The Pyramid

  I felt a great kinship with my father.

  “Well, Father? Happy in your work?”

  My father turned his head and looked at me solemnly. Then he turned back and went on eating.

  “You might answer the boy, Father!”

  “Bach,” said my father. “Handel. What I enjoy is a good grind!”

  “Some of the King of Hearts is very tuneful,” said my mother. “You admitted as much!”

  My father looked up with a haunted expression.

  “Yes I did. That was the first time I heard it.”

  My mother supervised my change into a gipsy costume and advised me on makeup. My moustache was particularly fierce. Then they went off together to take up their positions in the orchestra pit. The streets near the Town Hall were a remarkable sight. Ladies in ample and most improbable crinolines, guardsmen with helmets and plumes, a yokel or two, flitted from one side of the Square to the other and clambered furtively into shelter up the stairs under the Town Hall. I was encouraged by this exhibition to think that I myself might not be noticed; so carrying my violin case I crept through the Square. But when I reached the stairs it was clearly no time to ascend them—they were jammed with helmets and crinolines. I thought I would investigate the chances of entering by the main door since any possible audience would surely not have arrived yet. I stole through the market space under the Town Hall and peeped round into the High Street and my heart fell first into my buckled shoes, then leapt right up into my throat.

  There was a queue at the main door of the Town Hall. I had known, in some sort of abstract sense, that people would attend the performance; but here they were, solid, real and alive. I knew them all and by dint of a kind of interior determination and extreme care in my movements could pass them in the street without blushing too deeply or falling over my feet. Normally I hoped myself and sometimes believed myself to be at worst unnoticeable, at best, invisible. Now I saw that I was to exhibit myself, not in theory but in horrible fact to these real, queuing people; was to assault their ears with the inadequacy of my double stopping. My very arms began to shiver at the enormity of it and I shrank back into the shadows of the Town Hall and the temporary safety of its pillars. The queue filed silently into the entrance hall. From above my head I heard the sudden blast of Sergeant Major O’Donovan’s trombone. It was the overture, and we were off. I hurried to the stairs but it was still jammed and I had another worry. I could not see where I was to leave my violin case; so I ran home again, thinking how calm and attractive our sitting room looked, and left it there. I ran back with my violin in one hand and bow in the other, and hearing that the overture was finished, began to burrow my way up the stairs. They were crowded with fierce and nervous persons who had no care for me nor my instrument. I managed to get up to the first corner, and was carried to the second by a surge of performers which left me only just off stage. It was here that I remembered I had not inserted my penny between the strings and I tried to get back down the stairs. This led to a series of passionate arguments all conducted in a whispering hiss and I lost them all. I could have cleared a way easily enough by brute strength, but some of the blockage consisted of relatively delicate girls and in any case I was carrying my violin. I pulled myself together and used my intelligence. Whenever a made-up face thrust itself into mine and hissed at me, I told it I needed a penny. Had it a penny? But there was not a single penny, apparently, in the whole mob, and some of them were even callous enough to laugh at me. Then my moustache fell off, and the crush was too complete for me to retrieve it. My last hope—that of being thoroughly disguised—was gone. I gave up, submitted to my fate and stood just behind a painted flat, waiting for Mr. Claymore to give me my cue. There was a horrible silent pressure coming now, not from the cast on the stairs but from the unseen audience. I began to shiver and my hands froze on the violin. Every instruction went completely out of my head.

  “I’m beginning to find it the most enchanting place in the world!”

  I took a splendid stride beyond the painted flat, and stood on the stage, blinded by the lights.

