The Oracles Read online

  Chip … chip … chip-chip … chip … chip-chip-chip … chip.…

  He saw the stone, the chisel, the hammer and the hands that held them. He rose and went in search of these things, over the soft wet grass, past the houses. As he went, the sound grew louder:

  Chip-chip … chip … chip.…

  The stone, the chisel, the hammer, the hands and the mind too. A man was thinking. Each pause meant thought, a pondering before the next blow. Ah, blessed sound! The earliest, the first sound. He knew now where to go. This was home.

  Some way down the street two wooden gates were open upon a yard. A board over the wall announced:

  F. TOOMBS. STONEMASON.

  The yard was full of stone blocks, piled up and leaning against one another. There were several sheds and, at the far end, a dwelling-house. In front of the largest shed, close to the gate, sat an old man chipping away at a long smooth stone beam, supported on trestles. The wanderer watched him over the wall. Everything here was familiar; the stones, some rough hewn, some blank, the order amidst confusion, the sheds, the tools, all belonged to a safe world on the far side of that black dream. If only … if only he could be inside there, be that man, sitting on that bench, doing that thing. But there was a difficulty about it. A barrier, a danger, kept him outside the wall.

  A voice called from the house:

  ‘Frank!’

  This, too, was a word of safety. It belonged to the place and had been shouted before in that other yard. Frank! he said to himself. Frank!

  The old man took no notice. He continued to chip, pause, and chip again until a rosy-cheeked young woman came from the house.

  ‘Oh, Dad! Your bacon’s getting cold.’

  Bacon, thought the listener behind the wall.

  ‘In a minute, my girl.’

  ‘Mum’s creating. She says you didn’t ought to work before breakfast, not at your age.’

  ‘All very well. I promised Wednesday. Got to be done Wednesday. Not my fault I’m single-handed.’

  The old man put down his tools on the bench beside him, got up, and flexed his arms.

  ‘They’re coming for her Wednesday,’ he said, nodding at the stone. ‘Be trouble if she ain’t done.’

  The young woman stood beside him and looked at it.

  ‘Looks nice,’ she commented.

  ‘Not so dusty. Wish they’d left a inch wider space each end, though. ’Twould have looked better that way, to my mind. But Mr. Simms, he would know best.’

  ‘What’s it say? That bit you’ve done?’

  ‘That’s poetry. Says: There is no room for death.’

  She sighed and nodded, and then said:

  ‘I wish they could have got the licence sooner. So few of the boys remember them now. The boys now were only babies when they went away.’

  ‘Boys! Ooagh!’ the old man groaned in disgust. ‘Boys fair give me the sick, these days. Not one of ’em wants to learn a fine decent trade. Why’m I single-handed? Who’ll do the job when I’m gone? Work with their hands? Not for Joseph! Clerks! That’s what they want to be.…’

  ‘Fra-ank!’ came the cry from the house.

  ‘All right, Maggie! Coming!’

  As the pair moved off down the yard he was saying:

  ‘Though there’s premiums offered—premiums, mind you—for any lad that’s willing to learn.…’

  Now the yard was empty. Now the stool was waiting. Now the hammer and chisels lay idle on the bench.

  Inch by inch the watcher crept in until he stood in front of the stone. He smiled as he read it, for the clear cutting of the letters delighted him. All was as it should be, or very nearly. The old man had been right; an inch more space at either end would have been better. The stone exclaimed, as though the words were part of it:

  This Sports Pavilion has been presented to the boys of Coombe Bassett by Charles Headley, in memory of his sons, William Francis and Charles Maurice, who lost their lives in the Battle of Britain. 1940.

  Nec morti esse locum, sed viva volare Sideris in numerum atque alto succedere caelo.

  The lettering had been completed as far as locum.

  The man picked up a chisel and held it in his hand, staring at it. As yet he had called nothing by name. But a name now came to him and he whispered it as he fingered the chisel.

  ‘My Redeemer …’

  At last he sat down upon the stool. For a long while he looked at the stone. As he considered it he began to whistle. He could not have put words to the tune, but it had been in the back of his mind ever since he left the churchyard: I know that my Redeemer liveth.…

  Picking up the hammer, he began upon the s in sed.

  Chip … chip … chip-chip … and He shall stand … chip … chip-chip … at the latter day … chip … chip … upon the earth.

  The letter sprang out of the stone. It lived there.

  Footsteps passed to and fro outside the yard gates. A car or two drove past. All the village was now wide awake. A wireless loud speaker echoed from an adjoining house with the eight o’clock news. He worked on, concentrated, absorbed, until a furious voice behind him demanded what he was doing. He sprang to his feet and confronted the old man.

  ‘This.…’ he said, indicating the stone.

  Frank Toombs looked at it and whistled himself. It was, as he saw at once, a very nice bit of work.

  ‘And who might give you leave to do such a thing?’ he asked, more gently.

  There was a long pause. The answer sounded like a question.

  ‘Frank? …’

  ‘What d’you mean? I never …’

  They stared at each other.

  Toombs saw that this man, although he had obviously slept rough, was no tramp. His hands were working hands. His splendid head, the great forehead, the beetling brows and haggard eyes reminded Toombs of a picture he had seen, some old picture somewhere of a great man. A tramp with a brain-box like that would bear signs of drink and degeneration. This man was very pale. He looked ill. But he was no waster.

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded Toombs. ‘What’s your name?’

  This was the danger point. This was the gulf which had to be crossed. But a bridge now presented itself. The answer was easy. It was given without a moment’s hesitation:

  ‘Benbow.’

  PART III

  THE FRIENDS OF THE ARTIST

  1

  THE exertions of Sunday night, the task of keeping the party sweet, of sending it home fuddled but friendly, exhausted Frank Archer. He did not turn up in the Metropole dining-room until a quarter to eleven. With one pop of his grey eyes he quenched some suggestion from the waiter that breakfast was off, and ordered kidneys, which were not on the menu. They came. At half-past eleven he took a stroll round the town, which he had so far only seen by lightning flashes. It was a small town, and he very soon fetched up in front of its principal attraction—Alan Wetherby’s Marine Pavilion.

  A long whistle escaped him as he took in it. Turning the corner of the parade and beholding the sea, he had unconsciously expected some cosy little pier with a domed shack at the end of it. There was nothing cosy about this severely functional structure. But they were all exceedingly proud of it. No town in England could boast of anything more up to the minute.

  To get inside was no easy task. The engraved Perspex doors baffled him, as they baffled all visitors, and had baffled the townsfolk during the first week or two. There was a long row of them, immensely tall, through which glimpses could be got of the vestibule within and the shining sea beyond. He tugged and pushed and would have concluded that the place must be shut had he not beheld various strollers inside. Presently two old ladies came up and pushed a knob in the steel frame-work, whereupon a whole door slid silently behind its neighbour, admitted them, and closed after them. He followed their example and got inside, wondering what would happen if the thing shut up again while somebody was standing in the doorway. Upon further investigation, however, he discovered two knobs. One of them held all the doors perman
ently open, when large crowds were going in and out. The other served scattered entrants on windy days. The whole contrivance prevented unnecessary draughts.

  He found himself in a vestibule which ran the whole width of the building. Its northern wall, opposite the doors, was constructed entirely of glass, and looked over the Channel to Wales. Some thirty feet short of this glass wall the vestibule floor fell away into a double staircase, wide shallow steps, leading down to doors which gave on to the sea terrace. The view from the vestibule was thus deprived of all foreground. Air conditioning made the whole building a trifle overwarm. This clement, unstirred ambience struck Archer as unnatural; it provided too violent a contrast to the cold north light, the boisterous spectacle of wind and sea. He found himself perversely wishing for a draught or two, for some indication that Nature was too much for Wetherby. There was none. The outer world, segregated behind mammoth sheets of glass, might be seen but not felt.

