The Flight From The Enchanter Part 15

'I was so sorry for them,' said Mischa. 'They were so defenceless. Anything could hurt them. I couldn't - stand it.' Mischa's voice became almost inaudible. 'Someone gave me a little kitten once,' he said, 'and I killed it. I remember.'

Peter Saward looked at him again and looked away. He transferred his gaze to Mischa's hand, which lay on the carpet near to his own. It was trembling slightly, and to Saward's disturbed imagination it looked like some small and helpless creature. He shook his head. This was not the first time that he had been told of such matters. He asked himself what demon drove Mischa continually to uncover and to torture this strange region of sensibility - and as he did so he reflected yet again how strangely close to each other in this man lay the springs of cruelty and of pity.

'So poor and defenceless,' Mischa murmured. 'That was the only way to help it, to save it. So it is. If the G.o.ds kill us, it is not for their sport but because we fill them with such an intolerable compa.s.sion, a sort of nausea. Do you ever feel,' he tamed to Saward, 'as if everything in the world needed your - protection? It is a terrible feeling. Everything - even this matchbox.' He took it from his pocket and held it up in front of them.

'No!' said Saward.

Mischa stared at him still for a moment, unseeingly, his eyes focused on the past. Saward, his attention s.h.i.+fting from the blue to the brown eye and back again, was not at once aware aware that Mischa was now watching him with a look of amus.e.m.e.nt.

'Oh, Peter,' cried Mischa, 'how patient you are! How good you are to me!' He was laughing. He sprang to his feet. He dropped the matchbox and kicked it expertly into the air as it fell. It sailed up and landed on the very top of the highest bookshelf.

'Let it stay there!' cried Mischa. 'Let it peris.h.!.+ Let it rot! What do we care?' He took Saward by the wrist and pulled him from the floor.

'Now, about these hieroglyphs, Peter,' said Mischa. He reached out and took one of the sheets and stood for a moment looking at it, his hand on Saward's shoulder. It seemed just then to Saward that Mischa was about to read out to him the things that were written upon the sheet. He could hardly bring himself to believe that Mischa could not understand it. As he looked down at the writing, with his brown eye visible, and his sallow hawk-like face, he seemed suddenly to Saward to be the very spirit of the Orient, that Orient which lay beyond the Greeks, barbarous and feral, Egypt, a.s.syria, Babylon.

'You should leave them now,' said Mischa. He spoke with authority. 'You'll never work them out. There will be a bilingual stone soon.' He threw the sheet back on to the desk and turned to face his friend. 'I have to go now,' he said.

Peter Saward felt sad. He had hoped for a longer visit. 'Will you take the photos with you?' he asked.

'No, you keep them,' said Mischa. He picked up the green book and laid it on the desk. 'I shall only look at them here. I keep my childhood with you.'

'Thank you,' said Peter Saward. He didn't want Mischa to go. He tried to think of some way of detaining him.

'Peter - ' said Mischa.

'Yes?' said Peter Saward hopefully.

'Did Rainborough tell you - about the fish?'

'Yes,' said Peter Saward.

'Well - ' said Mischa. He paused a moment, not looking at Saward, 'Good-bye, then.'

The door closed behind him. Peter Saward put away the paper-knife and took out his notebook; but it was a long time before he was able to write anything down. He wished that he had managed to say something to Mischa about Rosa. But what could he possibly have said?

Eighteen.

RAINBOROUGH was standing at the bottom of his garden contemplating the wistaria. From the wistaria he s.h.i.+fted his gaze to the daffodils, from there to the primulas, from there to the roses, which were already showing small and timid buds, and from there back again to the wistaria. The destruction of the wall was due to begin tomorrow. It was not this, however, which was chiefly occupying Rainborough's mind. Since the events of Mischa's party, now two days ago. Rainborough had not been near his office. He had rung up to say that he was taking some annual leave. After that he had answered no phone calls and had spent most of the previous afternoon sitting by the drawing-room window looking into the garden.

