âHow did she breathe?'
âShut up. And this lady was the most beautiful and desirable thing in the whole world and one day the younger brother said to the elder brother, Brother, let us go down and get this lady, let us appropriate this lady, and the elder brother said, One lady between two is no good, I resign my part in the lady, go you and get the lady for yourself. So the younger brother climbed down the mountain, which was very steep, did I mention that, it was very steep, and he got the lady â'
âHow?'
âNever mind. Then when he was climbing up the mountain with the lady the elder brother looked down and saw and he couldn't bear it and he took a great boulder and rolled it down the hill and killed the younger brother â'
âKilled him?'
âYes. Squashed him out as flat as a kipper.'
âAnd what happened to the lady? Was she killed too or did she marry the elder brother?'
âThat was the funny part. It turned out there wasn't really a lady at all. It was all made of plastic, like plastic flowers. And the younger brother was bringing it back to show it to the elder brother just for a laugh.'
âSo the elder brother killed him for nothing.'
âIt's not so simple. You keep saying things but it's never as simple as you think. Mitzi, what's that?'
âWhat?'
âThat noise. Mitzi, there's somebody out on the landing â Quickly, go and look, quickly â'
Matthew, who had been listening at the door for some minutes, turned and scuttled away down the stairs. If he could immediately have undone the street door he would have darted out and run away into the night, but as he was still fumbling with the catch Mitzi appeared on the landing and switched the light on.
Matthew looked up. He saw a tall portly woman, with short pale bobbed hair and a large pink face, dressed in an old dressing-gown. In the dim light and the shapeless robe she looked rotund and heavy, armless and legless and big breasted like an archaic stone goddess. Mitzi looked down. She saw a stout bald elderly man with bulging bloodshot eyes and a frightened expression, holding a brief case. He looked like a tax inspector. They had never met each other before.
âWhat is it?' said Mitzi.
âI am extremely sorry,' said Matthew. âI just came in through the door and was about to call up the stairs. The bell appears to be out of order. I fear in any case that I may have entered the wrong house. I am looking for a Mr Gibson Grey, a Mr Austin Gibson Grey.'
âThe bell hasn't worked since the blitz,' said Mitzi. âCould you wait? I'll see if Mr Gibson Grey is in.' She had decided that this individual was about to serve a writ on Austin for nonpayment of a debt.
There was no sign of Austin. He had gone through into the adjoining kitchen. She found him there leaning over the sink and panting. He had been dashing water on to his face and his hair was wet and dripping.
âThere's a â'
âI know. It's my brother.'
âYour brother?'
âI'll go down and see him in a minute.'
âWhat are you doing?'
âJust breathing.'
âDo you think he heard?'
âYes.'
âDoes it matter?'
âYes. Could you give me some of that brandy? The whisky's all gone.'
Mitzi took it from the cupboard and poured him some. He drank it in single draught and started coughing.
âWhere is he?'
âIn the hall.'
âGo and look, would you? He may be just outside.'
Mitzi came back. âHe's sitting on the stairs at the bottom. Shall I â'
Austin strode past her and out of the room. As he came on to the landing he took his glasses off and put them in his pocket. Matthew rose and they met at the bottom of the stairs. Austin extended his left hand.
âMatthew! How delightful!'
âAustin â Austin â' Matthew took the hand in both of his.
âForgive me,' said Austin, âI have to go out this very minute to make an urgent telephone call. You must excuse me. I would have loved a talk but it must wait. Please excuse this rush.'
âMay I come with you?'
âIt's just at the corner. Perhaps I can get in touch with you. Where are you staying?'
âBrown's Hotel.'
âGood. Well, here we are and I must make my call. I'm afraid it'll be rather a long one. So nice to see you. We must get in touch. Please don't wait.'
Austin got inside the telephone box. It was very brightly lighted inside. Outside was dark. Matthew had vanished. The bright lights were hurting Austin's eyes. He lifted the receiver and started dialling nines. Then a violent airy impulse took him about the waist and swung him far away. He pursued himself through space. He was lying on a tilting board which turned out to be the door of the telephone box. Just before it was going to tilt him into a pit he lurched forward until his face was pressed upon a black pane of glass. Through the glass he saw two shimmering orbs, like the face of an owl. Matthew was peering in at him from outside. He tried to turn his back but he seemed to have six rubbery legs which were gradually being folded up. He was a space craft landing on the moon. No, he was on that swing again, flying back the other way. His vision was darkening into a night sky of pullulating dots. One knee struck a concrete wall and there was pain somewhere. One foot seemed to be trying to run away down a rat hole. Something funny was spinning round and round in front of his face. It looked like a telephone receiver swinging round and round and round upon its flex. He must be on the floor. But then where were his legs?
