's and took that of her friend, Nicholl, and the two of them went away up the stairs that led to the auditorium.
Andrew turned to Rachel Rayne.
‘Perhaps we should do that too. All the others are performing, but you and I are audience.’
‘Yes, let's go,’ she said.
‘And we'll meet in the bar when it's all over,’ Edward Clarke said. ‘Don't forget that.’
‘Not if that woman's going to be there,’ Amory said in a bitter voice. ‘My God, if I'd known she was coming I'd have …’
But he did not actually say what he would have done if he had known that she was to be there. Only his eyes said it for him. Andrew was glad to leave the room and climb the stairs with Rachel Rayne after the other two.
They found seats near the front of the hall. Magda Braile and her friend had settled down near the back of it. There was a fairly good audience, though there were still a number of empty seats. On the stage there were a table and four chairs and soon after Andrew and Rachel had taken their places the three writers and Edward Clarke appeared there, to be greeted by a little burst of clapping, and sat down, Mina Todhunter and Edward Clarke in the two centre seats, and Peter Dilly beside Mina and Simon Amory beside Edward Clarke. There was a pretty bowl of flowers on the table, but except for it and the chairs the stage was bare. It looked a little like an office that had closed for the night in some not very successful business.
Turning towards Andrew, Rachel spoke in a low voice. ‘Do you know Simon very well?’
‘I met him for the first time this evening/ Andrew replied.
‘Really? You aren't an old friend?’
‘No. And even my nephew Peter hasn't known him for long, and I was only invited because Peter and I met by chance in the town.’
‘You don't know Mina either, then?’
‘No, though I do remember her books.’
‘And Simon's too?’
‘No, I'm afraid I must admit that I haven't read anything of his, or seen that amazingly successful play that's been running in London for so long.’
‘You really should see it,’ she said. ‘It's very good. It's so much better than what he's written since. I've heard it suggested that the two books he's had published since Death Come Quickly came out were really written before it and probably got turned down by several publishers, and they've only come out now because they think that any-thing with his name on it is bound to be a success. And I think they have sold fairly well, though they don't com-pare with the other. But I'd like to know what you make of Simon.’
‘I haven't really had a chance to make anything of him yet,’ Andrew said.
‘But first impressions can be very interesting.’
Andrew was inclined to agree with her, but felt that there would be some discourtesy in discussing their host that evening.
‘You know,
he puzzles me,’ Rachel went on.
It occurred to Andrew that that was just what Peter had said about Amory in the afternoon.
‘He's so different from what I thought he was when he first married my sister,’ she added. ‘Of course, he's never liked me. I think that's one of the reasons why I stayed away so long. I used to be so fond of my sister and I couldn't bear the feeling that he'd come between us.’
Peter, Andrew remembered, had a feeling that Amory, in spite of having invited him to stay with him during the festival, did not really like him.
‘Whom does Simon like?’ Andrew asked.
‘Oh, he's devoted to Mina. He plays chess with her every Saturday afternoon and he'll always do anything she asks.’
‘How long have you been staying here?’ Andrew asked.
‘Only a week.’
‘What brought you if you thought your brother-in-law didn't like you?’
‘Oh, just a feeling that I ought to try to repair the breach -’
But at that point she was interrupted by Clarke getting to his feet and clapping his hands loudly. There was silence in the hall.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I'm not going to make a speech,’ Clarke began and then went on to make one, introducing the three writers who were on the stage with him and promising that when each had given a short talk about their work, the audience would have the opportunity of questioning them on any points that had specially interested them. It ended with his asking Mina Todhunter to open the proceedings.
She stood up and began her talk by giving a loud, hoarse laugh. For some reason this evoked some laughter in the audience, at which she treated them to her wide smile.
‘You may not believe me, but I began my career as a writer at the age of five,’ she said. ‘As soon as I could read and write, in fact, and I was taught to do that early, I took to writing stories. They were all more or less the same, and they all began, "Once upon a time there was a king, and he had twelve daughters, and their names were …" And then I wrote down twelve names and that was the whole story. And then I hid my little notebook, because my worst nightmare was the thought that someone might read what I'd written.’
Choice of Evils Page 3