It was by the morning's post that he had received a letter from Sir Edward Guest saying that, as no doubt he knew, Sir Edward would, with much regret, shortly be retiring and that G. D. F. Evans had been nominated as his successor. Sir Edward enjoined upon Rainborough the importance of giving Evans the support of his, Rainborough's, unique gifts and experience in the crucial period of SELIB's development that lay ahead. Hereat Rainborough had the dubious satisfaction of knowing that he might have foreseen what would happen and that if he had troubles they were certainly ones which he had brought upon himself. It had been a bitter morning.

It was now the afternoon. Rainborough had by this time reviewed his career in detail, beginning at his kindergarten, and framed a number of unpleasant but not very new or original generalizations about himself. As this occupation was merely uncongenial and he suspected not even intended to be constructive, he soon transferred his energy to the more invigorating task of blaming others. The villain of the piece was of course Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt; for although Rainborough could not rationally imagine that everything that had occurred had been planned and executed by her in detail, yet her peculiar treachery was the symbol of the whole catastrophe. Rainborough speculated idly as to whether it was through the defeat of Miss Perkins or by an alliance with her that the elevation of Evans had taken place. What was clear was that Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt had decided, even without undue haste, that her superior was not a worthy vessel in which to embark her own ambition. Rainborough savoured carefully the impossibility of his position - and concluded that he would have to resign. At having been, as he put it to himself, outwitted by Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt, he felt extreme chagrin - but his regret at the collapse of yet another section of his career was misted over by a dull fatalistic melancholy. His only other reaction, he was surprised to discover, was a sort of sadness and frustrated curiosity at the thought that when he left SELIB he would not see Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt again.

As Rainborough returned his gaze to the wistaria, the fate of his garden came once more into his consciousness. He felt almost a gloomy satisfaction at the thought of all these disasters happening at once. On the following morning rough men would be trampling on the flowers and uprooting the wistaria. Rainborough had already decided to go into the country for several days. He had no wish to be present when the wall came down. He had intended, indeed, to be gone already; but still he lingered. I ought to pick all the flowers, he thought to himself, before they get beaten down. He stooped and plucked a daffodil. But then it suddenly seemed pointless, and he threw it back on to the earth. Perhaps he should have spent his time transplanting all these things; but there was nowhere to put them, and anyway it was the wrong time of year. He surveyed the scene. Then without premeditation he an reached out and seized a clump of daffodils, crus.h.i.+ng the long strong leaves together in his hand. He uprooted it and threw it on to the lawn. He advanced on to the flower-bed and began to trample about wildly, kicking out at plants and bushes, until one end of the bed was completely laid waste. At last he paused and looked at the wistaria. It was extremely strong and old. He put his hands round the trunk and pulled at it without making it as much as s.h.i.+ver. His right hand was still very tender and would not bear much pressure. He took a spade and began to dig at the root. The roots were as extensive and knotty as the branches. Rainborough took off his coat. He was sweating and panting.

He was still looking at the wistaria with an expression of tragic determination when the garden gate upon his left flew open. Rainborough was in the mood for portentous happenings. He turned hopefully. The visitor was Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt. She was dressed in a coat of fine checks, and her make-up, which had become a shade darker, announced that the season was now to be thought of as early summer. She propped the garden gate open with her foot and stood dramatically in the gateway with the air of one posing for Vogue. Behind her in the road Rainborough could descry an extremely long red object which he made out to be a sports car. Rainborough had not seen Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt since the episode behind the tapestry. When and how she had returned from Mischa's party he knew not.

'Well, my dear Agnes,' said Rainborough, 'this is an unexpected delight!'

Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt stood for a moment hesitating, not knowing whether to be pleased or not at this unforeseen familiarity. She suspected Rainborough of sarcasm, a device which she herself could neither use nor counter. She advanced into the garden and the gate banged to behind her. Then she saw the carnage upon the flower-bed.

