He woke in the morning with a hangover. He got up. Then he remembered the extraordinary little scene on the previous day. He felt distressed but more clear-headed. Now only a short time remained before he left for a new and larger house, in a safer neighbourhood. Also, during this interlude, he went to Paris to view an exhibition, and stayed for a while. He returned, not having entirely forgotten the matter, but by now feeling free and jaunty. He went out that evening to the opera with Mildred and Elizabeth and a musician friend of Elizabeth’s called Andy Redmond. He returned by taxi. It then occurred to him, as it was a warm spring night, to exalt himself further by walking down to the river. As he walked he thought vaguely about ‘the poor chap’ and wondered if he would be there. A last farewell. A monkey in a box. That was how he had thought of him at the start. One or two others were there but not him. The river was there. He turned back and sauntered slowly up the street. Then he realised that he was not alone, a tall figure was behind him. Benet turned round. He said, ‘What is it?’
A soft voice said, ‘Perhaps I can help you.’
Benet said, ‘Sorry you can’t,’ and walked on.
A soft voice behind him said, ‘I can do many things.’
Benet entered the house and closed the door noisily.
He went slowly up to bed but for a long time he could not sleep. He felt he had been behaving badly. Could he not have been polite? Was he not really afraid of the fellow? It was also possible, and this occurred to Benet later in the episode, that the fellow was gay and thought that Benet wasl He decided that this was unlikely, and that perhaps the man simply wanted a job. Altogether Benet decided not to think about the little drama in which he himself was playing a rather silly and shabby part. In any case he was now moving to another part of London and could leave the whole weird scene behind him.
In the days that followed Benet was engaged in the chaotic but satisfying task of packing up all his belongings, deciding where the furniture was to go, making sure that nothing was left or lost, and supervising his arrival in a larger and altogether more delightful house with quite a large garden not far from Holland Park. After he had arranged the furniture, inspected the rooms, admired the large garden with its little summer-house, and put all crockery and cutlery in their rightful places in the kitchen, he left, locking everything up carefully, returned to Penndean where he stayed for some time, returning to his books and his work, and entertaining Uncle Tim who was longing to see the new house. Benet was so pleased with his house, he actually delayed his return, gloating and dreaming over it, until Tim kept pretending that by now the house must be gone, at any rate all the furniture must be gone! At last, when Benet had actually allowed himself to reflect upon the possibility that the furniture might really be gone, he drove to London with Tim, and with a fast-beating heart, he opened the door. He could breathe, all was well, the house was beautiful, silent, everything was in place where Benet had left it. Uncle Tim followed him. They wandered together all over the interior, and over the garden, admiring the summer-house and discussing the possibility of a fishpond. The sun was shining, it was April. They returned to the house and examined the kitchen and discussed the oven, the fridge, the little scullery with the washing-machine. They laughed and danced about like boys, they had brought a picnic lunch with them. Then the front door bell rang. Tim went out into the hall and opened the door. Benet was struggling, opening a wine bottle. He heard a murmur from the hall. At last the cork emerged from the bottle. Benet came out into the hall to see whom Tim was talking to. Over Tim’s shoulder he saw the man.
Tim turned round. He said, ‘This chap wants to know if he can help you with various things, he says he’s talked to you before. Actually we have a problem -’
Benet strode forward, Tim moved aside. The man stood in the doorway. The sun was behind him. Although it was a bright day, he was wearing a blue mackintosh with the collar turned up. It was the first time Benet had seen his face by daylight. The sudden glimpse was of a man with dark sleek straight hair and a slightly dark complexion. Benet said hastily, ‘No, we’ve got other arrangements. Please don’t come again.’ He shut the door.
Uncle Tim said, ‘Really, why did you shout at the poor fellow -’
‘I didn’t shout.’
‘You shouldn’t have been so rough. I rather liked the look of him, why -’
‘I don’t want him. I’ve met him before.’