âAre you all right?' said Matthew.
The telephone receiver was saying something too.
A woman's voice said, âDo you want the police?'
âYes,' said Austin, âI want to report a murder.'
Nerves, thought Matthew, pure nerves. Typical. I couldn't leave it till tomorrow, could I. After that talk with Garth I imagined Austin thinking, he came straight to Garth, he talked me over with Garth, then he hadn't time to come and see me, oh no, I'm second best, he spends the evening with Garth and decides to see me later, everyone takes precedence over me, he wouldn't come hot-foot from the airport just to see me, would he. That's what I thought of him thinking. I can do Austin better than Austin does himself. So I come rushing round here in a nervous frenzy and commit that crime on the stairs. Did he know I was listening? And now this telephone box crime. Why couldn't I go quietly back to my hotel? Am I afraid of him, or what?
A little further on Matthew passed the home-coming Ludwig in the darkness, but of course they did not know each other.
A little further on still a police car went by with its siren screaming.
My dear Ludwig,
Your last letter has filled your mother and myself with consternation. When you spoke of this matter earlier we did not, I am afraid, realize how serious you were. This step which, led by understandable feelings, you propose to take seems to us not only injudicious but wrong. We are fortunate enough to live in a democratic state and should surely obey or at least confront its laws however temporarily repugnant, as Socrates did with the laws of Athens. The accident of your birth in England seems a quite insufficient reason for this grave step which must be seen by the English authorities themselves as a mere device or subterfuge. The United States government has a long arm. Are you certain that you cannot be extradited as a deserter? Your letter was vague on this point. We are very alarmed indeed about your position and feel uncomfortable about your motivation. You know how with gratitude your mother and I regard our deliverance in this land of freedom. Naturally we share your horror of this terrible war, though we cannot agree with you that it is wrong to wage it. Some wars are less evil than what they combat, in the present case totalitarian government, which we have experienced and you have not. Naturally too we do not want to see you in uniform. You are our only child. Perhaps you do not realize how ardently we have prayed that this cup might pass from us, and that you would not in fact be drafted, as this seemed at some time likely. Of this I say no more. Duty has nothing to do with what we however passionately desire. We feel in this eventuality that you cannot adopt what seems so odd and makeshift a solution without in the long run thinking ill of yourself, even apart from the danger of your being extradited. We understand about your work and about the pleasantness and ease of life in England, but you are not an English person. You have the precious privilege of an American passport which must not be lightly given away, and there are claims which America has upon you because of us, because of your education, because of the true ideals for which, however imperfectly, this country stands. You are young and young people are greedy. But you have many years ahead, God willing, and England and a time of work there can be enjoyed later. If you do not now somehow make yourself straight with the American power you will be unable to return here for many years or perhaps ever without severe penalties, such as imprisonment, and you know what terrible places are these prisons, where you could even be killed by the other prisoners. You must know that if you do not meet this matter properly now, in some way, and meet it right here at home, you are choosing exile from what you are fortunate enough to call your homeland. You would be certain to wish to return later, we feel sure, and to come whatever the cost, this we fear. Your suggestion that we should, at our age, remove our home yet again seems to us merely thoughtless. We do not want to return to Europe where we have no happy memory. We have so far managed to keep your decision from the neighbours, who about your return constantly enquire, but we have discussed the matter with Mr Livingstone. Having regard to the date of drafting, he advises that you profess to have been travelling in Continental Europe and not to have received the papers. This untruth, though as such repugnant, seems the best method to put yourself right with the law. When you have come back here we can consider best what to do with regard to your attempting to get perhaps exemption. The tribunals are more sympathetic now and there are a lot of different possible courses, but these must be arranged for over here. Above all you must come back soon, or any further delay is now very dangerous and we so terribly fear your being extradited, which would be ruin of your life. Will you please send a cable to say that you are coming. You are causing us very great anxiety and pain. Your mother sends her love and hopes you will soon be with us once more.
