Ritual in the Dark

  Aren’t you cold there, Oliver?

  I . . . suppose I am.

  Glasp seemed fascinated by the flames. He crossed the room and sat on the stool, leaning forward, the teacup between his hands.

  It’s good of you to bother with me like this, Gerard.

  Not in the least.

  I’d have been fixed if you hadn’t come today.

  That’s o.k. You’d do the same for me.

  The paraffin flames began to die down, but the wood was burning well. Outside, the afternoon was turning dark. Seated in the wooden chair, Sorme reflected how dismally uncomfort­able Glasp’s room was. Glasp said:

  I never made many friends.

  Sorme said, shrugging:

  Nor me.

  What’s the good of friends if they don’t understand the problems that worry you? You’ve got to be able to talk to them. You, for instance. . . . I could talk to you five minutes after I first met you. That’s unusual.

  Thanks.

  Sorme felt slightly awkward about the compliment; he said:

  I’ve got a theory about people. You and I are completely different types. I think too much, you feel too much. I lay too much emphasis on the mind, and you lay too much on the heart. Now some people lay too much on the body . . . Austin, for instance. When he gets repressed, he needs a physical outlet.

  And what about you?

  Oh, me. I try to think my way out of problems. I try to get detached from them. I don’t like strong emotions much—I suspect them. That’s why I don’t feel too good at the moment about Austin.

  Why? You don’t feel any strong emotions about him, do you?

  No. But he’s stopped me from stagnating. I’ve become so absorbed in his problems that I’ve become quite detached from my own problems. That’s all right . . . but it’s not the right way to solve problems.

  No? Why not?

  As he spoke, Sorme became aware that his ideas reflected on Glasp; he repressed the misgiving, certain that Glasp would understand, anyway. He said:

  I think it’s a kind of weakness to get too involved in other people’s lives. I once knew a girl who was the sort of person everybody told their troubles to. She gave the impression of being a very cool and calm sort of person, and people felt she was strong and sympathetic. When I got to know her pretty well, I found she had no ideas, no beliefs, no real self-confidence—in fact, she was a complete mess inside. She kept herself happy by worrying about other people’s problems. She liked unhappy people—I suppose they made her feel superior. . . . And when I meet people like Gertrude who go in for social work and con­verting people, I wonder if they’re not doing the same thing.

  Glasp said:

  Does it matter?

  Yes, it does. It matters if people are made of marshmallow. Very few people are real inside. They need people and distractions as a cripple needs crutches. Look at me. Two weeks ago I felt completely lost. I didn’t like leaving my room because the street made me feel as if I didn’t exist. London made me feel like an insect, and when I got back to my own room and tried to write I still felt like an insect. Then what happens? I go to this Diaghilev exhibition and meet Austin. And immediately I stop being an insect. But that’s the wrong reason.

  What does it matter what the reason is?

  But it does matter. I should have outgrown Austin’s world a long time ago. I only went to the Diaghilev exhibition out of a sentimental feeling about Nijinsky. Normally, I can’t stick ballet. Last time I went to the ballet, it nearly gave me diarrhoea . . . a lot of bloody prancing queers and posturing women. I had to come out halfway through. And yet that’s Austin’s world. He’s a romantic. He’s not real inside either. He needs unreality to stop him from feeling an insect.

  Glasp said softly:

  We all need something to lean on.

  But we shouldn’t. If a man could kill all his illusions, he’d become a god.

  Or kill himself, Glasp said.

  No. . . . He’d be strong enough to live. People die because they don’t know what life is.

  Glasp said: Who does?

  I do sometimes. Just occasionally. And I spend all my time trying to regain the insight.

  And what was your insight like?

  I . . . It was a feeling of acceptance. It happened once when I was on Hampstead Heath, looking down on London. I was thinking about all the lives and all the problems . . . and then suddenly I felt real. I saw other people’s illusions, and my own illusions disappeared, and I felt real inside. I stopped wondering whether the world’s ultimately good or evil. I felt that the world didn’t matter a damn. What mattered was me, whether I saw it as good or evil. I suddenly felt as if I’d turned into a giant. I felt absurdly happy. . . .

  Glasp said:

  I’ve never felt like that.

  No?

  He controlled the excitement his own words had aroused in him, waiting for Glasp to speak, watching the face that leaned into the firelight. Glasp spoke in a low voice, without emphasis. He said:

  That’s not how I feel. . . . I suppose I need other people, as you say. For instance, this stupid business is bad for me because it makes me think about myself. And Christine’s good for me because she makes me think about other people. Not just about her. She makes me realise that hundreds—thousands—are living in complete misery, never having a chance to feel these things you’re talking about. They don’t feel like giants or gods, and they don’t feel like insects either. They’re just ordinary men and women, and most of their lives is suffering or boredom.

  He stopped speaking, and drank the remainder of the tea from his mug, then set it down on the green tiles that reflected the flames. The toe of his worn-out shoe pushed a fragment of smoking coal into the grate. He said:

  That’s my vision . . . if it is a vision.