‘We could do with some help -’
‘Tim, please don’t bother me, I just don’t need him, that’s all.’
‘You said you’d like someone to look after the house when - ’
‘Oh do shut up, Tim, the man’s been bothering me, now let’s have some lunch!’
Tim said no more, but Benet could see that he was upset by Benet’s curt behaviour. Perhaps in that brief exchange at the door Tim had seen something? But what? Some old Indian intuition? They had lunch, the wine cheered them up, and they spoke of other things. But Benet was deeply distressed. He wished that Tim had not seen the fellow.
Tim and Benet spent the night in the house; the house was number twenty-eight, and was called Tara. Tim liked the name which reminded him of Ireland. Benet was at first not sure that he liked it, but in any case the house held firmly onto its name and was so called by all. Tim went back to Penndean, and Benet stayed another night alone to be sure he could. Of course he could, the house was cosy, friendly, benign, altogether the right size and shape. He felt that he could work in the house. He returned to Penn and to his book on Heidegger. When next he came to London he brought writing materials, notebooks, his second fountain pen. He felt a sense of liberation and new life. He felt he was rediscovering London.
Only later as the autumn came and the days grew shorter and colder did he think once again about ‘that man’. How had he found Benet’s new house? Where was he now? Uncle Tim, who appeared to have imbibed quite a lot of the visitor during the brief visit, occasionally enquired about him. Uncle Tim was getting old. One night in London, Benet had a dream, indeed a nightmare, about a snake curled up in a basket floating in a river. The basket was sinking. Benet thought, of course snakes can swim, he won’t drown. Then he thought but perhaps he will drown, the basket will pull him down, he won’t be able to get out. Swiftly hustled by the stream, the basket was disappearing among the muddy reeds near to a bridge, it was becoming dark, Benet peered down into the water, he thought I must get down into the river to make sure that the snake is all right, only I can’t get down, it’s so dark down there, and I shall have to jump! As he was hesitating he woke up. His first movement was to turn on the light beside the bed. Then he thrust away the bed-clothes and sat up gasping. He thought light, yes I must have light. His watch said three o’clock. He rose and put the centre light on, and began to walk to and fro breathing deeply. Then he put on his dressing gown and sat down in a chair. Supposing all the lights in the house were suddenly to go out! He got up and went onto the landing, turning the light on. He stood and looked down the stairs, gradually controlling his breath. He listened for some time. The house was silent. He put out the landing light, returned to the bedroom putting out the centre bedroom light, and finally, as he got into bed, the bedside light. He lay stiffly, at last dozing, then sleeping.
When he woke in the morning he remembered first the light, then the dream. He put on the bedside light, then got out of bed, checking the centre light in the bedroom, then the light on the landing. Why was he doing this? He returned to the bedroom and pulled back the curtains, blinking at the bright sunshine. Shaking his head he got dressed and set about his usual day. He had taken over a room, adjoining the drawing room, wherein he now continued his work. His work was, just now, very pleasant, since he was giving himself a rest by continuing a study, abandoned some time ago, of Holderlin, essential, he now told himself, for an understanding of Heidegger’s soul! However even here his concentration failed. He soon got up and walked about. There seemed to be a positive silence in the house, even though he could hear s
ounds from outside. He wandered out into the garden and went into the summer-house. The summer-house was empty but not tiny. Someone could live in it. It consisted of quite a large room, a small room, a bathroom, a little kitchen bereft of utensils. Benet proceeded down the garden looking vaguely for a place for the pool which Uncle Tim could have fishes in. He had a small lunch, he was not hungry. He considered returning to Penn in the afternoon but decided not to. He read The Times. Was he waiting for something? He wondered if he would have dinner at a nearby restaurant, but decided not to. However he felt an agonising desire to leave the house. He waited. It was perceptibly evening; he wandered out. He found himself sitting in a tube train, and getting out at a familiar station. Had he just come to look at his old abode? He went along the street, passing his old place, then returning through the station and crossing the road to look at the Thames. He looked about but saw nothing but the evening crowds. He cursed himself. He had dinner at a familiar restaurant where the waiters received him as a friend. He came home by taxi.
