Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Yes. Is that all?

That's all. Just ask him if anyone has been enquiring, and who.

All right. What then?

If no one has been there, would you telegraph me here? Simply put: No one. If anyone has been enquiring, put: Please ring, and I'll ring you tomorrow. Is that OK?

All right. You want to get details of anyone who's enquired about you?

Yes.

Who are you trying to avoid?

Yes, I am trying to avoid someone. A rather unpleasant man. Can you do that?

All right.

You've got the address of the flat?

Yes. When will you ring back?

The same time tomorrow night — if anyone has enquired. Get full details, won't you? You might also ask the girl on the switchboard. Do you mind?

No, not at all.

Good. You'll go along there, won't you? Don't just phone.

No, I'll go along.

Good. Let's just recap. Go to my flat, ask the porter if anyone has been asking about me. Also ask the switchboard girl. If… If no one, telegraph you: No one. If anyone, get details, and telegraph you: Please ring. OK? Better give me your address.

Oh yes, of course. It's Pension Vevey, St Moritz. And I'm staying here under the name of Austin. Mr B. J. Austin.

Blimey! You are mysterious!

Not really. But don't give my address to anyone else, will you?

Good lord, no! Who should I give it to?

Good man…

The pips sounded. Nunne said:

Bye-bye, Gerard. You got that address, didn't you? Pension Vevey.

V-E-V-E-Y.

All right?

All right. Goodbye, Austin.

The rain had stopped, but the road was still wet and treacherous. He disliked riding on wet roads; the mudguards were inadequate, and the rain wet the bottoms of his trouser legs. He bent low over the handle-bars, and went into bottom gear to get up Haverstock Hill. Hills exhausted him; he usually wasted more energy swearing than pressing the pedals. A car came past, spraying him with muddy water; he stared after it with irritation and envy.

A clock struck the half hour as he turned out of Well Walk into the East Heath Road. He dismounted and walked up the hill.

He rang the doorbell, then leaned against the wall, perspiring and breathless. A light appeared on the other side of the glass panel. She stood there, smiling at him, looking cool and attractive.

Hello. Come in. You made it quickly.

I'm awfully sorry I'm late…

Don't bother. Luckily, it was a cold supper. Yes, hang your coat up there.

She was wearing a black-and-green dress of some shiny material, that left most of her arms bare. She had the figure of a sum teenage girl. He looked at her with admiration as she preceded him into the kitchen.

I hope you don't mind eating in the kitchen? It's easier.

Of course not.

You haven't eaten?

No. I fell asleep at about six. Austin rang me immediately after you'd rung.

Really? What did he want?

Oh… it seems rather odd. He wants me to find out if there are any messages waiting at his flat for him.

Strange. I wonder why he couldn't have rung them directly?

Sorme dried his hands on a small tea-towel, then sat down at the table. She asked: Soup?

Please.

As she stood over the stove, her back towards him, he could examine her figure at leisure. Her hips lacked roundness; they were almost a boy's hips; but the slimness of her waist appealed to him. He was trying to imagine how she would look undressed, when she turned round. He looked away hastily. She placed the bowl of soup on the cork mat, leaning across him to do so. If he had leaned forward slightly, he could have kissed her upper arm. The smell of her body was clean, but unperfumed. He asked her:

Do you live here completely alone?

Yes.

No one at all?

She said, smiling:

I'm very seldom alone. There's nearly always someone here. Members of the group usually come three or four evenings a week. Then I have a niece who stays frequently…

The Jehovah's Witnesses?

Yes. Then I have many friends in Hampstead.

He took a mouthful of the soup, and realised how hungry he was. A sensual gratitude rose from his stomach, and made him smile at her. She sat opposite him, and took a partly sewn tweed skirt from a white paper carrier which carried the inscription: Harrods. She took out a needle that had been pushed into the edge of the fabric, and began to sew carefully. He asked casually: What are you making?

A skirt.

Do you always do your own dressmaking?

Usually.

He finished the soup and pushed the plate away.

That was excellent.

Good.

She stood up silently and opened the refrigerator; it was taller than she was.

You're not a vegetarian, are you?

He said enthusiastically: Positively not! The plate contained a leg of chicken and three slices of ham.

Help yourself to salad.

Thanks.

Would you like a glass of beer?

I'd love some!

He ate hungrily and drank half a pint of brown ale. It gave him pleasure to see her sitting opposite him, her head bent over the sewing. He helped himself to more salad, selecting with care the leaves of chicory and fragments of green paprika. He asked her suddenly:

Were you never married?

He knew the answer already, but wanted to see her reaction to the topic. It surprised him. She looked at him with obviously suppressed irritation, and answered: No.

I hope you don't mind my asking?

Not at all.

Her voice still had a sharp edge to it. He went on eating, and poured a second glass of beer, wondering why the question had annoyed her. He said carefully:

You make me feel that I shouldn't have brought it up.

She went on sewing. He began to think she intended to ignore him, as a measure of her disapproval. Then she began to speak, still looking down at the sewing, her voice level and precise:

It doesn't annoy me to be asked. What annoys me is the assumption that usually underlies the question. Male bachelors are quite ordinary and acceptable, but unmarried women are called 'spinsters' and regarded as somehow incomplete. It's all this nonsense of Byron about love being a man's pastime, but a woman's whole life…

Normally, her sentiments would have struck him as dubious. But the meal had left him feeling good-humoured and in her debt. He said hastily:

I agree completely. It's utter nonsense. Of course women have every right to be as independent as men…

She interrupted:

I didn't say that. I don't believe most women are as naturally independent as men.

But I have my own work to do, and marriage would… distract me.

And what is your work?

She smiled at him suddenly, and the school mistressy expression was replaced by a charm that made her appear younger.

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?