  As I stood there, blinking in the light and frozen to my violin, there came first a solitary clap, then another, then a warm flow of applause. There was a kind of ‘coo’ in it. It was clear that I was recognized, known, the dispenser’s son; clear too, that I was one of the right sort of people. In a flash I understood that the faces in the street had noticed me and had approved my conduct, or at least, condoned it. From fright, panic even, I soared to the other extreme of self-confidence. Upright, a musician to the fingertips, a violinist who had not merely got a certificate but could play as well, I struck my first chord. My fingers seemed warm and live, my bowing arm loose and agile. I had no doubts at all, and I played as loudly as Mrs. Underhill sang. When I finished my piece—knowing in advance that my last three spectacular double-stopped chords were going to be exact and stupendously resonant—the applause was instantaneous and overwhelming. My new selfconfidence and selfpossession did not desert me. I was more accustomed to the lights now and I could see my mother at the piano, nodding her head and laughing and applauding. I bowed with much composure; and as I straightened up, a bag of money flashed past my face and struck the cyclorama. I bowed again, backing off stage. There was stamping from the audience.

  “’core! ’core!”

  I had modesty enough to believe this was going too far. It was, after all, Mr. Claymore’s scene and I did not want to spoil it for him. The sweat cooling on me, I edged myself back among the throng on the stairs, smiling gently and courteously to each person in turn from the height of my new stature. I had plenty of time, most of the evening indeed, before I needed to become a beefeater and already I was feeling it would be something of an anticlimax. Still there was consolation in the thought of how easy it would be. No playing, no acting. Just dress the scene. I came out at the bottom of the stairs and found the evening air astonishingly fresh. I stood there for a while, enjoying the sheer normality of things and the memory of my triumph.

  Mr. De Tracy was leaning against one of the pillars a yard or two away. He was still smiling gently.

  “Whither away, laddy?”

  “I’ve got to get changed. Weren’t you round in front then, sir?”

  “I felt that standing out here—one was able to concentrate wholly on the music. Did you have any difficulties?”

  “I didn’t catch the money, come to think of it. And my moustache came off.”

  Mr. De Tracy smiled down and uttered sweet breath.

  “Charming, charming!”

  He felt in the skirts of his coat and produced a bottle which he held up to the light, discovered to be empty and replaced.

  “I think the two of us might steal off for a drink, don’t you, Oliver?”

  “I’m in costume!”

  “So am I. May I drop the ludicrous affectation of calling you ‘laddy’?”

  “Did you hear me play?”

  “I did indeed. Something told me you didn’t have a penny with you.”

  “I’m awfully sorry!”

  Mr. De Tracy quivered about the knees.

  “It won’t have pleased your hated rival.”

  “My what?”

  “Our splendid male lead.”

  I swallowed, looking up at him. He smiled back, breathing the memory of gin at me. I gaped, but strangely, did not blush.

  “How—?”

  “The manly feet turned ever so slightly in. The look of—hangdog adoration. Charming, charming!”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “She doesn’t—”

  He put a long arm round my shoulder. It was oddly pleasant and secure.

  “She doesn’t know much, does she? I think it’s time you were cured.”

  “As long as I live—”

  He massaged my shoulder.

  “Shock treatment.”

  “I’m all right. Honestly.”

  “Ten guineas and a
third class return. I suppose one can’t complain. One does of course. And the need to escape is so desperate that by the end, most of the ten guineas—However. Come to the mausoleum.”

  “Where’s that?”

  I saw he was looking at the Crown; and broke out in nervous expostulation.

  “Oh I say! I’d have to change, first! After all—I live here!”

  “The only consolation I can offer you for such a fate, Oliver, is a large gin. You’ve lots of time before you dress Mr. Claymore’s scene for him.”

  “I thought you called him ‘Norman.’”

  Mr. De Tracy nodded, gently.

  “Yes, I do, don’t I?”

  “But oughtn’t you to be round in front, sir?”

  “I am,” he breathed down at me. “You know I am, don’t you, Oliver? You can vouch for me, can’t you?”

  I laughed excitedly.

  “You bet!”

  “And call me ‘Evelyn.’”

  “Like Norman?”

  “Not like Norman, child. Like my friends.”

  “Golly.”

  Outside the Crown he held me back, and stood, looking at the Town Hall, his head cocked on one side.

  “Judging by the complete absence of sound, Mr. Claymore is singing.”

  I giggled, loving him.

