Choice of Evils (5 page)

She went on to describe how her mother had become irritated at finding notebooks hidden all over the house, particularly under the cushions of chairs in the sittingroom, and had managed to persuade her that if only she would put them in her work-basket, neither her mother nor anyone else would ever read what they contained.

‘And when she was nearly ninety,’ Mina said, 'She told me that though she had longed to know what I had written, she had kept her promise and never once looked inside one of my little books, or allowed anyone else to do so.’

Then she told how she had later discovered that she had a certain skill at sketching and had begun to illustrate her stories. Indeed, for a time this had been much more important to her than her writing. It was not until she was in her twenties that she had had thoughts of publication and for a time she had met with no success. But then, and she did not know how it had happened, Mr Thinkum had emerged in her consciousness. She did not believe that she had ever seen a real scarecrow, busily about his work in some field, yet he had come to her as a complete individual, most probably, she thought, from some picture book that she had possessed in her own childhood but had since forgotten. And Mr Thinkum, for a time, had been a best-seller. Her trouble was, however, that she had grown tired of him, her stories had become mechanical, her illustrations lifeless. She had attempted something more ambitious, but in this she had failed, and so, accepting her own limitations, she had from time to time sent Mr Thinkum out on another adventure.

‘But I'm old,’ she said, ‘and tastes have changed, and that's why you may not see as many Mina Todhunters about as when you were young. But when things were at their best I had a very good run for my money. I've had a good life and am grateful to all my readers for what they've done for me.’

She sat down and was greeted by enthusiastic applause.

Peter was the next to be introduced by Edward Clarke and to stand up and address the audience.

His tone was facetious. He claimed that he had taken to writing science fiction because science itself was utterly beyond him. The only way in which he could approach it was to invent it. Reading the works of other writers of science fiction had helped him a great deal. He had never actually copied them, but had found their fantasies stimulating. The worst mistake that he had ever made was to become intimate with some genuine scientists, physicists, chemists, biologists, even though some of them assured him that they enjoyed his works. He simply did not believe them and they made him feel a fool. But the books sold very well and he enjoyed writing them all. What more could he ask? He laid no claim to their literary quality and thought that he was very fortunate to be able to give people what they wanted.

He sat down and again there was applause, not as enthusiastic as that which had been given to Mina Todhunter, who after all was a well-known local figure, but sufficient to make him feel that he had played his part adequately. After him Simon Amory was introduced, stood up and was immediately greeted with applause before he had begun to speak.

Andrew felt that he was at a disadvantage, listening to Amory. Not having read the book,
Death Come Quickly
, nor seen the play or the film that had been based on it, and having by now acquired the feeling that Simon Amory was really a very difficult person to know, he discovered in himself a curious antagonism to the man which did not please him. For it must be founded, he thought, as Peter thought of himself, on jealousy. Simply jealousy of success, a most contemptible emotion. It could not have any-thing to do with a feeling about the man's work, for even the television version of it that he had seen had been interrupted by the telephone ringing in the middle of it,
and Andrew switching off the set and talking on the telephone for several minutes. When he returned to the screen a great many things seemed to have happened, which was very confusing. There appeared to have been a murder, some incest had been discovered, some black-mail was being threatened, and there was some unexpectedly subtle comedy. Yet it was all in a strangely low key so that it was impossible to think of it as a thriller or a crime story or whatever such things were called nowadays. Was it possible that it was actually literature, Andrew had wondered, and had planned to buy the book. He had forgotten about this, however, and now felt embarrassed and annoyed with himself because of it.

Amory spoke only for a short time and said very little about himself. He spoke of the writers who had influenced him, Kafka, for instance, and Conrad and strangely enough, the great Victorians, but he said that he had not been aware of this until after his book was finished. He had never tried his hand at writing when he was young, he said. He believed he had not had the courage. To write seriously, he said, required great courage and he had not found this in himself until he was living alone with no one close to him who might be hurt by what he wrote. Andrew found that a little pretentious, but then began to wonder if he was being unfair, because perhaps the book was really as good as people said, which would entitle Amory to take himself seriously.