'Come here,' said Rainborough. Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt, ready to melt, but not yet melting, came.

'Help me to uproot this d.a.m.ned wistaria,' said Rainborough.

'But why - ' said Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt.

'The wall's coming down,' said Rainborough briefly. 'What we need is an axe.' In a moment he had fetched one from the shed. He put it into Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt's hand. She stood there staring at him, fingering her silk scarf with one hand and holding the axe in the other.

'I can't use it,' said Rainborough, 'because of the burn. Here - a couple of good hard blows across that root should do it.' He cleared away a little soil with his foot and pointed to the place.

Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt plunged forward. The newly turned soil covered her smart tan shoes and her check coat was trailing on the ground. With a look of extreme fierceness she lifted the axe and brought it down three times across the thick root. Pierced to its golden interior, it was almost severed.

Rainborough was thinking of Clytemnestra. 'That'll do,' he said. 'Now we'll pull together at the trunk.'

He stood with Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt, their feet deep in the earth, and side by side they began to pull. Rainborough inhaled a powerful smell of soil and Bond Street perfume. His bared left arm was braced against the tweedy sleeve of her coat, and their shoulders were glued together. Rainborough groaned. The wistaria was very strong. Then suddenly with a rending sound the trunk gave way and the great fan of branches came heeling over away from the wall. Rainborough and Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt fell sharply backwards into a heap of upturned earth and uprooted flowers, and a great network of tiny leaves and twisted branches subsided to cover them.

Rainborough sat up, thrusting his head through the foliage. He saw before him the devastated surface of the wall, suddenly alive with hundreds of insects. He could feel something walking on his neck. He shook himself violently. Beside him Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt was reclining on one elbow, trying to disentangle a piece of wire which had somehow got stuck into her coat. Her face was smudged with earth. Rainborough thought she looked rather improved.

'Are you all right?' he asked.

'Fine!' said Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt without much conviction.

Rainborough reached out and took her hand, which was temporarily disengaged.

It was that moment which Annette chose to announce her presence by a discreet cough. Rainborough and Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt turned about, their heads emerging from the tangle of leaves and boughs. Then they began to scramble to their feet. This was not easy. Annette, who was standing just outside the drawing-room doors, did not attempt to come to their aid. She was leaning on a pair of crutches and had one of her legs in plaster. She watched their struggles with interest.

At last Rainborough got to his feet and pulled Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt after him without overmuch ceremony.

'Oh, let me go' said Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt, dragging herself free. Ignoring Rainborough and Annette, she began to examine the condition of her stockings and of a much-pleated nylon petticoat, a large area of which Rainborough could now see from the corner of his eye.

'What on earth are you doing?' asked Annette.

'Never you mind!' said Rainborough crossly. 'What have you been doing?'

'I fell down stairs,' said Annette.

Rainborough drew his hand across his brow. He could feel the earth mingling with his perspiration and coursing in muddy streaks down the side of his face. He felt a powerful desire to go indoors and lie down. 'Nothing serious, I hope?' he asked Annette.

'No,' she said, 'it's not even broken. They put everything in plaster these days.'

'Oh, do you two know each other?' said Rainborough. 'Miss c.o.c.keyne, Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt.'

'I believe I noticed Miss c.o.c.keyne at the party,' said Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt. She produced a pocket mirror and tried, with dabs of a damp finger, to remove some of the dirt from her face.

Annette smiled vaguely and turned back to Rainborough. 'I was wondering if you could put me up for a few days, John,' she said.

Rainborough stared at Annette. Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt stopped what she was doing and stared at Rainborough.

'Why? How can I?' said Rainborough.

'Well, no one will help me,' said Annette, sounding pathetic. 'I can't go back to Campden Hill Square. Rosa won't have me.'

'I can hardly believe that,' said Rainborough. 'Where were you last night?'

'In a hotel,' said Annette, 'but it was so depressing and everyone stared at me so.'

'I'm just leaving for the country,' said Rainborough. 'I've got my rooms booked.'

