Ritual in the Dark (22 page)

I was going to call on Gertrude.

She’s not in. I’ve just been.

What are you doing here?

I’m staying overnight. I just took the afternoon off. You do look hot.

He outbreathed deeply, and balanced the bicycle against the kerbstone.

I am. Bloody hot. Where are you going to now?

To have a cup of tea in the café. Are you any good at climbing?

Fairly. Why?

Because you could climb over Aunt Gertrude’s back gate and see if her spare key’s there. She usually keeps it in the gardening shed.

All right. Let’s go and see.

He took her hand as they walked into the Vale of Health; she immediately detached it.

You hadn’t better. Aunt might come up behind us in the car.

Would it matter?

Not to me. But there’s no need for her to know more than she has to.

He glanced at her, struck by a note of hardness and common sense in her voice. She kissed her lips at him, smiling.

He leaned his bicycle against the wall of the house. She pointed to the tall wooden fence with a gate in it.

Can you climb it?

I expect so.

He leaned the bicycle against the fence and stood on the crossbar. He was able to swing himself astride the gate, and clamber down into the back garden. She called:

Is the gardening shed locked?

He tried the door.

No.

Good. Open up.

He unbolted the gate for her. She went into the shed, and emerged a moment later with a key. Sorme looked around the back garden; it was the first time he had seen it in daylight. There were tall hedges on either side and a concrete path that wound across a lawn to some apple trees at the far end. In the centre of each lawn were two big circular flower beds. He said:

Will she mind? I mean, will she mind us breaking in like this?

Oh no. She’s expecting me, anyway. Come on in.

She unlocked the back door. He said:

She’s damn’ lucky to have such a place.

Why don’t you try proposing to her? You might move in.

Don’t be silly.

He removed his raincoat and hung it at the bottom of the stairs. She was filling the kettle and setting it on the gas. She said:

I’m not. I would if I was a man.

Sorme came behind her, and slid his arms around her waist.

I wouldn’t mind if you lived here.

She leaned her head back, and let him kiss her mouth. He allowed his hands to rest against her, feeling the flatness of her thighs and the hard shapes of suspenders against them. She said:

Ooh, stop it! We ought to behave.

Why?

Aunt might come.

All right.

He stepped away from her, aware of a tenseness in his stomach at the warmth of the contact. She said softly:

I don’t want you to stop.

Neither do I.

He pulled off his jacket, feeling suddenly tired. He said:

I’m going to wash. I feel a wreck.

In the bathroom, he stripped off his pullover and shirt, and washed his chest and neck with warm water. He leaned against the wall and yawned deeply. In the bedroom next door he could hear sounds as Caroline moved around. His shirt was damp with sweat. He tucked it into his trousers, then combed his hair, beginning to feel slightly better. He had washed his face with an almost dry sponge. Looking at it closely in the mirror, he saw he needed a shave.

Her bedroom door stood open. He said:

What are you doing?

Changing.

Can I come in?

She was wearing a flowered cotton dress. He stood behind her as she combed her hair, seated in front of the mirror.

Do you keep your clothes here?

Some of them. Old ones mostly.

This doesn’t look old.

He leaned over her and allowed his lips to brush her ear. He said:

I should have come in a few minutes sooner.

She smiled at him from the mirror, then stood up. He tried to put his arms around her. She pushed them away.

No. Let’s go down.

Why?

Aunt might come.

We’d hear the car.

The kettle should be boiling.

He turned her round and pulled her closer. She was wearing no shoes, and he had to bend to kiss her. She put both arms around his neck. If he had straightened up, she would have swung six inches off the floor. He felt the warmth of the out-thrust underlip, then the yielding as her lips parted. Her body was bent back in his arms. He said:

You’re too short.

She said, laughing:

You’re too tall.

He pressed her waist close to him and lifted her off the ground.

I’d get a stiff neck if I had to keep bending down there!

He carried her two steps backwards, then lowered her against the bed. The backs of her knees pressed on the edge, and she allowed herself to be released on to it. She said plaintively:

Do behave yourself. She might come.

