Ritual in the Dark (4 page)

No. . . I don’t suppose so.

What are you then? Nunne asked.

Gertrude said reproachfully: Austin, do behave yourself. Have you been drinking?

Certainly not. Not much anyway. Another, Gerard?

Sorme said hastily: No thanks. I haven’t finished this.

Nunne had given him a tumbler half full of neat whisky, and he was wondering whether he could find some opportunity to pour it back into the bottle.

I really don’t think you ought to, Austin. It can’t be good for your tummy.

Nunne stood up, a little unsteadily:

No doubt you’re right, Gertrude. ‘Scuse me, dears.

He went out of the room. Sorme watched her eyes following him.

He really is rather drunk, isn’t he? she asked him.

I dare say he is. I am, a bit.

You don’t look it. Are you used to drink?

No.

I didn’t think so. Have you known Austin long?

For some reason, a sense of shame made him reluctant to tell her. He said:

Not very long.

You mustn’t let him lead you into bad habits!

I don’t expect so.

What religion were you brought up in?

I don’t know. C of E, I suppose. But I never had to go to church or Sunday school. I hated both.

And have you any religious beliefs?

The bare minimum.

And what are they?

Sorme heard Nunne’s footsteps outside the door. He said smiling:

I’ll tell you some other time.

Nunne came in again. He said cheerfully:

I thought Friday was your meeting night?

It is. It’s over now.

Oh. And how’s old Brother Horrible?

Who on earth are you talking about?

Fatty. Tartuffe with the butcher’s complexion. What’s his name?

Really, Austin! You get worse. What have you got against Brother Robbins?

Nunne sat beside Sorme again, having refilled his glass. He said, winking:

He’s after you, Gertrude.

Nonsense!

I saw it in his eyes. He’s thinking what a nice match you’d make. Nice cuddly little wifey.

Sorme noticed with surprise that she had coloured. He stood up, saying: Excuse me.

It’s upstairs, Nunne said, second on the left.

The hall and stairs were carpeted with blue pile that made his footsteps noiseless. There were two prints of paintings by Munch on the stairs. In the warmth and haze of the alcohol, it seemed one of the most charming houses he had been in.

He switched on a light, and found himself in a small bedroom, containing a single bed. There was a large framed photograph of a blonde girl on the dressing-table. He peered at it with interest, then kissed his lips at it. He backed out of the door and went into the bathroom. A lineful of damp clothes hung across it; he had to duck under them to reach the lavatory. He murmured softly: I should seduce her and come and live here. Perfect conditions for working.

He washed his hands at the basin, humming quietly.

When he turned away, he walked immediately into a wet towel. He wiped his face on his hand, and reached up to touch a blue nylon waist slip. Water dripped down his sleeve. He swore under his breath, smiling.

When he came into the sitting-room again, Nunne said:

I think we’d better go, Gerard. Gertrude wants to go to bed.

Of course.

Are you going to finish your whisky?

I don’t think I will. I’ve had rather a lot.

I didn’t think you were. So I’ve finished it for you.

She said, laughing: You really are disgraceful, Austin. I don’t know how you manage to drive that car. Do be careful.

Tush! Did you ever know me to have an accident?

It’s a miracle! she said.

Nunne heaved himself to his feet. He seized her and planted a kiss on her forehead. Sorme regarded her, smiling. He would have liked to do the same. Nunne said:

Goodnight, dear aunt. Lock the doors now. Make sure old Brother Barrel-belly’s not under the bed.

She turned to Sorme:

You will come again, won’t you? You can find your way here.

I’m not so sure that I can, he said, smiling.

I’ll give you the address.

She tore a sheet of headed notepaper from a pad in the bureau and scribbled on it. He slipped it into his back pocket.

Goodbye. Do make Austin drive carefully.

Sorme shook her hand; her grip was as firm as a man’s.

She called from the front doorstep:

Keep to the right of the drive. There’s a pool of water there.

Nunne’s torch wavered erratically over the ground. Sorme kept close to him to avoid stumbling. As they emerged into the street, Nunne said:

She likes you, dear boy. I got a little lecture on corrupting you. I think she wants you for her Bible class.