  Sorme looked at him silently, realising the gulf that separated their ways of feeling, and understanding the futility of words. The coal collapsed over the burnt wood, sending up sparks. Glasp said abruptly:

  What about going out for a meal? Are you hungry?

  Do you know anywhere around here?

  I know a place where we can get sausage, egg and chips for two bob.

  Sorme said, standing up:

  Good. Let’s go.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Sorry I’m so late.

  Come in. Where have you been? Have you eaten?

  Yes, thanks. I ate this afternoon with Oliver. I stayed and talked to him. He was pretty shaken up.

  The fire was still burning in the sitting-room. The hands of the electric clock showed ten-fifteen. She touched his hand, and said:

  Oh dear, you are cold. Come and get warm. Would you like a drink?

  No, thanks. I’ve been drinking with Oliver.

  He sat opposite the fire, and stretched out his legs towards it. Miss Quincey started to build it up with small nuggets of coal, using a glove that lay across the fender.

  Is he all right now?

  Yes. He’s calmer, at any rate.

  Have they examined the child yet?

  No. That’s the trouble. She’s disappeared. When we got back to Oliver’s room, the police had been there already. Oliver says they probably suspect him of murdering her to keep her quiet!

  How silly!

  Oh yes. He wasn’t really serious. They probably suspected him of hiding her. Anyway, she’s a little fool to run away like this. It makes it look worse for Oliver—as if she’s got something to be afraid of. When we came out of the café Oliver saw one of her school-friends and persuaded her to go and call for Christine—to see if she’d come back. She hadn’t, of course, and then he started to get really upset.

  I’m not surprised, with a murderer at large in White­chapel.

  Haven’t you heard? He’s been caught.

  No. When?

  Don’t you listen to the radio? He was arrested this morning. At least a man was arrested, and apparently he confessed later.

  Good! Thank heavens for that.


  I’m not so sure it’s an advantage for Oliver. If the White­chapel police had still got the murders to worry about, they might pay less attention to a drunken prison warder.

  Quite. But where does Oliver think the child might be hiding?

  Oh, anywhere. She only disappeared this morning. She might have spent the morning in Petticoat Lane market, or in the docks. She’s probably back home now—unless she’s staying overnight with a friend. Or she may go to Oliver’s.

  I hope so. I wouldn’t like to think of her wandering around on a night like this.

  As if to emphasise the words, there was a sound of rain on the window. Sorme went to the window and peered out; nothing was visible in the darkness.

  Have you left your bicycle outside?

  No. I came by train.

  It’s just as well. Would you like something to eat? I’m just having something myself.

  Thanks.

  He leaned against the refrigerator, watching her slice a joint of ham. The wine he had drunk with Glasp had made him feel sleepy. He asked her:

  Have you heard from Austin recently?

  No, not for several days.

  I don’t know where he’s gone to. I’ve been trying to contact him for the last two days.

  He may be at the Leatherhead cottage. He often goes there for week-ends.

  Ah, of course!

  She glanced at him doubtfully.

  Have you . . . have you spoken to him since you talked to me . . .

  She left the sentence unfinished. Sorme said:

  I had lunch with him on Saturday.

  Yes.

  She sounded uninterested. He took the plate with sandwiches, and went back into the other room. The rain was now beating steadily on the windows. He unfolded the paper napkin, and helped himself to a sandwich, then looked at her, smiling. She said:

  I’ve been thinking about Austin ever since the other night. It seems a pity that he hasn’t any close relatives who could . . . talk to him about it. There’s no one who knows him well enough to be quite open with him.

  What could they do, anyway?

  She lowered her sandwich instead of biting it, regarding him steadily. She said:

  They might persuade him to see a doctor.

  That’s true. On the other hand, he might feel they just didn’t understand, and tell them to go to hell.

  That wouldn’t matter. If someone is dying of a disease, you don’t ask them if they want to be cured.

  Austin’s not dying. And I don’t think homosexuality qualifies as a disease.

  He could sense a frustration growing up in her; her eyes flickered with irritation.

  But he ought to have a chance to lead a normal existence. He’ll inherit a great deal of money and property. He should have a son to pass it on to. He should have a chance to marry and settle down.

  He said patiently:

  I can see your point. But I doubt whether Austin wants to settle down. And I can’t imagine him as a husband! Besides, why should you want to alter his life? He isn’t unhappy—at least, not for that reason. What would you say if Austin suddenly wanted you to see a doctor to cure you of religion?

  Oh, don’t be silly, Gerard!

  But if it’s so important to marry and settle down, why aren’t you married?

  Her face coloured; for a moment, he expected a snub. She swallowed the remains of a sandwich, and said in a level voice:

  That isn’t the same thing at all.

  Looking at her face, he felt a curious impulse of tenderness; she was right; it was not the same thing at all. The idea of being frank with her about Austin came to him, but he dismissed it immediately. Instead he said:

  All right. . . . If you like, I’ll talk to Austin about it—tactfully. But I doubt whether it would have any effect.

  A kind of hopelessness came into her eyes. She said:

  Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it isn’t my business. I’m fond of Austin. He’s the only person in the family that I ever cared for much.