He sat down to a roar of applause.

‘And that's that,’ Rachel said in Andrew's ear. T wonder how many of them have actually read the book? Now come the questions.’

The first question, which was shot at Amory, was after all not as to whether he wrote by hand or on to a type-writer. That was the third question. The first was from someone who wanted to know where his ideas came from. It was meant for Amory to answer, but was neatly fielded
by Mina, who used one of her hearty laughs to prevent his having to answer, then she went on to say that she had never known where her ideas came from apart from out of her head, and as the questions continued she took it on herself to answer most of them, to which neither Amory nor Peter seemed to have any objection. Amory had been very nearly correct when he had spoken during dinner of the questions that they were sure to be asked. He soon began to look very bored, though Peter kept up a better show of being interested. After a little while some-thing made Andrew look round to see how Magda Braile and Desmond Nicholl appeared to be enjoying themselves. He saw then that they had gone. The seats that they had taken at the beginning of the performance were empty.

They did not reappear in the bar when most of the audience drifted there for coffee when the questioning began to die down and Edward Clarke decided to give a vote of thanks to the performers and to indicate that the show was over. Peter joined Andrew and Rachel as they made their way to the bar, but almost at once someone thrust a copy of one of his books at Peter and asked him to sign it. Other people were doing the same to Amory, but no one seemed to have any book for Mina Todhunter to autograph. Andrew wondered if she minded. If she did, she did not show it, but settled down at a table with an old woman who was obviously a friend and started what appeared to be a low-voiced intimate chat. Peter struggled to the bar to obtain coffee for Rachel and Andrew, but by the time that he had succeeded in bringing it to them Rachel had moved away and disappeared among the crowd. Peter kept the cup that he had brought for her for himself.

‘Well, are you sorry you came?’ he asked Andrew. ‘Was it awful?’

‘As if I'd say, even if it was,’ Andrew replied. ‘But as a matter of fact, I enjoyed it very much.’

‘Are we going to meet sometime tomorrow?’

‘Doesn't that depend on your host? He may have plans for you.’

‘No, he's made it quite plain that he means to stick to his usual routine, working in the morning, and hoping not to be troubled by me before lunch. So if it should be a nice day and you feel like a walk, we might meet and get out on to the cliffs.’

‘I like the idea, but you'd better phone me in the morning to confirm it.’

‘I'll do that. Meanwhile, we've got to arrange how we're going to get you back to your hotel now. I assume Simon will take you, unless he hands you over to Clarke.’

‘It wouldn't be far to walk, would it?’

Peter considered it. ‘Not really, but it seems a bit snobbish to insist on walking when you've the chance of a drive in a Rolls. Let's get hold of Simon now and find out what his plans are.’

They had made their way through the crowd to where Amory was standing, the centre of a little group of admirers, and for the time being it was hardly possible to discuss the question of how Andrew was to return to the Dolphin.

Presently, however, the crowd began to thin and Amory turned to Andrew.

‘Can I drive you back to your hotel?’ he offered. ‘I think we could decently leave now.’

‘That's very kind of you.’ Andrew replied. 'Thank you, I'd be grateful for it.’

‘We must round up Rachel,’ Amory said. ‘Where is she?’

Peter looked round, shook his head and said, ‘Gone to the loo.’

She was certainly not in the bar.

Mina Todhunter came up to the group, then put an arm round Amory's shoulders and said, ‘Poor Simon, I believe you suffered horribly this evening, but you did very well. I'm off now. What about tomorrow? Same as usual?’

‘Yes, why not?’ Amory said.

‘I thought as you'd guests you might want to change things.’

‘If it seems desirable, I'll phone you.’

‘Well, good night. Good night. Professor.’ She shook hands heartily with Andrew and made for the door.

‘We ought to have got her to take a look into the ladies’ loo to see if Rachel's there,’ Peter said. ‘As a matter of fact, I haven't noticed her anywhere around for some time.’