As he opened the door he reached his hand sideways to put on the light in the hall. There was a click but no light. Annoyed, he left the door open and strode across the hall to find the switch on the other side at the foot of the stairs. Again there was no light. He stood there in the dark. He moved cautiously toward the dining room. He found himself groping about. He retreated toward the door, which was only partly open, and opened it wider bringing in light from the road. He walked quietly to the stairs and mounted. He felt for a switch. There was light but only from the floor above. Benet stood still. He could now feel and hear his heart. Leaving the light as it was he went cautiously down, crossed the hall and closed the door, fumbling cautiously for locks. Then moving slowly, holding out his arms, as he recalled it later, ‘like a ghost’, he mounted the stairs towards the light, which he felt might vanish before he reached it. When he reached the second floor he encountered more switches, and successfully turned on other lights. He stood there breathing deeply. He looked back at the dark below. He decided to get himself to bed as soon as possible. He turned on the centre light in his bedroom, he turned off all the landing lights. He went into his bedroom and closed the door. He undressed hurriedly and put on his pyjamas and turned out the centre light. Damn! Where was the bed? He put the centre light on, put on the bedside lamp, returned to put out the centre light. The bedside lamp remained. Good. He struggled into bed and lay down, then sat up abruptly to put out the lamp, knocking it over in the process. Hell! He lay back. He thought he would never sleep, but he did sleep. Was it all an accidental freak?
On the next morning, Benet awoke early to a beautiful blue sky. His head upon the pillow, he smiled. He sat up, noticed the lamp was on the floor, got up and rescued it, still intact. Then suddenly he remembered what had happened last night. He stood quiet for a while. Then he dressed and went downstairs, trying all the lights. They were just as before, intact upstairs, dead downstairs. It occurred to him to try the cellar. The cellar lights were dead too. He stood in the hall. He went into the kitchen, which he had not entered last night. To his surprise the kitchen was intact. He made some coffee. He had intended to go back to Penndean. He wandered out into the hall. He must do something, he must find some expert, he couldn’t leave the poor house in this crazy state. He sat down to think, but soon started reading The Times.
He heard something, a fumbling at the front door, then a soft knock and knuckles on wood. He went to the door and opened it. The man was there. Benet said, ‘Do you know anything about electricity?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come in.’
That was how it began.
The newcomer, having gone out to fetch the requirements (he evidently knew the neighbourhood) dealt with the mysterious unruly lights while Benet sat fuming in the drawing room.
‘All done. Would you like to see?’
‘No, thank you. What do I owe you?’
The man drew a piece of paper, already prepared, from his pocket, and handed it over, while Benet opened his wallet and presented the suitable notes.
‘Thank you. Perhaps I can assist you on other occasions?’
Benet, now opening the front door, did not reply to the question. He murmured ‘Goodbye’, his useful visitor passed through, Benet closed the door promptly behind him.
After the visitation Benet wandered, hurried, stumbling about the house talking to himself - he had made a gross senseless blunder, such as anyone could see, by letting a complete stranger, possibly a talented burglar, go about all over his house alone - he ought to have followed him, instead of which he had shut himself up so as not to see what the fellow was doing! He might be anything, a clever solitary, or a member of a gang, or - good heavens - some sort of mad person - Benet had not even checked the work he had done, if he had done work - and what was easier than to pretend to be a penniless beggar! It took some time for Benet to calm down. He checked the lights, he inspected the cellar, he looked about the house, seeing (but could he be sure?) nothing taken. Then he began to think. Uncle Tim had been alone with the chap - but what had passed between them, had he bewitched Uncle Tim? Should Benet ask Uncle Tim? Surely not. Should he go and live in another house? So he was afraid of the return of this visitor? Would he have to stay here at Tara indefinitely? At last he carefully locked up the house, the summer-house, the garage and fled back to the country.