  On the right was another row of doors, leading into a hall which would seat two thousand people. On the left were various entrances to lounges, libraries and a café. The floor, a deep azure with a high polish, was made of some material which had obviously been poured upon it and allowed to set. It reflected the scene like a mill-pond, but it was not slippery. Age, infirmity, and the toddler were safe upon it.

  Between the two divisions of the staircase ran a long, low balustrade, and in front of it was a semicircular space filled with potted plants. Something was needed, he thought, to stick up in the middle of this—some piece of sculpture. East Head would, no doubt, get one in time, as up to the minute as its setting. He next poked his pug nose against the glass doors of the hall, which was dark and shrouded. Posters told him of forthcoming attractions. The East Head Players were shortly offering a performance in aid of the Lifeboat Fund.

  A name on this announcement caught his eye. Richard Pattison! The local yokel? Could it be that the yokel was playing the part of the convict in The Bishop’s Candlesticks? It could easily, mused Archer, for this part falls invariably to the pleasantest young fellow in town. This convict, this tough lone wolf, has an irresistible attraction for upright, eupeptic men who pass the offertory bag in church. How wistfully do they portray an ostracism which can never be theirs! There was a woman … they mutter. I think she was my wife. How wonderful not to be quite sure about it! And their undoubted wives, sitting in the front row of the auditorium, look decorously at their laps, hoping that this dangerous line may be got over without exciting giggles among their acquaintance. Archer knew all about small towns and their ways, for he had grown up in one, and it had possessed a dramatic society. He had played a few small parts himself, but looked far too much like a villain to be given the role of the convict. People preferred to laugh at him.

  Having now mastered the spell of the doors, he released himself without difficulty on to the lower sea terrace, whence steps led him to the beach. This was unattractive, a vast expanse of mud and slimy rocks. Wetherby’s Pavilion towered above it, and prisoners within, on various levels, peered out through glass walls at the sea. They looked small and helpless. In the Channel several coasters were bobbing up and down. The wind had freshened since the storm. The town, behind the Pavilion, sprawled up the twin humps of Bay Hill and Summersdown. Motor-coaches, like huge beetles, crept along the coastal road.

  The beach was almost deserted save for a few groups of children, playing in the sparse patches of sand. Among them he presently recognized his own, trailing disconsolately over the mud with the three little Swanns. He decided not to accost them, since they did not seem to recognise him. He did not care for children. His own childhood had been so wretched that he flinched from any association which could remind him of it. He had nothing to say to Polly and Mike, save to apologise for begetting them and for having allowed them to be starved at East Head. He sighed, left the beach, and returned to the Metropole for lunch.

  By two o’clock he was up at Summersdown. He judged that Elizabeth’s hangover would be, by now, sufficiently abated for rational conversation. The house had its customary deserted appearance. He went upstairs and found her moaning upon her bed.

  ‘Is it really you?’ she asked, peering at him with bloodshot eyes. ‘I thought you were there last night.… Oh Christ! My head!’

  ‘I’ll get you some coffee,’ he suggested.

  The kitchen looked even dirtier by daylight. He managed to brew some coffee and took it upstairs on a tray. She was now sitting up, a little recovered, haggard, yellow and waspish, but as reasonable as he could ever hope to find her.

  ‘Why are you here?’ she asked, as he gave her a cup. ‘I don’t remember a thing, not a damn thing about last night. I was terribly upset. Conrad has left me. Did I tell you?’

  ‘Frequently. Do you think he’s gone for good?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I couldn’t care less if he has. It’s been all packed up between Conrad and me for some time. It was the way he went that upset me.’

  This had a familiar ring. No man had ever gone in a way which did not upset her. Presently she added:

  ‘But you, Frank? What are you doing here? You’ve left it rather late, haven’t you, if you’ve come to fetch me home?’

  As she spoke, hope flickered in her sad eyes. She longed to hear that he wanted her back.

  ‘I came,’ he said, ‘because Conrad wrote and asked me to come. Quite a long letter. The longest I’ve ever had from him.’

  ‘He never! It takes him all day to write a postcard.’

  ‘He wrote it three weeks ago. But I only got it on Saturday. I’ve been in the States and my mail was kept for me. I came at once. But before I show you the letter …’

  ‘All about me, I suppose.’

  ‘Barely a word about you. But before we get on to that, I want to say something about the twins. I’ve seen them. I think they’d do better in school.’

  ‘I daresay they would. But do you mean that Conrad …’

  ‘So I’ll fix that, shall I? Find a school and make all the arrangements. And when I send for them you’ll let them go without kicking up a fuss, see?’

  ‘All right. But you may as well know that what you pay me for their keep is damn all we any of us have to live on.’

  ‘I had that idea. It was meant for two, not five.’

  ‘Too right, as you would say. But I never expected that Conrad’s children would be dumped on us. It quite spoilt the pattern. What I’ll do for money now I don’t know, if Conrad has really skipped. He could always raise the wind with the Rawsons. I suppose I’d better go back to the stage.’

  There was a pause. They both knew that she could not. Her reputation for unreliability outweighed her undoubted talent, and she was most unlikely to get a job. She had fallen behind. She was growing old. Her box-office appeal was as outmoded as her oaths and her slang.

  ‘So that’s one thing settled,’ he said at last. ‘Now … Conrad’s letter. You’d better read it.’

  He proffered her several sheets of expensive notepaper.

  ‘Funny!’ she exclaimed, taking them. ‘I’ve lived with him for two years, and I don’t believe I’ve ever read a letter of his. He’s got nice writing, hasn’t he? Beautiful! How odd.’

  ‘Not at all. He never has any difficulty in using his hands. It’s words that bother him. Who lives at The Moorings?’

  He pointed to the address on the notepaper.

  ‘The Rawsons. Why … did you think we lived there?’

  ‘No. I supposed he’d pinched some letter paper from rich friends, and I wondered if he has any, except the Rawsons.’

  Elizabeth began to read the letter. While she did so he wondered how soon he might expect her back at Cheyne Walk. Some pretence at getting a job seemed to be essential to her self-respect. But she would eventually turn to him for shelter, countenance and protection, and he would not refuse it, although he never intended to live with her again. He felt obscurely responsible for her troubles, since he had never loved her as much as he loved C
onrad.

  Dear Frank (she read),

  Can you come to East Head as soon as you can, because I ergently need your opinion. It is the Appollo I have been doing for Gressington. You must no all about that competition. I cannot make up my mind make up my mind about it. Sometimes I think it is no good and if it is no good I would rather not send it to Gressington. The subject does not interest me but I would like the money. They have given me some books to read about Appollo but the subject does not interest me. Sometimes I think it is all right though. If it is wrong you will see it at once. I shall be gided intirely by you. If you say send it to Gressington it goes, if not not. When I am not sure in my mind I have always relied on your opinion. Though you are generally wrong if we disagree when I am sure in my mind.

  I am not happy in my work lately. But this may be because I have indegestion. I never was ill before. I think it is the meals. We have got no cook. We are all rather ill, I think, and it will be a good thing when we can get away from here. There is nothing to do when I am not working except sail a yot which is expensive.

  If you feel that you would rather never see me again that is very reasonable. In that case do not bother to anser this letter. If you would like to see the Appollo but do not want to see her, it will be all right if you come early in the morning because she does not get up till the afternoon. You could come to the studio and say what you think and go away again and she would never know that you had been. You could tell me if I am really going out of my mind.

  I have read this letter over and see that I have made several very stupid speling mistakes. But I cannot write it again because I have no more paper. I never spell well but these are idiotic. Can you wonder that I wonder about my work? You will see what I mean about going out of my mind. Of course I meant to write urgently, and know, and guided, and answer, and yatch. I repeat: your decision about Appollo is decisive.