Not for her literary evenings?

Oh, perhaps. I don’t know. I should think from her questions. . .

His voice trailed off. He opened the car door, and collapsed into the driving seat.

Ouf! That’s better. . . Well, where now? It’s only ten past ten. We’ve still time for another drink. Or you could come back to my place and have a couple.

No! Really, it’s quite impossible. I must get back. Any other night but this.

Ah yes. You’ve got to move in the morning. How will you do it?

Take a taxi.

Would you like me to pop over and help you?

No, no. Don’t bother.

Nunne lit a cigarette, and tossed the match out of the window. His headlights suddenly lit up the road. The car surged forward jerkily, then stalled. He said:

Sod it. Left the bloody hand-brake on.

Sorme said: Look, drop me on the Edgware Road, and I’ll get a bus home. Or better still, drop me off at Hampstead underground.

No, no. I’ll take you home. You’re not letting Gertrude’s comments on my driving worry you, are you?

No. . .

Good. I’m a perfectly safe driver, even when I can’t see for scotch.

What about your other car. . . ?

Oh, that wasn’t my fault. . . Somebody built a wall in the middle of the road.

Didn’t they nab you for drunken driving?

Fortunately I wasn’t drunk. That was the trouble. Morning after. I felt like hell.

Nunne’s driving seemed neither better nor worse for the drink. He turned off the engine and allowed the car to freewheel down the hill to Golders Green, singing mournfully:

Cats on the rooftops, cats on the tiles. . .

Sorme said: Was your aunt ever married?

She’s not my aunt.

Was she ever married?

No. Gertrude is a most mysterious case. No one knows all the facts. She had a father.

A what?

A father. You know some people have got a mother who won’t let them off the dog lead? Well, she had a father.

Why should that stop her from marrying?

How should I know, dear boy? Use your imagination. If it’s as lurid as mine, you can think up all sorts of reasons.

Sorme suppressed the comments that rose to his lips. Nunne was not the person to make them to. Nunne startled him suddenly by saying:

Anyway, I doubt whether she’d be any good in bed.

Sorme glanced at him. The cigarette was hanging loosely from the side of his mouth. He said:

No, I dare say you’re right.

It began to rain again. He sat there listening to the steady click of the windscreen wipers, then said suddenly:

By the way, who’s that delicious blonde girl in the photograph?

Which photograph?

I walked into a bedroom while I was looking for the lavatory. The first on the right. There was a photo of a lovely little blonde on the table.

Oh, that’d be Caroline. Her niece. I haven’t met her. Why?

All delicious little blondes interest me.

You are a cow, aren’t you? Always on the lookout for sex.

Sorme laughed. They were passing Hendon aerodrome. To change the subject, he said:

By the way, did you say you fly a plane?

Yes. Got one down at a place near Leatherhead. You must come over for a weekend. I’ll take you for a trip.

Your own?

My father’s actually. He never uses it.

Turn left here, please. It’s by that next lamp-post.

The car stopped with a jerk; this time Sorme had braced himself for it. He said:

Well, I owe you quite a lot for this evening.

No you don’t. I owe you a lot. I’d have been bored stiff on my own. Have you got any booze in your room?

I’m afraid not. At least, only some beer.

Excellent. Let’s drink that. Or are you too tired?

Not at all, Sorme said. Come on up.

As they opened the front gate, Sorme said quietly:

Don’t make a noise until we get into my room.

Are they asleep already?

No, probably watching the TV.

They tiptoed up the stairs, Nunne walking in front. A door below opened; a woman’s voice called:

Is that you, Mr Sorme?

Yes.

Oh.

The door closed again.

Sorme switched on the light and closed the door.

You don’t know how lucky you are to have no landlady. I detest landladies.

He lit the gas fire and turned it on full. The room was small and had too much furniture in it. Two cheap suitcases, bound with string, stood near the door. The table was completely occupied by the remains of a meal and an empty drawer. A large cardboard soap-carton, half full of books, stood in the washbasin in the corner. Sorme took off his overcoat and hung it in the wardrobe. Nunne was seated on the bed; he lit a cigarette:

I had an awfully nice landlady in Hamburg.