Back at Penndean he did not mention the episode to Uncle Tim, but he found himself perpetually meditating upon it. He began to make a memory picture of the man but found it difficult. He was wearing a white shirt - or was it white? Was it open at the neck? Dark hair, certainly no tie. He was, now, ‘decently dressed’. He was slightly taller than Benet, rather slim and upright, like a soldier, as he had imagined on his first sighting. On the occasion of the key he had refused money, he had, to make this clear, actually reached out his hand, laying it on Benet’s hand - his fingers touching the back of Benet’s hand. He had touched Benet. Well, what did that mean - a gesture of love? Impossible! He had been closer then than now. Well, Benet’s emotion - was there emotion - had soon passed! Yet perhaps the emotion had built up later on: the dream, the return to the river. And why had Benet not now taken the so recent opportunity of talking to the fellow, who he was, what was, his name, was he married, was he an out-of-work actor or something, almost anything could have made some sort of connection! Had he been in the army? He stood up as at attention. What about his voice - a northern accent? No. A foreign accent? He seemed to have some air of authority - well, authority, had it come as far as imagining that! Perhaps he played this game with innumerable people, pursuing them, forcing himself upon them as a handyman, a jack-of-all-trades, so becoming essential - the out-of-work actor story might be the most attractive, easy to palm off upon well-endowed recently married young couples! Yet, ultimately, was he a thief, a professional burglar, working for some sinister syndicate?
Down at Penn, time passed, Uncle Tim was ill and got better, Benet read Holderlin and wrote a little poetry, or ‘poetry’, himself. He walked about the garden and discussed with Clun and the girls the best site for the Grecian building with columns and swimming pool. However, as everything was looking so beautiful now, he was secretly anxious to postpone this ambitious novelty, whose erection would involve so much violent work with digging and bull-dozers! At least anyone who had studied Benet at that period could have taken him to be reasonably serene. In fact, at this time Benet, still enjoying not being a Civil Servant any more, was considering various trips, to France, to Spain, to Italy, to Greece. In fact his journey, curtailed by the activities of Edward and Marian, went only as far as Italy. And there he had a curious, not exactly ‘vision’, but ‘interlude’.
He was in Venice, where he had quite often been, walking along in the morning sunshine. He had been several times to the Accademia, and was now walking along the Zattere. The light upon the waters, white, gold, pale blue, glinted in his eyes, he was tired and wanted to sit down, on a seat, in a c
hurch, but there seemed to be nowhere just now to rest. He had foolishly brought no hat with him. The sun was shining, it was becoming very hot, for this time of year ridiculously hot. Benet began to wonder where he was. Then he was aware of someone walking behind him. He checked his pace to let the other pass. However the other did not pass, altering his or her pace to Benet’s. Benet went slower still, and was about to stop. He then became aware of someone, a man, not passing him but walking beside him on his left. The stranger then turned his head towards Benet, seeming to smile at him. Benet glanced annoyed, then anxiously, the brilliant waters still flashing into his eyes. The walker, about as tall as Benet, seemed to be in black, a black figure, perhaps, it occurred to Benet, a monk. But no, it could not be a monk. All this Benet took in in a second. He was troubled by the stranger’s silence, and wished he could find somewhere to shake him off, but there seemed, just at present, to be no kind of refuge, and nobody else about. They walked on. At last Benet, still walking, turned round abruptly to survey his curious partner. He instantly felt something pass through him, as of an electric shock. His companion was a man, dressed in dark ordinary clothes. He was turning to Benet, in fact not exactly smiling, but, as he walked, surveying Benet with what seemed a gaze of tender affection. Had Benet met him before? Benet could not in fact see him very clearly because of the exceptional light which was rising up out of the water. He perceived that the stranger had a flash of white at his neck, perhaps a shirt or frill, and that he was carrying a glove.