Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

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?

Tell me what you do first.

I act. That is, I'm learning to act. At Lamda.

Where?

Lamda. The rival of Rada. London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art. It's in Kensington.

I see!

He was suddenly able to place her. Her combination of naivete and sophistication had puzzled him, Like her complete lack of shyness. He realised that probably in two years' time she would speak with a drawl all the time, and call everybody darling; in the meantime, her manner was a hybrid of schoolgirl and theatre. She said:

I suppose you live in Hampstead?

No. I don't, as a matter of fact.

Oh. I thought you were one of aunt's arty friends.

No. I'm a friend of Austin's.

Austin! I've never met him. I've always wanted to. Is he charming?

He wouldn't interest you, Sorme said, smiling.

No, why? Unexpectedly, she seemed to understand: Oh, I see. He's like that, is he?

You shouldn't know anything about it!

No? Why not? We've got two in our class. They go around with their arms round one another.

That must be annoying for everyone,

It is. There's one girl who's got a terrible crush on one of them — the one called Ernest. She's really got it bad. I think queers are rather attractive — in a repulsive kind of way. Don't you?

He said, smiling: I wouldn't know. My tastes don't lie that way.

She said: Good! He wondered whether it meant what it seemed to mean. He was trying to determine whether the warmth of her smile was intended for him particularly, or whether it was part of a general manner she had picked up at the drama school. She leaned back on the settee, and stared up at the ceiling. He looked hopefully at her knees, but the dress had not travelled far as she stretched. She said:

Tell me what you write.

Not now, he said. Some other time.

She looked at him sideways.

When?

He felt a shock of pleasure that was controlled and softened by the effect of the brandy. Before he could reply, Miss Quincey came back in. She glanced disapprovingly at Caroline's position, which the girl seemed to feel without catching the glance: she sat up and began to rearrange the cushions. Miss Quincey said:

I didn't expect you until late, dear.

I know. I meant to come from the theatre, but they called the rehearsal off. I'm darned glad too. I'm really exhausted. We've had such a day! Am I interrupting any profound discussion?

No, dear, Miss Quincey said comfortably. She was pouring tea.

Gerard…

The use of his name surprised him. She was holding out a teacup.

Oh, thank you…

What have you been talking about? Caroline asked. Her voice was drawling again.

Mainly about Austin, Sorme said.

Oh!

Caroline, Miss Quincey said. The girl took the cup.

Are you hungry?

I am a bit. I haven't had anything since lunch time.

No tea?

Couldn't be bothered. I was learning my part.