'Is it far?' said Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt. 'I'll take you there in my car.'

'Your car?' said Rainborough.

'Yes, it's new,' said Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt. She opened the garden gate and propped it open with a stone. The long red object was once more visible. 'An M.G.,' said Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt modestly.

'Don't go away and leave me, John,' said Annette. She was beginning to sound tearful.

Rainborough looked at the car and suddenly he felt weak at the knees. He was unable to drive himself. He adored women who could.

'I can't do anything with this leg,' Annette added.

'When the plaster hardens,' said Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt briskly, 'you'll easily be able to walk with a stick. A friend of mine had an accident skiing, and she managed to walk perfectly well with her leg in plaster.' She shook her powder puff stylishly and then brushed the particles of powder off her coat. 'Are you coming, John?' she said. Her face was as bright as new.

'Look,' said Rainborough desperately to Annette, 'don't be foolish. We'll take you back to Campden Hill Square in the car.'

'It's a two-seater!' said Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt.

'I'm not going anywhere!' said Annette fiercely. 'If you go away I shall stay here alone!'

'Excuse me,' said Rainborough, 'I must just go inside.' He ran through the drawing-room doors. For a wild moment he thought of rus.h.i.+ng out of the front door and hailing a taxi. But his feet took him up the stairs. Coldly, he packed his case.

When he came back to the drawing-room Annette was inside reclining upon one of the settees. She looked at him with wide cool eyes. She saw the suit-case. 'Good-bye, John,' said Annette. 'Have a nice time in the country. Shall I forward your letters?'

'No,' said Rainborough. 'Can I do anything for you before I go?'

'Give me a cigarette,' said Annette.

Rainborough put the cigarette-box beside her.

'I suppose,' said Annette, 'that this is one of those random elements that you mentioned at the party?'

'Random as h.e.l.l,' said Rainborough. He went into the garden. He could see Miss Cas.e.m.e.nt sitting outside at the wheel of the M.G. He kicked away the stone from the garden gate and plunged into the car. The two doors slammed together.

Nineteen.

THE wall had come down, and the view from the drawing-room windows of John Rainborough's house now showed a foreground covered with piles of masonry and white dust, a middle distance of brick-stacks, cement-mixers, and piles of sand, and a background of Nissen huts, one facade of the hospital, extremely Victorian, and a number of advertis.e.m.e.nts which were distantly visible in Upper Belgrave Street together with the red flash of pa.s.sing buses. A noise of hammering was interrupted by intermittent crashes and various machines were grinding in the background. Burly men, blanched with dust, walked boldly to and fro outside the windows and conversed loudly in a dialect which Annette found almost totally incomprehensible. She had been alone now for two days in Rainborough's house. The scene outside the window had begun to upset her so much that she had finally pulled the curtains and lived entirely by electric light. She spent her time in the drawing-room and had occupied it mainly in tears and reflection on recent events.

At that moment, however, Annette had a fresh cause for grief. 'Would be!' said Annette petulantly, talking to herself aloud under cover of the din, 'just when I need him! Selfish boy!'

She picked up again from the floor the letter from Nicholas which Hunter had brought her that morning, and started rereading it. When Rosa had arrived by taxi a short while after Rainborough's departure, Annette had carried out her threat and had refused to move. Since then she had been waited on daily by Hunter. The letter from Nicholas, which had been received with such joy and perused with such disappointment, read as follows: Hotel Vincent

Cannes

Ecoute, ma soeur. I have just taken a very grave decision - and you, as always, shall be the first of our family to hear of it. (And for the moment, little one, the last. Not a word to the Olympians!) I have decided to join the Communist Party. This is not a quick or random decision but the inevitable outcome of my whole life. I expect it won't surprise you. No time to explain now all the arguments. I'll tell you when I see you. Meanwhile I enclose a book list. About your chucking Ringenhall by the way, j'en suis ravi. I bet you've learnt more since you left than you ever did while you were there. Je te filiate. I never wanted you to be an English Lady (you remember how we swore once we'd never be English?) or to waste time acquiring the maurs of a defunct cla.s.s. About the book list, not all these books are quite O.K. - but a modern education must include an understanding of Liberalism. It is necessary, dearest Sis, to have been a Liberal! I've put asterisks beside the books which are really all right.