  “Yes! Yes! My God!”

  “I’ve produced them, you see—for my sins—so I know all about them. Particularly about her.”

  “How?”

  “By what Mr. Shaw calls ‘The woman in myself’. I have a great deal of woman in me, Oliver. So I know, you see.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  Mr. De Tracy smiled down; and each word was like a wasp’s sting.

  “She’s a stupid, insensitive, vain woman. She has a neat face and just enough sense to keep smiling. Why! You are three times as—Never let her know your calf-love. It would just go to feed her vanity. And insolent, the pair of them! Not ten guineas’ worth, a hundred, a thousand—”

  I opened my mouth but could find no words to say. Mr. De Tracy dropped his arm from my shoulder and straightened up, briskly.

  “Well—Here we are.”

  He pushed open the swing door and inspected the entrance hall.

  “If you bring over that chair for me, Oliver, and sit down there, we shall be comfy between the fireplace and the potted palm.”

  He disappeared through the door of the saloon bar. To alter the layout of this impressive building was an intimidating thing; but with a sudden sense of change I fetched the chair obediently. Mr. De Tracy returned, carrying two goblets filled with clear liquid.

  “Perfectly executed. Your mother would be— No. That was unkind of me. I’m sorry, Oliver, but you see I have—” And he peered about in the air as if he might find the right word written up somewhere. “—I have—excruciated.” He handed me one of the goblets and folded himself into the armchair. “One can’t even say it’s in the cause of art. It’s in the cause of ten guineas and you are the first, literally the first human being connected with this outrageous exercise in bucolic ineptitude—well. Always excepting your lady mother of course.”

  “She’s full of your praises.”

  “Is she, now? That’s very gratifying. What about your father?”

  “He doesn’t say much, ever.”

  “He is the—vast gentleman in grey who plays the violin with a sort of a smouldering dexterity?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He uses the Stanislavski method. I’ve never seen a clearer projection of furious contempt. Not a word said. Eyes on his music. Every note in place. Smoulder, smoulder, smoulder. Why on earth?”

  “Mother wants him to.”

  I tried my drink and choked.

  “Take it slowly, Oliver. You’ll find it very liberating. Dear me! I really have drunk a great deal.”

  “Liberating? What from?”

  “Whatever you want to escape from. Be liberated from.”

  I was silent for a while, inspecting the close walls of my life. Suddenly I found a torrent of words in my throat.

  “That’s right. That’s it exactly—Everything’s—wrong. Everything. There’s no truth and there’s no honesty. My God! Life can’t—I mean just out there, you have only to look up at the sky—but Stilbourne accepts it as a roof. As a—and the way we hide our bodies and the things we don’t say, the things we daren’t mention, the people we don’t meet—and that stuff they call music—It’s a lie! Don’t they understand? It’s a lie, a lie! It’s—obscene!”

  “Very famous. Made a lot of money.”

  I took a quick gulp.

  “You know, Evelyn? When I was young I used to think it was me—and it was, of course, a bit—”

  “Charming! Charming!”

  “It’s so mixed. D’you know? Only a few months ago I—had a girl on the hill up there. Practically in public. And why not? Was anyone in this, this—was anyone doing anything more—more—”

  I broke off, feeling extraordinarily shaken as if at any moment I might burst into tears.

  “Did anyone see you, Oliver?”

  “My father.”

  Mr. De Tracy’s knees opened and shut once or twice.

  “You see, Evelyn. It’s like chemistry. You can take it as a thing—or you can take it as a thing—”

  “What is like chemistry?”

  “Well. Life.”

  “It’s an outrageous farce, Oliver, with an incompetent producer. This girl. Was she pretty?”

  “Rather!”

  Mr. De Tracy looked at me over his goblet, his two old spot balls very still, his mouth smiling gently beyond the brim, his lantern-jawed face moistened slightly.

  “How enviable.”

