The Philosopher's Pupil (66 page)

‘You mean on Saturday?'

‘No, I mean, all this, how did it start — '

‘My being a prostitute?'

‘Look,' said Tom, ‘I'd better go, I'm very upset about a lot of things, please excuse me — '

‘Don't go,' said Diane, ‘I haven't talked to anybody for a week. I became a prostitute to get my revenge on men.'

‘No - really? I can't imagine — '

‘No, that's something I read in a magazine. I don't know why, I don't know why anything happened in my life, it's all muddle and accident and the horribleness of the world. Oh what does it matter. I was forced to pose in the nude. Then when I got pregnant they left me. I wish I'd had the courage to have a child. All I've got is George and he's
mad,
he ought to be in an asylum chained to a wall, he'll kill me one day. He said he saw the Meynell girl undressing.'

‘
What?
How, where?'

‘I don't know, George is a terrible liar. I don't know what happened last Saturday. George may have seduced the little girl, I'm sure he wanted to.'

Tom remembered all his griefs, the terrible scene with John Robert, the nightmarish hiding at Travancore Avenue, the loss of Hattie, these crazy tormenting doubts - what was he thinking? The
loss
of Hattie? He had never had her to lose, he had
rejected
her. Had he forgotten that? And he had seen her proud eyes reject him. He thought, I must see her, I
must.
He stood up and put his glass, pushing aside various ornaments, on top of the piano. Then he picked it up again and poured some more whisky into it.

Diane held out her glass and Tom filled it. Tom sneezed. Diane said, ‘You've got a cold.'

‘Sorry, yes.'

‘Well, don't give it to me, for God's sake. George won't see me when I've got a cold, he
hates
me. Well, I suppose he hates me all the time, the cold just brings it out. Do you play the piano?'

‘No— '

‘Funny, none of my gentlemen ever played the piano.'

‘I must go.'

‘Where's Stella, isn't it time she came back to join in all the fun we're having?'

‘I don't know where she is. I like Stella.'

‘She's afraid of George.'

‘So am I!'

‘I wish I could go to the south, to the Mediterranean, Italy, Greece, anywhere. I've never left England, been to London a few times, big deal. I used to keep a suitcase packed in case some marvellous man came, some prince, I used to dream about him, a rich man, gentle and sweet, and I'd love him like he'd never been loved before, a sad man and I'd make him happy.'

‘Why don't you chuck George, you'll never get any good out of him, go away somewhere and — '

‘Start a new life! You grew up rich and easy, you think people
can
go away, for you there are other places, anywhere you go you're somebody, you're visible, you exist, you can make friends and be with people in a real way. If I left here I'd die in a corner, I'd dry up and shrivel up and die like an insect, no one would care, no one would even know.'

‘Don't say that - things could change - I wish I could help you — '

‘Well, you can't. Don't say empty untrue things. I'm - like that - finished — '

‘I wish you could talk to William Eastcote, only he's dead. He was a good man.'

‘If I'd been that rich I'd have been good too.'

‘But you are good - I mean — '

‘Don't talk nonsense. You mean well. You always looked at me kindly, your eyes sent me messages.'

‘Are you really Pearl Scotney's sister?'

‘Cousin. And Ruby's. But they don't want to know. Madame Diane. The Ruby and the Pearl and the Diamond. All fakes. Our fathers were gipsies.'

‘Do you really think that George and that little girl —?'

‘Oh damn her. Damn you. I don't know.'

‘Diane, I must go.'

‘I won't say come again. George said he'd kill me if I had anything to do with you and the other brother. Oh God, if I could only
talk
to people, if I could only have a little bit of
happiness,
if things could be
ordinary
— ' Tears came quietly out of her small doglike eyes. She closed her eyelids slowly, pressing more tears out.

Diane suddenly opened her eyes and the tears seemed to disappear as if abruptly withdrawn into their source. She leapt up, tangling one black heel into the Paisley shawl. Tom leapt up too.

‘What is it?'

‘It's George. He's trying to put his key in the door. Quick,
quick.
'

Diane pulled Tom, gripping his wrist, round which her short fingers could not join, out on to the landing where she slid back the door of a large built- In cupboard. She pushed a number of dresses along on a rail, making a space into which Tom stumbled. Diane whispered, ‘He always goes to the toilet when he comes, I'll put the radio on, I'll come out on to the landing and cough, then you go — ' She slid the cupboard door back again and was gone.

Tom instinctively adjusted the dresses, pulling them in front of him and pressing himself against the back of the big cupboard. His feet, below the dresses, felt huge. He reached out and moved the sliding door slightly. He felt very unpleasantly frightened and ashamed.

The radio was playing again, quite loudly. He heard the downstairs door open and George mounting the stairs and Diane saying something to him. George went into the sitting-room. A minute or two passed and he showed no sign of going to the lavatory.

Diane's clothes were not like Judy Osmore's. Diane's clothes were musty and in need of washing and cleaning, and smelt of stale tobacco and old cosmetics, cosmetics, which went out of fashion long ago, old powder, old lipstick, old face cream, old magic. Tom began to want to sneeze. Then the radio was switched off.

Tom thought, he knows. But now he could hear George and Diane talking in quiet voices. If he had concentrated he could have heard what they were saying. He thought, I must get out of this cupboard; if George were to find me standing here among these dresses I couldn't bear it, it would ruin my whole life! He slid the door and stepped very quietly out of the cupboard. The sitting-room door was shut, the voices continued, Tom moved step by silent step toward the flat door which Diane had left open. Already he could imagine himself creeping down the stairs, leaning heavily on the banisters, putting his feet down with slow care, then the street door and freedom. At that moment Tom remembered that he had left his hat and coat lying on the floor in the sitting-room.

He checked the impulse to run. He could not now run. Diane might see and hide the awful evidence, but she might very well not. He thought, it'll be worse for
her
if he sees them when I've gone, I can't go now, I've got to see George, I've got to face him and try to
explain,
oh
God
why did I come here! I'm doing nothing but harm to everybody —

Tom took a deep breath and opened the sitting-room door. He stood in the doorway.

George and Diane were standing near the sofa holding hands. They had an odd formal dated look, like an old photograph or an old film. They turned toward him. Diane's face expressed open-mouthed, open-eyed terror. George's face expressed, for a moment, pure surprise. He let go of Diane's hand. Then almost artificially, as if he were acting, he transformed his face into a wrinkled mask of indignation and fury.

Tom raised his hand with the palm open. He said, ‘George, I'm sorry. I came here to see Diane to ask her something about Miss Meynell. I've never been here before. I've never talked to Diane before, well, except once we talked a few sentences at the Baths.' (Tom felt it essential to be truthful in case the encounter had been witnessed.) ‘I've only been here about ten minutes and I was just going to go. Nothing is Diane's fault. She didn't want to let me in and when I pushed my way in she begged me to go away. It's all my fault. I just intruded. It's nothing to do with her.'

George stepped away from Diane and stared at her as if expecting her to speak, but she was speechless with fear. She stood stiffly, her head turned away from both the men. George frowned, drawing his eyebrows right down over his eyes. He lowered his head. Then he caught sight of Greg Osmore's coat and hat lying on the floor. He snatched them up and glared at them. Then bundling them up he moved toward the door. Tom dodged promptly out of his way. George went out on to the landing, hurling the bundle in front of him, and kicked it out of the flat and down the stairs. He came back into the room and advanced on Diane, ignoring Tom. He said, ‘Sit down. Sit down
there.
' He pointed to a chair against the wall beside the piano. Diane obeyed, putting her hands to her throat. She took off the metal necklace and laid it on the piano.

Tom began, ‘George, listen — '

‘Who is Miss Meynell?' said George, still frowning.

‘Hattie Meynell, you know, John Robert's — '

‘Oh her. If you refer to her as Miss Meynell you should refer to Diane as Mrs Sedleigh. Don't you think? What did you want to know about Hattie Meynell?'

‘Oh George - I'm in such an awful mess - and I've been such a fool - don't be angry with me - I just wondered whether you and Hattie were - whether you knew each other at all — '

‘No,' said George, ‘I don't know her. I met her at that picnic, and last Saturday for approximately one minute before she opened the shutters and you started singing. Your ten minutes with Mrs Sedleigh was much longer and I daresay more interesting than my total converse with Miss Meynell. OK?'