He lifted her legs and pushed them across the eiderdown, then lay down beside her and kissed her again. He felt the same excitement and tension as on the previous evening, and a sense of repetition. He also recognised instinctively that she was not as excited as he was, and kissed her more firmly, caressing her left breast with his free hand. She stopped resisting, and allowed him to lie half way across her. When he stopped kissing her, she said:

You are naughty. We oughtn’t. . .

He stopped the words by kissing her, and felt her tense under his weight, then relaxed and lay beside her, his face against the pillow. She said pleadingly:

It isn’t the right place. Let me come and visit you. It’s no good here.

He said: All right. The hoarseness of his voice surprised him. He cleared his throat, and looked at her face. Her chin looked sore, and he remembered that he needed a shave. She was lying with her cheek on her right arm, making no attempt to move, although he was no longer holding her. The wide hem of her skirt spread behind her across the counterpane. He slipped his left arm underneath her neck and pulled her to him again. She could feel his excitement, and he was aware of the beating of her heart as he kissed her. His right hand pressed into the back of her thigh, then moved up to her buttock, and felt the smoothness of her knickers against his fingertips. She said:

Please not now, Gerard. . .

They both heard the noise of the car simultaneously. He said, groaning:

Oh, Christ, just my luck.

She sat up on the edge of the bed, pulling down her dress. She glanced in the mirror and switched at her hair with her fingers. She looked at the expression of gloom and ferocity on his face, and bent to kiss him.

Come on. Get up. Let me tidy the bed.

He rolled off unwillingly, muttering. She said, laughing:

Stop scowling and go and make the tea.

They heard the sound of a car door slamming. He said:

I can’t. I’m ready to rape the first girl I see. Even Gertrude.

I expect she’d be delighted!

She ran out of the bedroom and down the stairs. He went into the bathroom, and sat on the edge of the lavatory seat, staring at his feet. The excitement began to die out of his shoulders and thighs. He heard a key inserted in the front door, then the door opened. Caroline’s voice called:

Hello, aunt.

Miss Quincey said:

Hello, dear. How did you get in?

Gerard got the back door key.

Gerard. . . ?

The voices retreated into the kitchen. He looked at himself in the mirror, and combed his hair. Then, to supply a reason for his presence upstairs, he pulled the lavatory chain. He made sure that his clothes were adjusted, then went downstairs.

Caroline was alone in the kitchen, pouring water into the teapot. When he looked enquiringly at her, she pointed towards the door. He went into the other room and found Miss Quincey taking several books out of a briefcase and arranging them in the bookcase. She said brightly:

Hello, Gerard. What brought you here?

I was hoping we could have some tea together.

Was it important?

No. . . I’ve been at the British Museum this afternoon. I got tired of reading and thought I’d like to see you.

She finished arranging the books, and straightened up.

That was sweet of you. You should have rung. How long have you been here?

Oh, five minutes. I met Caroline at the end of the street. . .

She smiled at him.

Well, you’ll have to come over some other afternoon. Would you like to stay for supper tonight?

What about your meeting?

You needn’t come if you don’t want to. You could take Caroline for a walk on the Heath. It’ll be over by nine.

No. I’d like to, but I’m seeing Austin. . . Anyway, we couldn’t really talk much, could we?. . .

She said cheerfully:

No. I expect you’re right.

She placed her hand on his arm and squeezed it as she went past, smiling at him. He wondered what had made her so good tempered. The slight sense of guilt about Caroline made him feel that, whatever the reason, he was exceptionally lucky.

When he heard her speaking to Caroline in the kitchen, he was glad he was seeing Austin later. It gave him no excuse to stay. With the two women together, in the same room, he experienced a draining sense of self-division, a feeling of being victimised.

CHAPTER EIGHT

FOR HEAVEN’S sake, not so much whisky! You’ll have me pie-eyed before we get to this club.

Drink what you can, Nunne said. He handed Sorme a tumbler half full of whisky. He said:

Now. Food. Let’s see what we have in the fridge.

