She suppressed a tendency to shiver. ‘I’ve never seen one of her. Do you have any here?’
‘Yes . . . in my bedroom. If you come up there I’ll show you. Sometime tomorrow?’
‘Thank you.’
‘Or perhaps,’ he said, turning away, ‘it would be better not.’
A little later there was a discussion on Welsh poetry, and inevitably Dylan Thomas’s name came up. Christopher thought him too much of the showman, Althea Syme was convinced he was a minor genius.
‘Gregory,’ she said. ‘Where is that tape? The one that was made during the war of his reading his poems on the Third Programme. Simon’s father,’ she explained, ‘was one of the first private individuals to buy a tape machine, and he would take down his favourite programmes off the radio and play them back when he wanted. You know it, Gregory.’
‘Yes, mother. But it’s out at the back somewhere. The machine hasn’t been used for a year or more.’
‘Oh, yes, I used it a couple of weeks ago to try out a speech. It must be in the library.’
‘Well, it’s too heavy for me to carry myself.’
‘Go with him, Rupert,’ she said to Croome-Nichols. ‘I’d like you to hear it, Mr Carew, because it contains about half of his “Deaths and Entrances” on which I think his claim to greatness chiefly rests.’
In the movement which followed Norah found herself alone with their guest.
He said: ‘Well, what did you think of the photograph?’
‘I liked it. I think perhaps it’s more honest than the photographer.’
‘Honest?’
‘Well, less hypocritical.’
‘Because I’ve come to dinner? But I told you, I came last year. Of course one has one’s private opinion.’
‘Perhaps it would have been better to have kept it that way.’
‘But honestly, my dear. Aren’t they an odd lot? D’you think young Gregory was come by naturally or hatched over a peat fire?’
‘And Simon?’
‘Can he paint?’
‘Yes.’
‘How well?’
‘I think quite well.’
‘He’s the best of them. But honestly,’ he stopped; ‘that’s the second time I’ve used that word and this time I mean it – I rang up and fished for an invitation chiefly to meet you again.’
She looked at him. ‘Why?’
‘Because I very much wanted to.’
‘How much hypocrisy in that?’
‘No hypocrisy. Only a gross understatement.’
She was the one to look away then, aware enough of the message and softened by it, but not wanting it to mean anything to her.
‘When are we going to meet again?’
‘Are we?’
‘I hope so. Look, we can’t talk now. Can you meet me tomorrow afternoon?’
‘It depends. If Mrs Syme needs me . . .’
‘Come if you can. Same place, same gate; about four.’
‘If I’m free I’ll walk that way . . .’
Althea came back followed by Mr Croome-Nichols carrying the tape recorder. Doole served more coffee while she threaded the tape. As they settled back the rich rotund voice of Dylan Thomas came into the room.
‘And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.’
The sonorous voice went on, reading one poem after another. It cast a spell over the room, and when Doole had withdrawn there was no movement or attempt to talk. It lasted for about fifteen minutes and then a discreet BBC voice said: ‘That was Dylan Thomas reading a selection of his own poetry . . . This is the BBC Third Programme. We now have . . .’ The voice faded out.
‘Well,’ said Christopher, ‘I confess they’re impressive. Minor genius one might just admit; but in these last few years he’s been too much the extrovert to do anything as good. He . . .’
The tape had not been switched off and had been clicking a time or two. Now a young woman’s voice said:
‘Hullo, everybody, this is the BBC Third Programme. Here is the News, and this is Marion Syme reading it.’ The voice burst into laughter which was echoed by voices somewhere in the background. ‘At one o’clock today the engagement was announced between Flying Officer Richard Healy of 201 Bomber Squadron of the Royal Air Force and . . .’ ‘Do shut up, Marion,’ a voice interrupted. ‘You know you can’t hold me to it. A tape can’t be used in evidence . . .’ There was more laughter and the tape chilled into silence.
Simon was standing up, his coffee cup askew on its saucer and a trickle of coffee dregs dripping.
‘Oh,’ said Althea, ‘so sorry. I’d forgotten this was on the same tape. Just high spirits at a time when – but of course, Simon . . . Switch it off, Gregory.’
The boy got up and went towards the instrument. Before he got there Marion’s voice came again. It was imitating Dylan Thomas, sombre and round-vowelled.
‘They shall have stars at elbow and foot; though they go mad they shall be sane, though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; though lovers be lost . . .’
Click. Gregory had switched it off.
‘Excuse me,’ Simon said. He dropped his coffee cup with a smash in the hearth and left the room.
There was silence.
‘I do beg everyone’s pardon,’ Althea said. ‘It was quite inexcusable of me, but I’d entirely forgotten there was anything more on that tape. Gregory, you should have been quicker to switch it off.’
‘How was I to know . . . !’
‘’Fraid I’m rather lost in this,’ Christopher said. ‘Is it something . . . ?’
‘Marion was Simon’s sister. She met her death in unfortunate circumstances seven years ago. Simon has never quite got over it. Hearing her voice, I suppose, would bring it all back. I am so sorry. I expect he’ll return in a moment.’
The nasty feeling at the back of Norah’s neck and spine was receding only slowly; for the voice had not been altogether unlike hers.
She said: ‘D’you think I might go and see if he’s all right?’
‘Of course, my pet, please do. Don’t bother, Mr Carew, Doole will clear up the mess. Will you have another brandy? Gregory, what is on the other side of the tape? I think it’s some of Priestley’s wartime broadcasts . . .’
In the main hall there was no one about. Six Symes, dimly seen among the shadows, looked down their noses at the intruder. A window was open, and in the rising breeze one of the hanging lamps gently swayed. As she shut the casement Simon’s voice came from the front drawing-room.
‘. . . hanging about the house like this . . . your own quarters!’
Timson came out. He was in a grey suit, not his chauffeur’s uniform. Truculent, big-faced, he glanced at Norah, then hunched his shoulders and stepped past.
As she went in Simon was moving towards a drawing-room window which also was open. His profile was sharp and nervous, like a fox’s. He shut the window and stood peering out at the intangible night. She coughed.
As he saw her his eyes caught light from the lamp before they dulled over.
‘Why have you followed me?’
Confronted with the blunt question, she was not sure. A lot of her impulses these last two days had been confused, and this was one of them. A wish to help him, to free him from some incubus. A feeling that by helping him she might be able to throw off some of the fetters of her own disquiet.
‘I thought you were not feeling well.’ It sounded lame even to herself.
‘Did Althea send you?’
‘No.’
‘I’m glad . . . But in the first place she brought y
ou here. She brought you here, and I wonder how much she has told you.’
‘Nothing.’
He moved nearer to her, peering at her in the soft white light. ‘But don’t you know? In your heart don’t you know everything?’
‘Nothing.’ She didn’t lower her gaze.
Eventually he put his hand up to his eyes, turned away. ‘I suppose not . . . I suppose you’re only being kind.’
‘Not even just that,’ she said, the words coming out unexpectedly.
‘But you are kind. I feel such an unexpected sense of sympathy . . . Norah, I want to talk to you, quite seriously. There may not be another opportunity, because this is a trial of strength and I am not sure when something may – when something may not be strong enough. Can you sit down?’
She sat on the edge of a chair. He took a seat opposite her, leaning forward, hands clasped between knees.
‘This morning you asked me whether you should leave this house, and I said no, not to please me. Well, now I think you would be wise to go.’
‘You think I should go.’
‘There’s no real alternative. If you are not in this then you are as much a dupe as I. But where I am guilty you are not. And I think there would be danger for you. I want you to take that to heart. Possibly there could be danger.’
The conversation’s slipping away again, she thought. ‘What sort of danger?’
He shook his head. ‘I prefer not to go into that. Isn’t it sufficient reason to tell you that so long as you stay in this house you’re – putting yourself at some risk?’
‘Is this to do with your sister?’
He smiled, but it was not the warm pleasant smile of which he was capable. ‘Yes. Oh, yes. What else could it be?’
‘But your sister has been dead for seven years.’
‘For a while I wondered – tried to persuade myself. Sometimes I even hoped. But of course it’s all in vain. I – but you see – if Marion died . . . I – I was responsible . . .’
‘How responsible . . . ? Are you not sure she’s dead?’
He turned swiftly as the door opened. Doole stood there.
‘Beg pardon, sir. Mr Carew is leaving and madam thought . . .’
‘Of course.’ Simon got up. ‘I’ll come and say good night.’
As he moved to pass Norah she touched his arm. He stopped instantly. She said: ‘Are you not sure she’s . . .’
After a moment he said: ‘Yes. Recently I’ve been looking for her. But I’m sure now. But you see, even then, however hard you try, you can’t lay the ghost.’
CHAPTER SIX
I
That night there were no noises to disturb her, and the following day everything went so normally that her unease was held in abeyance. She had had every intention of telling Althea of her conversation with Simon and asking if she might leave as soon as was decently convenient. But she changed her mind. Against her better judgment she had become caught up in the situation in the house and thought to wait one or two days more to see how it would develop. She was not at all sure of her own impulses and knew that this decision owed more to emotion than to reason. It was illogical to offer to leave if Simon told her to and then not to leave when he did. But she found herself suddenly too far involved to pack her bags and take the next train. She wanted to know why. An explanation of some sort was owing to her. It must come from somewhere – either from Althea Syme or Simon himself – before she left. But who would speak the truth? Plain asking might not receive a plain answer. In dealing with a devious situation one might have to be devious oneself.
She also thought it might be interesting to meet Christopher Carew again.
But she did not see him that day as arranged.
In the morning she had to take down an article Mrs Syme was writing on peat-loving shrubs for a gardening paper, and then to type out a speech she was delivering in Shrewsbury later in the week. After this she was told they were ‘all’ going to Aberystwyth in the afternoon, and would she come with them? It was a luminous autumn day, and she could hardly do other than accept. ‘All’ was indeed all: Simon and Gregory in the front of the big car with Timson, Norah in the back with Althea and the Reverend Rupert Croome-Nichols.
They went via Devil’s Bridge and the road which ran along the edge of the cliff overlooking the River Rheidol. The valley spread out eight hundred feet below them, a vivid cucumber green dotted with the tiniest of toy houses and cattle too small to play with. Timson as usual drove at speed, and with the road turning and swooping high above the earth it was a stimulating experience.
In Aberystwyth Simon and his aunt went off to keep some appointment and the others were left to fend for themselves. Mr Croome-Nichols disappeared into an antiquarian bookshop, so Norah suggested to Gregory that they might look round the town together. She no longer had quite so much regard for Althea’s requests, but to do this might suit her own ends as well.
The refusal she had half expected didn’t come, so they went off, first along the promenade, then looking in a number of shops in the town. She made no attempt to open a conversation, and little was said. Gregory went into a bookshop and asked for a book called Heredity and the Mendelian Principle by C. Stokes. He seemed annoyed that they had not got it and grudgingly left an order.
As they came out she said: ‘It’s hardly the sort of book a provincial bookseller would have in stock, is it? I would have thought . . .’
‘There’s the University of Wales here. It’s not just a provincial town. Students want books like that.’
‘I didn’t know. Or I’d forgotten. Are you studying genetics?’
‘Not studying it. Reading about it. What I want to take up is psychiatry – psycho-analysis. Uncle Rupert, of course, won’t hear of it. He says it’s anti-Christian. As if I cared.’
Seagulls were crying in the autumn sunlight.
Gregory said: ‘I spoke to that man Carew about it last night, and he says they’re opposites.’
‘What are?’
‘Christianity and psycho-analysis. He says, Carew says, that Christianity visits the sins of the fathers upon the children, while psycho-analysis visits the sins of the children upon the fathers. I thought it rather neat.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Anyway, as if I cared about Uncle Rupert’s opinion.’
‘What does your mother say?’
The goggles were trained on her. ‘You think she lets me have my own way?’
‘She says she does.’
‘Oh, she says so. But it’s easy to say things. To get your own way with Mother you have to fight. And then it’s like fighting an eiderdown.’
Norah said: ‘It’s often the way with vigorous, intelligent people, Gregory. They dominate without realizing they’re doing it.’
‘Oh, she realizes she’s doing it, with me,’ Gregory said. ‘But she thinks she’s succeeding.’
They walked on.
‘Whose idea was it you should leave Radley?’
‘Oh, she’s told you that . . . Mine, actually.’
‘You didn’t like it?’
‘I was wasting my time. How could I be good at games?’
‘But is that all you could learn there?’
‘No, but I wasn’t willing to play second fiddle to a lot of fellows who happen to be able to see to kick a ball better than I can. And it’s all so childish – the jargon you have to learn, the things you can do and can’t do, the little petty tyrannies. I got absolutely fed up.’
‘Yes, well . . .’
‘Anyway, I was needed here.’
He was tall and ungainly beside her. The way he walked his shoes might have been heavy boots.
‘Needed?’
‘I thought so . . . How long have you known Mother?’
‘About two years.’
‘And Simon?’
‘Two days.’
‘You think Mother’s a clever woman?’
‘Very.’
‘So she is, in some things. In others she’s
stupid – plain stupid. I could have helped her in a dozen things if she’d let me . . . much better than you’re helping her. I would have arranged everything better. But she still thinks I’m a child.’
They were heading back towards the car. She was more aware than she had been before of the difficulties of a boy of fifteen, in-grown, with an existence unbruised by contact with ordinary humanity. Book knowledge taught him demonstrable facts, not the incalculable uncertainties of real life. His young mind, alert within its cage, made its own clearcut judgments and decisions, but was lamentably short of outside criteria to measure by.
She said: ‘Do you remember your cousin Marion?’
‘I met her once or twice. And I’ve seen her portraits. She was like you.’
‘Yes, so people tell me. You must have been very young when she died.’
‘Nearly nine. But I remember.’
‘And her husband as well?’
‘Richard? No, I never met him. Why?’
She said: ‘You were not in Morb House when that record was made?’
‘We didn’t live here then. We were in London during the war. Surely Mother’s told you.’
‘I wondered why the tape so upset Simon last night.’
‘Wouldn’t you be upset?’
She said: ‘I’m not sure. It’s hard to judge, I know. I’ve just lost my father. He meant a great deal to me. But if after six or seven years I heard his voice on tape . . .’
‘Unexpectedly.’
‘I suppose it might give me a turn. But I don’t think I’d be upset in that way.’
‘Simon thought he owned his sister.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘It’s one of Mother’s remarks.’
Norah stopped, looking in a shop window, not seeing any thing in it but the reflection of the heavy spectacled boy beside her, reluctantly stopping also, reluctantly waiting for her. ‘Gregory, do you know anything about Marion’s marriage – and her death? Because I’m supposed to resemble her I feel I’d like to know something more, and your mother is reluctant to talk about it.’
‘Why don’t you ask Simon?’
‘You know I can’t do that. But probably you’re too young to remember. Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked.’