‘Perhaps she isn't well,’ Amory said. ‘I'll get one of the girls to take a look inside to see if she's there.’

He spoke to one of the young women who had been dispensing the coffee. She went out and returned in a minute or two, saying that there was no one in the ladies’ lavatory.

‘Where is she then?’ Amory said, looking round the room once more.

‘Perhaps she's waiting in the car,’ Peter suggested.

‘It's locked and I've got the key,’ Amory said.

‘Then she must have taken it into her head to walk home,’ Peter said. ‘Andrew was only saying a little while ago that it isn't far.’

‘If she was going to do that, she might have told us,’ Amory said. ‘However, I suppose you're right, and there's no point in waiting for her here. Let's go, shall we?’

The three men made their way out to the Rolls. They saw Edward Clarke getting into his Vauxhall and waved good night to him. The drive down to the Dolphin took only a few minutes. Andrew thanked Amory for his evening's entertainment and as he drove off, went into the hotel, acquired his room-key and went up to his room.

He was surprisingly tired. The day that had been intended as the beginning of a rest had turned out quite demanding. But tomorrow, he thought, in spite of perhaps going for a walk on the cliffs with Peter, which he would enjoy, he would be careful to take it quietly. He thought
that he would look in at Mina Todhunter's bookshop and buy a copy of
Death Come Quickly
, and spend as much of the afternoon as he did not spend asleep in reading it.

But then he remembered that in the evening there would be a performance of
The Duchess of Malfi.
Peter would almost certainly drag him off to see it. If that woman whom he had seen briefly in the greenroom at the Pegasus Theatre, infuriating Amory, had actually more talent than he would have guessed from her performance there, it might give him a great deal of pleasure to see it. While he undressed he tried to remember some lines from it, but to his intense annoyance found himself only muttering:

He could not clear his mind of this until he had been in bed for a while and sleep overcame it.

Next morning Andrew had his breakfast brought to his room. He had coffee and toast and marmalade, then he cut a slice of the cheese that he had bought the day before and when he had eaten it had a shower, shaved and dressed.

It was half past nine by then and a fine morning. The sky was cloudless, and the sea, as he could see from his window, was calm and glistening. He did not think much about the evening before, except that he resolved that sometime later in the day he would go into Mina Todhunter's bookshop and buy a copy of Death Come Quickly. But first he thought that even if Peter did not telephone, as he had promised, he would go for a brisk walk along the esplanade, across the bridge over the little estuary of the Gall and up on to the cliff beyond it. He had slept very well and although the bishop of Rum-ti-Foo was still bothering him, he felt refreshed and pleased to be on holiday. When he considered it, he thought that in its way the evening yesterday had been quite entertaining. He was glad that he had been to hear Peter speak.

Before he had got as far as making up his mind to set out for his walk, the telephone rang and it was Peter.

‘How are things?’ he asked. 'The evening wasn't too much for you?’

‘Well, I must confess the wild excitement of it was a bit of a strain,’ Andrew replied, ‘but I feel reasonably recovered.’

‘No, I mean really,’ Peter said. ‘It kept you out pretty late.’

‘Peter, just how old do you think I am?’ Andrew asked. ‘I'm not yet eighty. I hope I've still several years of such dissipation ahead of me.’

‘That's fine then,’ Peter said. ‘How would you feel about a walk?’

T was just thinking of setting out for one. It's a beautiful morning.’

'Suppose I join you?’

‘That would be very pleasant. But are you sure your host doesn't want some of your company?’

‘Oh, he's busy working. I'm free to do as I like. To tell you the truth, Andrew, I think he wishes I could find a good excuse for leaving to go home. He thoughtlessly invited me down here for the weekend, and now that our performance is over, he doesn't know what to do with me, except, of course, that we're going to
The Duchess of Malfi
this evening, or that's what I thought the plan was yesterday, but now it seems a little uncertain. Anyway, shall we go for a walk?’