Your affectionate father,
J. P. H. Leferrier
Dearest Karen,
Will you be my bridesmaid? This is my way of letting you know that I am engaged, affianced, a
promissa sposa
! No, not to â But to that American boy I told you of, Ludwig Leferrier, the young ancient historian! So I am to be a don's wife after all! (Do you remember âtinker tailor' in the dorm and Ann crying because she always got âthief'?) I didn't expect it, when I first met him I thought him awfully censorious, and then suddenly I started seeing him as Sir Lancelot. I feel rather frightened and old but fearfully happy. He's handsome in a grave sort of way but sort of furry too, he's awfully clever and serious, not a bit like â Do you remember saying let's never get married unless we feel fantastically lucky to get him? I feel like that about Ludwig. May you, darling, be equally blessed. I have always regarded you as my sister since that first morning at boarding school when you told me I didn't
really
have to turn my mattress every day! I gather you are still down at the Mill House. Let me know when you'll be in town and we'll talk clothes and love! Lots and lots of the latter from your childhood pal,
G
Sebastian,
What did I tell you? Please see the enclosed cutting from
The Times
. You know what your tactical mistake was of course? Interested as I was, I even gave you, on
that
evening, a hint of advice. I was
then
almost resigned. I know I have been a complete idiot where you are concerned. I gratuitously confessed my love (which men despise) and I let you have me when I was sure you loved another (which is genuinely contemptible) and you can do what you like with me and you know it. However, since this morning there is a new world in which it still remains, oddly enough, for you and me to make each other's acquaintance. We did rather start at the end, didn't we? I think now something rather formal would be in order. The parents are still much involved in their childish pursuits, pa with his pigs and mama with organizing her terrible boutique, but I can give them the slip on Monday. Let us then lunch at an expensive restaurant of your choosing, yes? I shall probably be staying with Ann Colindale, not at the parental mansion. She is in love, by the way, but not, wise girl, with you. Don't tell Gracie I'll be in town.
Your slave
Karen
Are you really very sad about Gracie? ? My darling.
Dearest Sis,
I have told the parents that I cannot, because of an examination, (a fiction this) attend the funeral games. I hope you enjoy them. Poor old grandma. Everyone will be rejoicing, won't they, especially Aunt Char. What news of the carve-up? Aunt Char will be able to act out her fantasy of cocking a snook at the family. Us I am afraid she has never liked since the days when she baby sat us while the Ps were out on the tiles. Now maybe she'll light out for Monte Carlo. I would if I were her.
About the egregious Leferrier. (What does âegregious' mean exactly? I must look it up.) He is decent and clever and too good for you and I respect his decision not to return to that ghastly place. Perhaps now at last you'll stop flirting. I have had to speak to you about this before. Flirtatiousness cuts you off from people. Some women (e.g. our mother) are eternally cut off from the world by a flirtatious temperament, only they never realize it. Yes, he's decent and I'm glad. Or am I? Am I not a little jealous? Will not our old alliance suffer? Ralph Odmore says that Sebastian (ought I to tell you this?) is dashed.
Ralph still doesn't know how I feel about him. We have dignified conversations about European history. God. I confess I'm relieved you aren't wedding Sebastian. Foresuffering all, like the Grecian sage, I know that whatever the fate of my passion for Ralph all will in a year or two be dust and ashes. So young and so untender, love's victim though I be. I pant for Ralph, yet panting know that all is vanity. A family connection would prove an embarrassment.
Talking of embarrassment I have had another of
those
letters from mum, partly tosh about grandma (faugh!) and also about the Gibson Grey biz about which she is agog, and into which pie she proposes to plunge up to the elbow with the highest of motives. (People like our ma should be forbidden to write letters.) God, how I think one should leave other people's things alone and not crawl all over them. I see our dear Ps as two giant snails with waggling inquisitive eyes leaving long slimy trails behind. Do not let us be like them. Fear it, sweet Gracie, fear it, my dear sister. Aunt Char is at least a decent sardonic letter-alone.
I now have an appointment with Ralph in the cricket pavilion of which nothing will come. Look after yourself, my child. What you and Ludwig have so far
done
about it I forbear to ask, though I should certainly like to know.
Ever your loving sibling
Patroclus Tiresias Tisbourne
My dear Dorina,
Thank you very much for your little note about poor mama. Expected though it was, we are all very grieved and will miss her sorely. I will not dwell on this further. She was a wonderful person, and as you may imagine our hearts are full. And Gracie's engagement, in a happier way, has made us feel the fateful passage of time.