  “You wouldn’t have wanted her, Evelyn, with all those actresses and—she was just a country girl from Chandler’s Close; though come to think of it, why on earth we—”

  I stopped, trying to think what it was I wanted to say—something about Evie and Stilbourne and my father’s binoculars and the sky, something it would be easy to say to Evelyn since everything was easy to say to him. I peered at him and smiled affectionately. A slight mist had formed round him, leaving him very clear and lovable in the middle. I saw now why his pupils were spots. The irises round them had been invaded by the yellow of his eyeballs in flakes and crystals so that it was difficult to see where they began.

  “Evelyn. I want the truth of things. But there’s nowhere to find it.”

  Mr. De Tracy drew a long, shuddering breath and his smile increased.

  “Truth, Oliver? Well—”

  “Life ought to be—”

  “Perceptive.”

  He inserted one hand in his breast pocket and drew out a small leather wallet. Still watching me, he took out a sheaf of photographs and held out the top one. The mist moved in until it was all I could see; or perhaps since I concentrated, frowning at the photograph, the mist was no more than inattention to anything else. Mr. De Tracy pressed the rest of the sheaf into my other hand, but I was riveted by the one I could see. It was unquestionably Mr. De Tracy. He was younger in the photograph, but his long nose and long chin seen in profile were unmistakable. So was his lean figure. The wig of dark hair he wore came down in a bob, half way between his ears and his shoulders, leaving visible a length of sinewy neck. His bare right arm stretched gracefully up away from him, the left behind and down, so that together they formed a diagonal. The ballerina’s costume with its frilly white skirt fitted him closely and his lean legs led down, knees supporting each other, to pumps on his enormous feet. The feminine makeup made him seem even more masculine. I roared with laughter.

  “What on earth’s this?”

  “Just making a point, Oliver. To the perceptive. Give it back, will you?”

  But I was looking through the sheaf. The costume was the same in each and so was Mr. De Tracy. In some of the photographs he was supported by a thick, young man; and in each of these, they gazed deep into each other’s eyes. I laughe
d until it hurt.

  “Give them back, now, Oliver.”

  “What was it?”

  “Just a farce, that’s all. Give them back, please.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen—”

  “Oliver. Give them back. And run along.”

  “Let’s have another—”

  “Don’t forget you’re going to be a beefeater.”

  “Oh damn that!”

  “Nevertheless.”

  I looked out and was surprised to see how Mr. De Tracy had moved away, yards away, though he was still sitting in the same place.

  “I suppose—”

  “We mustn’t disappoint your mum.”

  All at once I remembered.

  “You were going to tell me something, Evelyn. What was it?”

  “It escapes me, I’m afraid.”

  “It was about truth—and honesty.”

  “I haven’t the least idea.”

  “I was telling you about this place—about everything.”

  “I think it’s time you went and changed.”

  “Is it?”

  “Run along, now.”

  “Oh, I remember!” I laughed again at the thought of it. “You were going to cure me!”

  His face swam into focus.

  “So I was, Oliver. A going away present. Well. After you have saluted and gone off stage, listen to the ‘Great Duet.’”

  “Yes? And?”

  “That’s all. Just listen.”

  “Right. I’ll come back and tell you—”

  “I shan’t be here.”

  “What, are you going round in front?”

  “I shall—escape.”

  Suddenly he was close, holding up his hand and tapping his wristwatch with his forefinger. I saw what the time was and hurried away in a sudden panic. I huddled on my beefeater’s costume, then padded away across the Square to the garage. My halberd was quite dry but very heavy. I carried it over my shoulder to the back stairs but the roof was too low to accept me like that. I lowered it to the charge therefore and went on up; but the cast was lining the stairs and in a few seconds what had started as an entry became a furious wrestling match with madeup faces mouthing silent curses at me over the red shaft of my weapon. There were halfbare bosoms too and scarlet mouths and bright clothes and a tangle of limbs. However, I stuck to my halberd, urged on by a desire to get the thing over and go back to Evelyn. I got round the first corner; but when I got to the second the truth was inescapably plain. There was no way in which my halberd could be manoeuvred round it.