Ritual in the Dark (11 page)

Are you really curious?

Very curious, he said seriously.

She went on sewing.

I used to think about being a. . . a woman with something to say.

A writer?

Yes. Not necessarily, though. When I was a girl I had a book of lives of the female saints—St Catherine of Siena and St Teresa of Avila and the rest.

You wanted to be a saint?

I don’t know. I was too young then to know what being a saint meant.

Do you know now?

A little better, I think. I’ve been reading Simone Weil. She was a saint. I could never be like Simone Weil.

Why?

Because. . . oh, because I’m not clever enough and not strong enough and not. . . oh, I don’t know. . .

And yet you don’t want to marry and have a family?

Perhaps I might—if I met the man I wanted to settle down with.

She looked up and noticed his smile. She said:

I know what you’re thinking. Another woman who needs the right man. I’ve met so many of them. Waiting for Mr Right.

He said:

But in your case, it’s not merely that. You’d like to do something worth while with your life?

She said, with a touch of tiredness in her voice:

I don’t believe marriage should be a dead end for women, anyway. Most of them behave as if it was a sort of last judgement. . .

And what do you think?

Oh, I. . . I think. . . It sounds pompous, but I think that all human beings ought to try to make the world a little better to live in, as well as living their own little lives.

And do you think that being a Witness helps?

I think so. I don’t think of myself as a Witness. I think of myself as a Christian. And the Witnesses are the only group among Christians who are trying hard to oppose the way things are going.

He opened a second bottle of beer, and poured it into the tumbler.

And which way are things going?

Oh. . . people are becoming more mean-spirited, more petty-minded.

Don’t you think they’ve always been that way?

He was plying her with questions because he could see she enjoyed talking, and because he liked listening to her voice and watching her averted face. He was thinking that it would be pleasant to kiss her.

In a way, yes. But in the Middle Ages men and women devoted their lives to other people without making a fuss about it—monastic orders and Christian laymen. They did it naturally, out of love of God and their fellow human beings, and no one thought it odd, or accused them of being do-gooders. And it seems that nowadays—well, it’s everyone for himself. . .

And how do you hope to alter that? By converting people?

She looked up and smiled; the tiredness was there underneath it.

I don’t know. Sometimes I have friends in the Witnesses over for supper, and I think they. . . they seem to be rather naïve, in spite of their seriousness. And sometimes I talk to these people who call themselves intellectuals, and they seem futile, in spite of their cleverness.

Sorme said, smiling:

I’m afraid you have the makings of a first-class heretic.

She said softly:

Perhaps I have.

Silence fell between them; he watched her hands as they held the fabric, and observed that it was easy to sit with her, unspeaking, feeling under no obligation to speak. He wondered how far the beer was responsible for making him feel so relaxed.

She said suddenly:

Did you know that Austin went into a monastery?

No. When?

Not long ago. Hardly a year. But he came out. It wasn’t what he was looking for. . .

Were you glad or sorry?

Glad, of course. It was a Catholic monastery. But he still hasn’t found what he’s looking for.

No?

He pushed his plate further away, and leaned back in the chair. She said softly:

Poor Austin.

There could be no mistaking the affection in her voice. He said curiously:

You’re fond of Austin?

Of course! I watched him grow up. I was nine when he was born. I used to take him out. He was a very strange child.

How?

Sometimes he seemed quite angelic. He was a very good-tempered little boy altogether. But at other times he behaved as if he had an evil spirit. He’d get moods when he had to break things, or hurt something.

Her eyes were looking beyond him; he could see she enjoyed talking of Austin. Suddenly they came back to him. She had noticed that he was no longer eating.

Would you like coffee?

No, thanks.

Tea?

No, nothing, thanks.

Let’s go into the other room then. There’s some brandy if you like.

Ah!

She insisted on his going first into the sitting-room. He said: Thank you for a really delicious meal.

Not at all. It was only scraps. Will you have a little brandy?

If you’re having some too. . .