  He said gently:

  You can’t take the responsibility for other people, you know. The best you can do is to offer help when it’s needed.

  But supposing Austin needs help?

  Don’t you see, Gertrude, you can only help when you under­stand fully? Your temperament’s too different from Austin’s to do any good.

  Why do you say that? Do you suppose I’ve never felt like Austin?

  He said:

  I don’t know. Have you?

  I’ve wanted to let all my impulses loose. I suppose most people have. Austin’s been lucky. He’s always had the money to go where he likes and do what he likes, and no one has tried to interfere with him. In another sense he’s been unlucky, because he’s had too much freedom. But he’s really a good person. He could never destroy the good in him, no matter what he did.

  You’re probably right. But don’t you see? The fact that you’ve wanted to let your own impulses loose doesn’t mean you understand Austin’s impulses.

  Do you understand them?

  I . . . don’t know. I think perhaps I do.

  Then explain them to me.

  He stared into the fire, feeling no desire to talk. The evening with Glasp had tired him. Aware of the persistence of her eyes, he said finally:

  It’s a feeling of being at a total loose end . . . having no sense of purpose or motive—a feeling of being disinherited. As if your existence was meaningless. And then sometimes you get a glimpse of an insight—a feeling that human existence is meaningless, but that you’ve got to give it meaning. And then you suddenly feel that you’ve got to stop living like a bad actor in a second-rate play. Somehow, you’ve got to start living properly. Well, human existence is mostly taboos, laws and rules. So the first thing to do—if you want to start living all the way down—is to break the laws and rules. That’s the way you feel about it. And it just depends which laws and rules you feel like breaking. A man with a neurosis about being socially under-privileged might try to rob a bank or throw a bomb at the House of Lords. But most men suffer from a feeling of being sexually under-privileged, so it’s more likely to break out in that direction. . . .

  He checked the impulse to say more. She waited for him to go on; then, after a moment, said sadly:

  He doesn’t realise there are other ways of . . . living fully. I wish I could teach him.

  The resignation in her voice stirred an obscure pity in him; he found himself wishing she was sitting beside him on the settee, where he could touch her. Immediately, he felt a distrust of his own impulse, remembering the last time he had tried to touch her. He stood up, saying:

  I’m afraid I’d better go. . . . Excuse me a moment.

  In the bathroom, he opened the window and looked out towards the Heath; the rain fell steadily. Drops of water ran down his face. The wash-basin was half full of clothes soaking in soapy water; he leaned over the bath and washed his hands under the hot tap. He sat on the edge of the bath to dry his hands, taking pleasure in the warmth and softness of the towel, surprised by the curious happiness that rose in him, the feeling of expectancy.

  She was still sitting in front of the fire. Something in her pose, the crossed knees, the shoe that hung loosely on the small foot, made her seem very young. He said:

  What time does the train go from Hampstead?

  I’m not sure. They go earlier on Sundays. It might have gone by now.

  I’d better hurry.

  You can’t go yet. You’ll be soaked. Hadn’t you better stay here?

  He asked with surprise:

  All night, you mean?

  You . . . could if you wanted to.

  What about your reputation with the neighbours?

  She looked away from his smile:

  It’s none of their business, is it?

  Well . . . thanks very much. Where would I sleep?

  Down here. Or in Caroline’s room. I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with Caroline’s sheets if you sleep in there. . . .


  That’s fine. I don’t mind at all.

  I put them on last time she came here. They ought to be clean. Would you rather sleep upstairs?

  I don’t mind. Whichever is least trouble. . . .

  I’ll go and turn the fire on.

  He felt she was glad to get out of the room. He wondered if the thought of offering him Caroline’s bed had suddenly struck her with embarrassment, recognising its meaning as a symbol of vicarious intimacy. After a moment’s hesitation, he followed her upstairs.

  She was changing the pillow-case as he came into the room; the bedclothes were pulled back to air. The bars of the electric fire were warming to redness. He picked up a nylon nightdress that had slipped down the bottom of the bed, asking:

  Is this Caroline’s?

  She snatched it from him, and dropped it into a drawer.

  No. It’s one of mine that she borrowed.

  She went out of the room, saying:

  I’ll get you a hot-water bottle.

  He looked down at the photograph of Caroline, and ex­perienced a feeling that was not unlike guilt. With surprise, he realised he was a little in love with Caroline. It was an un­expected recognition; the feeling seemed to have developed retrospectively since he had last seen her. At the time, he had been aware of nothing but a certain amused tenderness, and the gratitude that is a response to a woman’s offer of her body.

  Miss Quincey came in while he was still looking at it. She asked:

  Do you like Caroline?

  Of course. She’s very sweet.

  She dropped the hot-water bottle into the bed and adjusted the sheets. She said suddenly:

  I’d forgotten that I’d left the wash-basin next door half full of clothes. I was starting to wash them when you arrived. So I’d better finish them now. Do you want to go to bed yet?

  Er . . . no, not especially. Why?

  I think I shall go soon. I’m rather tired.

  He followed her out of the room, sensing a tension in her. He wondered if she was regretting asking him to stay. She asked: