The Oracles Page 5

  ‘Could be. Which of you is it? Polly?’

  ‘Did you come in a train?’

  ‘I did. Is Mike there?’

  ‘Serafina’s sitting on his head. He’s frightened.’

  After some fresh squirming another face appeared. It was, like the others, dirty and tear-stained. But they were pale and this one was purple with the effects of near-suffocation.

  ‘Hullo, Mike.’

  ‘Hullo,’ gasped Mike faintly, and vanished again with a squeal as a fresh roll of thunder shook the house.

  ‘Kindly shut the door‚’ commanded the bossy child. ‘You’re letting a lot of unholiness get in.’

  The demon shut the door and the chant instantly began again.

  ‘Godalmighty!’ he repeated. ‘Must be one of Swann’s kids. Of course, poor Maddy was a Holy Roman. Their mother. But I never knew they were here. They were living with a friend or somebody when … could this be the back door, do you suppose?’

  He opened a door at the end of the passage. The storm flickered and blazed upon several cases of bottles which lay grouped about the back doorstep. He and Dickie picked one up and carried it into the kitchen, where they found Billy very little further on with his glass-washing. In the dark he had been rinsing the same glass over and over again. He was sent out to collect the rest of the bottles, Dickie was put to work at the sink, while the demon mixed the drinks.

  Dickie was rearranging his ideas about the children. He had supposed them all to be Swann’s when they were pointed out to him on the beach one day. Such an exhibition of infant squalor he never wished to see at closer quarters. But it now appeared that four parents might be involved: Swann, ‘poor Maddy’, the demon and the Cucumber? Yet the children seemed to be all pretty much of a size and age. The whole thing sounded very complicated, and the less said to Christina about it the better.

  ‘You know Conrad well?’ demanded the demon suddenly.

  ‘No. I never was in this house before.’

  ‘Ah … You’re a solicitor, then?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dickie, in some surprise.

  The demon paused in his drink-mixing to stare at Dickie, and then he said:

  ‘I’m exceedingly fond of Conrad. You may think that strange, but I am.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Dickie, on a sudden impulse. ‘I like him tremendously myself.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I don’t know him at all well,’ amended Dickie. ‘I don’t understand his work. But …’

  The two men exchanged a glance and understood one another immediately. Each had an instant belief in the other’s regard for Conrad. It did not seem strange at all.

  ‘I’ve known him all my life,’ said the demon. ‘Though I’ve not been in touch with him lately. He’s ninepence in the shilling about looking after himself, unfortunately. Always has been. All this …’ He gestured round the filthy kitchen. ‘… he was quite all right till Maddy died. Snug as a bug in a rug. But she got appendicitis and they didn’t catch it in time. Died on the table. Knocked poor Conrad all to pieces, that did.’

  ‘I know nothing of his family affairs,’ said Dickie.

  ‘I’d better tell you. When Maddy died he came to us for a bit, in Cheyne Walk. He has a weak digestion, you know, and we had a good cook. I thought it the best idea, till he’d fixed up some way to live. The kids were boarded out somewhere. But then … if he hadn’t been all in pieces it wouldn’t have happened … he bolted with my wife. He must have been non compos. Maddy hadn’t been dead three weeks. A man does very odd things sometimes when he’s lost his woman. I’ve known other cases. I don’t blame him in the least. But it doesn’t seem to be working out, does it?’

  Dickie’s astonishment at these confidences was distracted by interest in the drink-mixing. He broke in to say:

  ‘You’ve put one bottle of brandy into that jug already.’

  ‘I know. There’s plenty of room for more. What we want to do, we want to make this party a howling success. We want to send ’em home so happy they don’t remember if Conrad was here or not. These Rawsons … they’re doing a lot for him, I gather? Mustn’t let him quarrel with his bread and butter till we find out what’s happened. You take this tray of glasses in there and start pouring it into them.’

  ‘I really think,’ protested Dickie, ‘that I ought to be going home. It’s nearly …’

  ‘Help me to start ’em drinking and then you can go. They’re all in filthy tempers and we don’t want them to get sore with Conrad. Besides, you could do with a drink yourself.’

  Dickie felt that he could.

  *

  Later, much later, he realised that he had not yet told anybody what he felt about Conrad. This should be set right, since it was Conrad’s party, although Conrad had gone to Mexico. Everybody was saying what a splendid fellow Conrad was. But it was difficult to secure attention. Carter and Elizabeth were quarrelling. Billy was asleep. Nell Manders was sobbing bitterly, after some savage snub from Martha. Don Rawson, with most of the party gathered round him, was at the piano, playing and singing the same song over and over again. Martha and Mr. Wetherby sometimes joined in the chorus and sometimes argued angrily about existentialism. Frank (they had been Dickie and Frank for the last halt-hour) was still busy filling glasses. When Dickie approached him he said:

  ‘You can go home, now, any time you like, old man.’

  ‘The thing about Conrad,’ said Dickie carefully, ‘is the thing. He knows how to enjoy himself. Nobody else does.’

  ‘Too right, old man. But go home now, I would.’

  ‘I don’t. So I got married. You got married.’

  ‘Au bout de cinq ou six semaines

  Les vi-vi-vivres out manqué, qué, qué …’

  ‘A very good wife,’ said Dickie. ‘Christina. You know her? Only thing to do if you don’t enjoy yourself. Get married.’

  ‘Your career!’ howled Carter. ‘As if we didn’t all know about that. Your career was packed up years before you raped Conrad.…’

  Elizabeth flew at her. Frank hurried to them, exclaiming:

  ‘Now, now, now, girls! No rough stuff!’

  Dickie continued his harangue to nobody in particular:

  ‘Very good life, very good wife, very good job. Nice town. I like everybody in this town. Only I don’t enjoy myself, somehow, solely and simply and solely.…’

  Words eluded him. He had not meant to explain why he did not enjoy himself. That was not mysterious at all, although it was better not to think about it. He had never wanted to come back to East Head and would have told his father so, if his mother had not died just as he was about to insist upon his freedom. He had found it impossible to deal a second blow to the poor old man. No, he did not want to talk about that. He wished to praise Conrad, and to explain that East Head would be quite bearable if such a man was living in it. Had he left East Head he could not have gone fishing with Conrad. He wanted to define the qualities which he had found so attractive, but all that he could manage to say was this:

  ‘He eats because he’s hungry and not because it’s dinnertime. And if he doesn’t want to be here he goes away. Quite right of him to go away tonight. He wouldn’t have enjoyed it. I don’t know anybody else like that. Very refreshing. I’m not like that. If Tina gave a party I shouldn’t go to Mexico.’

  He pondered for awhile and added:

  ‘I shouldn’t want to. Tina’s parties … not so bad as this. Conrad,’ he told Frank, who was escorting Elizabeth out of the room, ‘is the only happy man I know.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Frank. ‘Steady, Liz.’

  ‘He eats when he’s hungry,’ began Dickie.

  ‘Does he? You’ve seen his kitchen. Right now I’m hoping he hasn’t got gastric ulcers.’

  Frank and Elizabeth vanished. Dickie continued:

  ‘I wouldn’t go to Mexico. But I think it’s a very good thing to know a man who goes to Mexico when he doesn’t like it where he is. I like to meet people who are like ot
her people. I know too many people who are like me. That’s why I get so bored.’

  Nobody answered. He looked round in surprise and saw Nell Manders crying. Poor thing, he thought, she wants to go to Mexico. He went and sat down beside her.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ he said earnestly. ‘You’re quite young still. You haven’t made any mistakes yet. Your life isn’t settled.’

  ‘I’ve got no friends,’ sobbed Nell. ‘I’m so lonely.’

  ‘Nobody has any friends. I haven’t got any friends.’

  ‘Haven’t you? Why haven’t you got any friends?’

  ‘I don’t know. I had no time when it was the proper time. I didn’t mind it up there. Flying, I mean, where I was when I was young. I liked it. But it wasn’t a place, and you made friends and they didn’t come back. No. You have to be in a place. But after that I was too old.’

  ‘They don’t really like me. I thought it would be wonderful to know a lot of wonderful people. But they are very unkind to me. They aren’t my friends.’

  ‘In this place I haven’t any friends I chose for myself. I never did anything in my life I chose for myself. All … shettled for me. I believe if I could make just one …’ Dickie, with an effort, got the word out safely—‘decision … about anything at all, I should know who I am.’

  ‘But they don’t laugh at you. They don’t think you’re silly?’

  ‘No. They think I’m … sen-si-ble!’

  ‘Le sort tomba sur la plus jeune,

  On la mangea avec les on-on-onions fricassés, sés‚ sés.’

  ‘Mexico wouldn’t make any difference,’ Dickie assured her. ‘We could get it here. All we want is something … first-hand. Everything’s been … done-before! I’m a product. I’d like to … mean-what-I-say-sometimes. I’d like to … do-things-for-reasons. Never thought it out, or found any … rea-sons. Know-what-I-mean?’

  ‘They didn’t give me any education,’ wailed Nell. ‘Did they give you any education?’

  Dickie did not answer. She continued:

  ‘I went to a rotten school. They were all going to be debs at my school, but it costs too much. Daddy hasn’t got any money. Our class hasn’t got any money any more, you know. So he thinks I can get married without any clothes.’

  ‘A product,’ said Dickie, who had arrived at the answer to her question about his education. ‘I came off the … ass-em-bly belt!’

  He thought this very witty and laughed.

  ‘How can I get married? There isn’t anybody of our class round here that isn’t married already, or else they marry a girl with clothes.’

  ‘Don’t get married,’ Dickie warned her. ‘Great mistake. Ties you. Gets very dull after a bit.’

  ‘My own class bores me. I’m not a snob. Why do people have to be gentlemen? Conrad’s not a gentleman. You’re not a gentleman. I wouldn’t mind marrying somebody like you a bit. I could have a little house and I could cook.’

  ‘No. Don’t cook. Mistake. Too much cooking. We are not all but stomachs.’

  ‘He … was … herr … mayan!

  And … he … done … herr … wra-ang!’

  Don had changed his song, and shed his careful European accent. In spite of Martha’s protest, he had returned to his boyhood and a sing-song in his home town.

  ‘No, Don! Not funny! Merely adolesh … adol … we don’t think that’s funny. No! Not-at-all!’

  ‘Look at Martha!’ crowed Rhona, coming up to them. ‘Ha, ha! Martha’s pickled.’

  Dickie frowned. Even in his cups he was a good fellow.

  ‘Don’t!’ he said. ‘Not nice. Never like to see it. Not a woman. Mustn’t laugh at her.’

  ‘She laughs at you. She calls you the local yokel.’

  Dickie shook his head slowly.

  ‘Mistake,’ he said. ‘Yokel’s a farmer. Must be somebody else.’

  ‘She only asked you because she wants to sell Conrad’s work.’

  ‘He wouldn’t. A farmer wouldn’t. Only in Holland.’

  ‘I’m not talking about farmers.’

  ‘Used to go to these fairs and spend thousands of pounds buying pictures. Farmers did. Dutch farmers. Dutch pictures. Not in this century, though. Pity.’

  ‘You’ve got to tell all the yokels that Conrad is wizard. They’ll listen to you.’

  ‘How would I know? Greatest artist in the world … very-bad-artist … f’rall I know. I couldn’t … tell anybody anything.’

  Oblivion was fast advancing upon him, but he made a last effort to explain himself:

  ‘I don’t know … anything-at-all. Don’t know if … Martha-knows … any-thing-at-all. Don’t know if anybody knows anything. Except Tina. My wife. You know Tina? She knows … everything-she-knows. Quite sure of it. Got her own ideas, Tina. Where’d I get ideas? Do I … have-any-ideas? Ideas … off the counter … off the … chain … store … counter.…’

  Rhona’s face grew very large and shrank again. He suggested that they should go and look for some ideas as soon as it had stopped raining. Good ideas, not chain-store ideas. Very nice, the rain sounded, a soothing whisper everywhere and cool drops falling on his face. It was much better than the thunder and the singing.

  He liked it, and argued with Frank about getting into the car, because he preferred to sit on the path in the rain and did not feel inclined to drive home. But the car was a very good car. It took him home of its own accord. He had only to get into the back with Nell and go to sleep, while she told Frank how to get to Chale Park.

  ‘It isn’t at Chale,’ he murmured. ‘It’s in the shed.’

  ‘We’re taking Gertie home first.’

  The car rushed forward into the rain which was roaring and drumming all over the world. It got to a place where the noise was fainter—a mere background to a loud ticking, like the clock in his hall. Tick-tock, tick-tock! Engine trouble, he thought, opening one eye. But it was really the clock after all. He was at home. He was lying beside the umbrella stand.

  Tina’s white face hovered over him. She was crying. Poor Tina! Nobody had told her that the storm was over. Nobody had told her about the rain.

  PART II

  NAMELESS

  1

  THE rain stopped before dawn. The sun rose upon a land refreshed, upon harvest fields and birdsong.

  These first notes of joy roused the man. He groaned, sat up, and looked round him. The place was unfamiliar. He was sure that he had never seen it before. His glance fell upon rough wooden walls, a wheelbarrow, a scythe, and some birch brooms stacked in a corner. Through the open door he saw grass and sunlight. He had been lying on a hard earth floor, and how he came there he knew not. He knew nothing save that he was cold, hungry and weak.

  For a while he drifted upon the brink of the dream from which he had awakened. He did not wish to recapture it, although he was aware that it held something important which he ought not to relinquish. Deliberately he chose to let it go, and, in a matter of seconds, all memory evaporated. A blank curtain descended upon everything that had preceded this awakening. He was nothing. He had nothing save gnawing hunger and aching limbs.

  Presently he rose and left the place. The early sun shone on wet grass and many tall thin stones which rose up on all sides, at haphazard, throwing strange shadows. For a time the shadows occupied him, but he did not like the stones. Then, turning, he saw a building. The shed, in which he had spent the night, leant against it, in a nettled hollow. This building also offended him. There was a solid squareness about the main part of it which accorded ill with the stumpy cone above it. He turned his eyes away. A picture came into his mind: bacon on a plate. He wanted that, but, in this place of stones and grass, there did not seem to be any.

  A cock crew triumphantly, and he moved towards the sound as though to a summons. But at one point he turned aside to examine a stone that he liked. It was close to the wall, half hidden in long grass, but it had a better shape than the others and the top of it curved gracefully. There were words on it and his heart warmed as he read
them, for he knew that a hand like his own had cut them.

  HERE LIES

  SIMON BENBOW. Ob: 1744.

  I know that my Redeemer liveth.

  The cock crew again and he went on, through a lychgate into a sleeping village street. There was no food here, but there was a noise which promised food, had always signified food. He knew that much, although as yet he made no effort to name the round, smooth, warm shapes which it evoked. This noise had arisen in the same direction in which the cock was crowing:

  CHOOK! Chook-chook-chook. CHOOK! Chook, chook, chook.…

  He found a narrow lane leading towards it, between two thatched cottages. Wooden fences railed off gardens. Beyond them was a meadow full of hen-houses. He climbed a gate and found what he wanted in a nesting-box behind one of them. They were warm and smooth and brown. He broke the shells and almost laughed with pleasure as they slid down his throat. Five minutes later, feeling much better, he climbed the gate, regained the lane, and wandered back to the street. This was very wide. A strip of grass, planted with pollarded trees, separated the cottages on either side from the road. In the grass he found something that attracted him—two blocks of stone, side by side, one twice the height of the other. He liked their proportions, and sat down upon the lower stone. The climbing sun began to warm his stiff limbs.

  Now that his physical discomforts were assuaged the mental blank became a more distressing evil. He wanted to escape from the past, to leave it as far behind him as possible. But he did not know how to advance or where to go. To give a name to anything, even to himself, was to look backwards. He flinched from any name, any word, which was not offered to him here.

  The village was waking up and, with it, the sounds of early morning. A dog barked. A pump handle squeaked and whined. Doves cooed on a thatched roof. Some doors were opened and curtains were drawn back from windows. There were, besides, many faint, indefinable sounds—thuds, clanks, humming, far-off voices, the whole orchestra of life tuning up. One or two people went down the street and cast looks askance at the queer tramp sitting on the old horse-block. But he sat on, motionless, until his ear was greeted by a fresh sound, familiar, reassuring, as much an answer to his needs as the cluck of the hen had been.