May I take this little chance to say something? We were very sorry indeed to hear about Austin's misfortune about his job, of which I gather you have now learnt. George, who sends his best regards by the way, is scouting around for a suitable post and has told Austin this, which has relieved Austin's mind very much indeed, so don't you worry either. Job-hunting can be so depressing. Meanwhile, may I suggest that you yourself should come and stay with us for a while? There are times when it may be better to be away from one's own family, on neutral ground as it were, and in a new scene! Even lucky I feel this now and then! Regard it as a holiday, as a treat. Also I am sure it could help you to talk a bit to an outside well-wisher. You understand. And we could invite Austin or not as you pleased. You know how very sincerely we hope for both your happinesses. To see you here would, I need hardly say, gladden our hearts after our recent troubles. Do say I may fix with Mavis for you to come.
Ever, with love
Clara
PS. We have just heard that Matthew has come home! What a surprise! Austin tells us he came straight to Austin from the airport in the most touching way. Austin seems delighted about his return and one cannot but think this a happy augury!
Dearest Gracie,
All my congratulations! I have just seen it in
The Times
. May you be happy and glorious! Nor will I withhold the tribute of saying that the news caused me pain, I will not specify how much! I will always feel something special about you, even when we are both ninety. Why it didn't come off with us I think we both very well understand, though it would be hard to say and now will be never said. I like your intended a great deal. I understand you will in all likelihood be decorating the Oxford scene? When a decent interval has elapsed I will invite you both to lunch. That will occasion another pang. Dare I hope in your bosom too a little? I say no more. All greatest happiness to you, dear Gracie, and love from,
Yours, a good loser,
Sebastian
Dear Louis,
I have heard of your engagement and write to congratulate you so much upon it. Gracie is a lovely girl, and we are all so glad that you will stay in England. I expect you will now be very busy as engaged people are. But I hope you will still find time to come and see me. I have expected you on several days but you did not come, though I understood from Austin that you would come. Your visits are precious because I know you are on Austin's side and with many other people I am not sure what side they are on. This connects with what we spoke of when you were last here. I am sorry to be so sunk in my own concerns. I know I am not important except to myself and I suppose to Austin and Mavis but I am at a loss. I am sorry this letter which was meant to be very short is getting incoherent. I just meant to say that I value you because of Austin and because you are a good person and have been a good friend to me. Please continue to visit me now and then if you can find time. I am rather depressed. With my very best wishes to you and Gracie,
ever
Dorina
Dear Leferrier,
I believe I may be the first to bring you the glad news, since the Master's letter won't get into the post till tomorrow, that you have (of course) been elected to the fellowship in ancient history. We immensely look forward to you and are in a fever lest you may have changed your mind about us! I personally tremendously enjoyed our arguments. The school of Lit. Hum. is, as you know, trinitarian in form, its pillars being in this case yours truly, as the Greek and Latin language hand, MacMurraghue, whom you didn't meet, as the philosopher, and now yourself as the ancient history merchant. MacMurraghue is incomprehensible and distinguished. Our joint pupils will be lucky men. Our common room though not quite a small Athenian state, is a gay enough place. May I say how glad I and MacMurraghue (and also the Master who I fear designs you to be Dean!) are that you are a single man. There are too few merry bachelor dogs left among us young Turks. I did enjoy getting drunk with you on that second evening and I shall take pleasure in returning to the charge about your heresy concerning the
De Rerum Matura
and the Delphic Oracle! And I hope you have forgiven me for describing your interest in Aristophanes as limited to his value as a source of information about the price of sausages! In anticipation, in short, of
larx
, this being I fear not the sort of solemn letter you may have expected to receive from a prospective colleague and an Oxford dignitary,
I nevertheless sign myself,
Yours sincerely
Andrew Hilton
Fellow and tutor
My dear Austin,
I am sorry that I visited you so precipitately and so late on the evening of my arrival. My heart was full of you and I had to come to you directly, it could not have waited till the morning. Please forgive my rather abrupt appearance and departure. I have called twice since but got no reply, though I think Miss Ricardo was in on the second occasion. Your telephone appears to be out of order. May I suggest that we have lunch soon, somewhere quiet, perhaps my club? I think I should tell you this much of my plans. I am looking for a house and propose to settle here for good. I do not intend to hunt for old acquaintances and I shall not be calling at Valmorana. I have diplomatic cronies in London if I crave for company, which I do not expect to do. But I very much want to see you. I found (this condenses a long story which I will tell you at more leisure) that it was impossible to settle elsewhere with any peace of mind while our old difficulties remained as an unresolved cloud upon the horizon. I do not presume to imagine that I can help you. But you can certainly help me. And if I speak in this context of fraternal affection these are not, as far as I am concerned, empty words.