Sorme took the empty drawer and fitted it back into its place in the sideboard.

I’ve had too many landladies. I’ve had so many that now even pleasant landladies make my flesh crawl. That’s the main advantage of this new place—the landlady doesn’t live on the premises. Even the decentest landladies end by persecuting me.

Don’t be neurotic, Gerard.

You’d be neurotic if you’d had as many as I have. Stupid, petty-minded old cats who leave little notes in your room. They don’t like visitors after ten o’clock. They don’t like you to have women in your room. You never know when some triviality’s going to upset them and make them give you notice. If I were a dictator I’d open concentrations camps for landladies. Mean, trivial, materialistic old sods. They poison our civilisation.

He moved the carton of books on to the floor, and let the hot tap run, then washed two glasses, and dried them with the hand towel.

Poor Gerard. You ought to find yourself a flat.

Sorme took a quart bottle of ale from the bottom of the wardrobe, and poured into the two glasses. He handed one to Nunne, saying: Cheers.

Nunne took a sip, and set it down on the table. He said:

I’m sorry I’m going away just as we’re getting acquainted.

Sorme sat in a wooden chair near the fire; he said sententiously: There’ll be plenty of time.

Without a doubt. Give me your new address, will you? and I’ll give you mine.

They exchanged address books; both wrote silently for a moment. The warmth made Sorme’s stockinged feet steam. He suppressed a yawn. Nunne moved to the end of the bed, where he could see the fire, and stretched out his hands towards it.

Gerard. What you were saying earlier. About looking for some other way to live. . .

Yes?

You ought to see a friend of mine. Father Carruthers, at a hotel in Rosebery Avenue.

That must be where Brother Maunsell lives: there are quite a number of priests there. Do you know him?

No, I don’t recall him.

You’re not a Catholic, are you?

No. My mother is. Carruthers is her friend, really, but I’m sure you’d like him.

Sorme sipped his beer slowly. He had no real desire to drink it; it tasted bitter and wholly disagreeable to him.

What do you think this Father Carruthers could do?

I don’t know. I like him. He’s awfully clever. He knows a lot about psychology—he was a friend of Adler.

That sounds dangerous.

Why?

I can’t imagine the Church approving. Does he talk about neurosis instead of sin?

Yes. Well no, not exactly. You’d have to go and see him. He’s written a book on Chehov.

Sorme shifted his chair further back; the fire was too hot. He said, for the sake of saying something:

I probably will.

Nunne tilted the beer glass and emptied it. Sorme pushed the quart bottle over to him. Nunne allowed the beer to slop into the glass; the froth immediately brimmed over and ran on to the tablecloth. He leaned forward and sucked up a mouthful of the froth, until it ceased to overflow. He looked up at Sorme suddenly over the brim of the glass, saying, with a casualness behind which Sorme could sense the control:

You seem to have an awful down on queers, Gerard.

Sorme said, shrugging:

No. On the contrary, I always get on very well with them.

But you don’t like them?

It’s not that I don’t like them. I disapprove of the queer mentality.

What on earth is the queer mentality?

I shouldn’t say.

Do say. Don’t mind me. I wouldn’t take it personally, I assure you.

All right. Most queers I’ve known have been too personal. With them, everything is personal. It all depends on people. I can’t imagine a homosexual visionary, or a homosexual Newton or Beethoven. They seem to lack intellectual passion—the capacity to become fanatically obsessed by purely intellectual issues. They’re like women—everything has to be in terms of people and emotions.

You do talk nonsense, dear boy. How do you know Newton and Beethoven weren’t homosexual? Neither of them got married. What about Schubert, Michelangelo?

Sorme said, laughing:

OK. I’m sorry I spoke.

No, but answer me! I’d like to hear your views.

No. I’m too tired. When you go tonight, I’ve got to finish packing. I’ll have to be up early tomorrow to start moving.

Nunne looked at him; his eyes were serious, almost pained. Abruptly, he shook his head, and drank the rest of his beer. He stood up, saying:

All right, I’ll leave you.

Sorme immediately felt guilty:

You don’t have to go yet. It’s hardly eleven. You could stay for another hour.