Perhaps I will.

He sank into the armchair, sighing with satisfaction. When she handed him the brandy glass, he said happily:

Thank you. You’re an angel!

He felt immediately that it was a mistake, then felt surprised to notice that she was slightly flushed. He was charmed; it made her look like a schoolgirl. He turned the stem of the glass in his fingers, saying:

It’s big enough to drink a pint of beer from!

It’s supposed to be!

Is it?

Haven’t you ever drunk from a brandy glass before?

Never. I had a nautical grandfather who used to let me sip his brandy. But he drank it from a two-pint mug, with hot water and lemon. . .

She laughed at him: it was the first time he had heard her laugh. She held her glass up towards him:

You’re supposed to hold it like this—to warm the brandy with your hands. That is, if it’s good brandy, which this isn’t.

Tastes all right to me!

Yes, but it isn’t. A good brandy tastes far more gentle and smooth. . .

He said, laughing:

I’m afraid you have the making of an epicure!

Immediately she became serious. She said quietly:

No.

He waited for her to go on; then, when he saw she had finished, said, with raised eyebrows:

No?

No. I don’t think I care for good living. . . I once lived in a women’s hostel in the East End for a fortnight. It didn’t make me long to be home. Except for the dirt. But dirt is bad anywhere. . .

What on earth were you doing in a women’s hostel?

Helping.

Ah, I see.

She rearranged the needlework on her knee, and began to sew. He sipped the brandy, watching her with admiration. The glow of the electric fire was red on her stockings, and was reflected from the shiny material of her dress. Her serenity and gentleness filled him with a desire to touch her. An instinct in him warned him that she feared intimacy. He watched her sewing, and speculated about her past. Austin’s father-theory sounded plausible. Certainly there was something. He began to wonder how he could lead her to speak of it. Her sudden coolness when he spoke of marriage made him cautious. He said finally:

Tell me about Austin.

What do you want to know about him?

What’s this about a monastery?

I don’t know. You should ask him.

Where was the place?

In Alsace—on the Rhine, I believe. Austin won’t ever speak about it. Not to me, at least.

And you’ve no idea what happened?

Very little. Austin’s mother is a Catholic, and there was a time when she wanted Austin to be a priest. Nothing came of it. Austin’s father wanted him to go into business, but he didn’t show any inclination for that either. He simply started to drink heavily. Finally, he got into rather a lot of trouble, and his father decided to send him out to Brazil. Luckily, his mother decided to interfere with that scheme. She persuaded his father that he needed to see a psychiatrist. Which he did. He thought it was all nonsense, but he could see it would be better than Brazil. He even managed to persuade the psychiatrist to tell his father that he wasn’t suited for business!

Sorme said: Poor Austin! It sounds as if they just wouldn’t let him alone.

Quite! It was a pity, really, that he was the only one.

What happened then?

Then. . . then he started to take an interest in ballet, and said he wanted to write a book. So they made him an allowance, and simply left him to his own devices—which was what they should have done in the first place. And, as you probably know, he has written three very good books, and begun to make quite a name for himself as a journalist.

What about this monastery affair, though? When did that happen?

Quite recently. He went off to Germany to live three years ago. He stayed there for over a year, and we didn’t hear much from him. Then one day, he simply wrote to say he was in a monastery in Alsace, and hoped to become a monk. His mother was delighted, of course. She was quite sure that he wouldn’t remain in the monastery after he’d become a priest. But nothing came of it. He spent about a month there—as a paying guest. Then he came back to England. Since then he’s been writing a novel—or so he tells me. Probably you know more about that than I do?

No. He didn’t mention it to me. But then, I haven’t known him long. Have you always been very close to him?

She said quietly: He’s always come to me when he’s been unhappy or dissatisfied.

He looked at her, and felt again the beginnings of desire for the slim body. He said:

I wonder why?

Why?

Why he always came to you?

We were always fond of one another. He always trusted me. I think I was the most tolerant nursemaid he ever had!