‘Mrs Sedleigh said you saw her undressing, I suppose that was at the sea — '

‘Mrs Sedleigh should keep her bloody mouth shut. I observed her once in her petticoat by field glasses from Belmont. All right now?'

‘Yes.'

‘Do you believe me?'

‘Yes, George.'

‘Why are you interested in that little minx? Is she your mistress?'

‘No. And she's not a little minx.'

‘Your questions to Mrs Sedleigh displayed little faith in the young lady. She may not be a minx now, but she will certainly become one soon, so you'd better hurry.'

‘She's an innocent girl — '

‘You think so? Well, perhaps she is. I'm not against her. Because of her … I've had a wonderful letter … from John Robert …' He gave an odd little laugh like a sigh. ‘Did you know that Bill the Lizard has just died?'

‘Yes. How did you know?'

‘It's round all the pubs. Funny how everybody cares - because that man has died - perhaps it's a sign — '

‘I was just going to talk to him,' said Tom, ‘and then he was dead. Oh George — '

‘What?'

‘Don't hurt anybody. Don't hurt me. Don't hurt Mrs Sedleigh. Don't hurt yourself.'

‘You said you were going, why don't you go? Do you
want
to be thrown down the stairs after your coat?'

‘I'm glad you had a good letter from John Robert.'

George advanced toward Tom. Tom moved quickly back into the doorway. George stopped in front of his brother and put his hands one on each shoulder. He looked up, he was shorter than Tom, into his brother's eyes. Tom looked with amazement at George's round boyish face, which now wore a radiant quizzical amused expression. George looked like someone who was emotionally exalted, ready to cry with happiness as the result of some wonderful news, some great achievement or discovery.

Tom wanted to say something suitable, something affectionate, for he felt all his affection for his brother suddenly and ardently enlivened by the strange radiance of that look. At the same time he wondered whether George had not at last perhaps, and finally, gone mad. ‘Dear George — '

‘Clear off, Tom. Go on.
Beat it.
'

In a moment, although the clear light of the look did not waver, George's fingers dug fiercely into Tom's shoulders. Tom turned and leapt across the hall and out of the door which George had left open, he flew down the stairs and tumbled over Greg's coat and hat which were lying at the bottom. He scooped them up and got himself out into the road and slammed the door.

Then in the sudden silence of the empty lamp-lit street he paused. He stood for a while, dreading to hear a terrible scream. But the silence continued.

‘Come on, kid, you can come out from behind the piano.'

Diane got up and took a step forward. George sat down on the sofa and drew a letter from his pocket and began perusing it. He said, ‘Give me a drink, will you.' Diane poured some whisky into her own empty glass and thrust it toward him. She continued to stand stiffly, looking at him. George took a sip of the whisky, still reading the letter. Then he looked up. ‘What's the matter? Oh Tom. Sit down beside me. Why are you so frightened of me? Don't be. Come, sit down.'

Diane sat beside him and he put an arm round her shoulder. She put her face down on to the sleeve of his coat. ‘I thought you'd blame me about Tom.'

‘It wasn't your fault, was it? Was it?'

‘No. Like he said.'

‘Well, then. Forget Tom. Give me a kiss.'

George was only slightly drunk. His inability to get the key quickly into the lock was not caused by intoxication but by the ordinary fact that the door was in a dark recess. However, George was certainly in a strange frame of mind.

He had received Rozanov's violent letter that morning (Thursday). George had not seen either of the local newspapers and was unaware of the public ‘scandal' concerning himself and Hattie. He gathered something of the matter from Rozanov's incoherent thunderings, and assumed that Hattie had complained to her grandfather about George's intrusion and had somehow linked it to the riotous goings-on outside. He also gathered that the
Gazette
had said that Rozanov wanted Tom to marry Hattie (which seemed so crazy that he did not even think about it). The cause of the letter did not concern George too much. What was important was the letter itself, an entirely new development, a vast new phenomenon in the long history of his relations with his teacher.