I've a project for going to Greece in the vacation. Si tu es sage tu siens avec. Reunion alla casa Francolini. Then we proceed en bagnole. Look decent when you come for heaven's sake. I want you to make a good impression. (Especially not trousers. D'ailleurs, puisque tu manques completement de derriere, c'est pas interessant que tu portes des pants!) Details of all this later.

Again, not a word about the C.P. to the Olymps. They'll have a fit. I must break it gently. If you write say I'm 'becoming interested in social problems', ho ho!! Be good, Sis. je t'embra.s.se.

Nicky P.S. I'm just going mad about chess. Try to learn before we meet. Get yourself a good textbook.

'Nom de Dieu,' said Annette, 'fa c'est marrantt' She threw the letter to the floor. 'Chess! The Communist Party! Just when I need his advice. He obviously hasn't even read my letter properly.'

She wondered whether she should cry again. She decided not to. She was getting tired of crying. She felt no particular surprise at Nicholas's letter. The warning about not telling the Olympians was customary, only it usually referred to a motor race.

Annette was still wearing Mischa Fox's velvet coat. She had derived what comfort she could from the presence of this object, which she drew closely about her, hiding her hands in the sleeves and her face in the upturned collar. The pockets had turned out to contain nothing except a packet of Turkish cigarettes, which Annette had smoked religiously. She had hoped for visions, but none had come. Her plans for the future, in so far as they existed, were exclusively connected with the moment when she would return this garment to Mischa. She could not imagine that it was indifferently or by accident that he had let her carry it away. She had been presented with a valuable hostage and she would surely be expected to use it.

The failure of Nicholas's letter to throw any light upon the situation made Annette restless and then desperate. She felt that she must act. She got up and began to move out into the kitchen, lifting her petrified limb step by step. It was as if some G.o.d had touched her and she were turning into a tree-tunk. The limb was hard and heavy, and the rest of her body, deprived of its usual freedom of movement, felt unshapely and soft. Annette wondered what it would be like to walk normally again, lightly putting one foot in front of the other. What a marvel! Yet human beings did it every day without a thought I I'll have a thick ankle, thought Annette. I'm marked for life now like Rosa. It's all over. What was all over she did not specify to herself, but the phrase was adequate.

She made some coffee. In the kitchen the sounds of destruction were less deafening. I must see Mischa! said Annette. But she did not want to see Mischa with one leg made of stone. She felt herself accursed. It was still three days to the time when the hospital, who had been unable to find a fracture and had diagnosed a severe sprain, had told her to return to have the plaster removed. Suddenly it occurred to Annette that there was nothing to stop her from removing the plaster herself. After all the hospital wasn't G.o.d. She left everything and began to search through drawers and cupboards looking for a tool. She found a large chisel and carried it back into the drawing-room. She sat down on the floor underneath one of the lamps, turned back the cuffs of Mischa Fox's jacket, and began to chip fiercely at the cast. It was extremely hard; and after about ten minutes she had merely succeeded in covering the carpet with white powder and making her leg look very ugly indeed.

'Oh, h.e.l.l!' said Annette. She threw the chisel away and took her head in her hands.

At that moment footsteps were heard coming across the hall and the drawing-room door was opened cautiously. Calvin Blick put his head round it. Annette, who would have been indifferent just then to the arrival of the Devil himself, looked up furiously. 'Well?' she said to Blick.

'Dear me!' said Calvin. 'Whatever are you doing, Annette? Can I help?' He came and squatted near her on the floor.

'I want to get this d.a.m.n thing off,' said Annette, 'but I can't.'