Observing the softness of her expression as she spoke of Austin, Sorme wondered if she could be in love with him. Then, as she folded the skirt and slipped it back into its paper carrier, he decided it was impossible. Her attitude was far more that of a girl who worships a younger brother. He asked her curiously:

Were you an only child?

The change of subject seemed to startle her. She looked at him blankly for a moment, then said quickly:

Yes.

She stood up, and folded the top of the carrier bag. Again, he became aware that speaking of herself embarrassed her. She said:

Excuse me. I have to make a phone call before I forget.

I’ll go upstairs, if you don’t mind.

In the bathroom, he could hear the murmur of her voice as she telephoned. The room was agreeably warm; he felt drowsy and well-fed. He found the warm water, and the orange scent of the soap, so agreeable that he removed his shirt and washed his neck and face. He wiped the steam off the mirror, and regarded his pink face with approval. There was a two-day growth of beard on his chin, but his complexion was fair and it was hardly noticeable. He wiped away the soap from behind his ears, and made a face at himself in the mirror. Below, the doorbell rang. He went closer to the door and listened, but could hear nothing. She must have opened the door without replacing the phone, for the sound of her voice continued. As he came out of the bathroom, the phone pinged as she replaced it on its rest. She was in the kitchen as he came down the stairs; he asked her:

Has someone arrived?

My niece.

The girl was kneeling in front of the fire when he came into the room, warming her hands. He said:

How do you do?

She glanced up at him, then stood up, smiling.

Hello!

It was the girl whose photograph he had seen in the bedroom. The short blonde hair looked as if it had been recently cut and waved. When she smiled, he noticed that the two front teeth were irregular; one slightly overlapped the other. He guessed her to be about sixteen. She said:

I’m Caroline. Who are you?

Gerard Sorme.

Are you one of Aunt’s Jehovah’s Witnesses?

No.

I didn’t think you were. You don’t look like one!

Her smile left him in no doubt that she intended it as a compliment.

No? What do I look like?

I don’t know. She considered him with her head slightly on one side, then giggled. It betrayed her age, and contrasted with the controlled, sophisticated drawl with which she spoke. He was slightly repelled by her air of sophistication.

Miss Quincey came in.

Oh, you’ve introduced yourselves? Would you like a drink, Caroline?

Yes, please. Can I have a glass of sherry?

I didn’t mean that kind of a drink, Miss Quincey said. Your mother told me not to let you touch alcohol.

But I’m frozen, Caroline said plaintively. Feel.

She laid the back of her hand against Miss Quincey’s face.

All right. But don’t have a lot. I’m making some tea. She asked Sorme: Would you like some tea?

Please!

Don’t let Caroline drink too much sherry!

She went out of the room again. Caroline said: I’ll be hiccupping on the carpet when you come back!

Sorme looked at her with warming interest. Miss Quincey’s appeal to him introduced a flavour of intimacy. It placed him in the position of her guardian. He watched her moving bottles in the cupboard. She asked:

Are you drinking?

I was, he said. Brandy.

Have a refill!

He saw that Miss Quincey’s glass was still untouched. He said: I don’t think Gertrude intends to drink this. Perhaps I’d better.

I dare say you had, she said. She sat on the settee, and crossed her knees. She had shapely legs. She was wearing a simple black dress with elbow-length sleeves.

Well, tell me what you do, then! I can’t guess.

I write. . .

Do you! A writer. Lovely! I’ve always wanted to know a writer.

Really? Surely I’m not the first?

Almost. Daddy used to be friends with a novelist called Dennis Scott years ago. I fell for him good and hard! He was terribly good looking. . .

He said, smiling:

I see. And did anything come of it?

Come of it? Lord, no! I was only about ten.

Sorme said teasingly: You must have been delicious!

She said: Oh yes! in a slightly American manner. It was a return to her drawl, which had begun to disappear.

And how old are you now?

Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen in three months. What do you write?