May I come and look at your kitchen?

Do.

He followed Nunne out of the room, and stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching him take food out of the refrigerator and place it on a trolley. He said:

It’s bloody big. Big enough for four kitchens.

It belonged to my uncle. He liked giving large dinners prepared by several cooks. It’s really rather large for me. But I like a lot of space when I’m cooking.

The kitchen gave the impression that it had been installed as a showroom, or transferred immediately from the Ideal Homes Exhibition. The rack of glass plates and dishes, the rows of saucepans, even the enormous deal table in the middle of the room, looked as if they had never been used. The white-enamelled bench next to the gas stoves had half a dozen electrical gadgets clamped to its edge. The pattern of yellow and white check that covered the walls was repeated in marble shades on the floor. Sorme said:

Don’t you ever have girls trying to marry you to get in on this?

It has happened. Not recently, though. I don’t let girls see it any more. Do you like asparagus?

I don’t think I’ve ever had any.

Really? Then here is where you start.

What does Gertrude think of this place?

She sometimes comes and uses it. When she wants to cook something really exotic. It has timing gadgets fixed to everything. . . Catch!

He gave the trolley a sudden push and sent it shooting towards Sorme. Sorme said, laughing:

Fool!

He caught it before it hit the wall. It contained a dish of asparagus spears, and a cold chicken with one leg missing. There was a glass jug of mayonnaise that looked as if it was frozen solid. He said:

What would you have done if I’d missed it?

Taken you out for supper. Would you take it in there? I’m buttering bread. Help yourself. Plates and things underneath. I’ll bring the salad.

Back in the dining-room, he pulled a wing off the chicken, and cut several slices, leaving the leg for Austin. He piled asparagus on his plate, and spooned the almost solid mayonnaise beside it. He propped a book against the cushion and began to read. From the kitchen came the sound of a cork shooting out of a bottle.

Nunne came up beside him as he read, and piled salad on to his plate.

I’ve found some champagne.

Good. But I’ve still got all that whisky.

Drink that later.

Sorme was forced to stop reading as the plate wobbled and almost fell off his knees. Nunne said:

Hold on. I’ll give you a tray.

After looking around vaguely for a moment, he said:

Can’t find a tray. Use this.

He pulled a large, thin book out of the case, and handed it to Sorme. Sorme asked:

What is it?

He opened it, and discovered sheets of music, written with a pencil, and curious symbols drawn between the lines.

Do you recognise it?

No. I can’t read music.

It’s not just music. It’s the original manuscript of Nijinsky’s Rite of Spring. Those funny signs are a choreography he invented himself. That’s his handwriting across the top.

Where did you get it?

From a collector.

Sorme began to eat again. He left the manuscript volume open on the cushions beside him. Nunne said, smiling:

Can’t you bring yourself to eat off it?

It’s a funny sensation. To know he wrote this with his own hand.

That writing in green ink on the cover is Stravinsky’s handwriting.

Yes?

I say, you’re not eating those asparagus spears whole!

Aren’t I supposed to?

No! You eat down to the tough part. Like me.

Oh, I see. Thanks.

He reached out for his champagne glass. He said:

To Vaslav.

He emptied it in one draught. A sensation of warmth and delight coursed through him like a faint electric shock. Nunne repeated: To Vaslav, and drank, Sorme said:

I suppose it must be rather fun to be rich.

Nunne grimaced:

Better than being poor. But it doesn’t guarantee anything.

No?

He laughed, feeling that the pleasure had to find some expression. Nunne said curiously:

What is it?

I was hungry.

He would not tell Nunne the real reason: that he felt suddenly reconciled to his own existence, able to weigh it, summarise it, and feel only gratitude. It was a sensation he would have been glad to convey to Nunne, feeling grateful to him for being the cause of his insight. But saying it would have meant nothing. Nunne stood up and poured more champagne into both glasses. He said:

I’m surprised you get so enthusiastic about Nijinsky. You never saw him dance.