The Oracles (11 page)

‘You were not sick. Nobody was sick in our home.’

‘I so were sick.’

‘Don’t contradict, or I shall thump you.’

Joe rolled away from her and had a peep at Harold, who had also, he declared, been sick.

Eased by this little conversation, but strangely exhausted, Serafina fell asleep. She did not wake for a long time. The sun crept across the pale afternoon sky, and the shadows in the meadow lengthened. She lay in the grass, safe from her sorrows.

While she slept Elizabeth deserted them, slipping quietly out of the house with a suitcase, to catch the four o’clock train to London. Nobody saw her go except Polly, whom she encountered on the stairs.

‘She said,’ reported Polly, ‘that she is going to Korea, and somebody is coming to take us away to a lovely
place. And there’s some money in the little drawer in her dressing table. She said to remind you.’

For the rest of the day they were constantly looking out for this person to come. The sun set. Night fell. At last they straggled up to bed. Nobody had come.

‘They’ll come tomorrow,’ prophesied Serafina confidently.

Fear had begun to flutter inside her, but she was not going to let the others know that. If nobody came
tomorrow
she decided that she would take some of that money and buy peaches and cream and tinned chicken. This alluring prospect had power to hold fear at bay for a little while. She was even able to hope that nobody would come until she had spent all that lovely money. Not yet would she investigate the possibility that nobody would ever come, that they had been betrayed and abandoned, that everybody in the world had forgotten about them.

T
HE
river Dare flows into the Bristol Channel on the west side of the town. Here are quays and jetties; here the sand is dotted with boats at low tide. Buoys mark a clear channel of deep water which runs, at one point, close under a long spit of land.

This was the site chosen by old Tom Skipperton for The Moorings. It looked like the yachtsman’s paradise which he had intended it to be, and Martha found it difficult to improve. She would have pulled it down, had she been able to bully Alan Wetherby into designing her a new house for nothing. But he was obstinate and ungrateful, and so she had to put up with her father’s gables and half-timbering.

Inside she had torn down a great deal of pitch-pine panelling; she had abolished the main staircase and thrown several rooms into one. This was called the music-room. It had a Bechstein on a dais, a totem pole, and some furniture which felt more comfortable than it looked. A spiral steel staircase, somewhat resembling a helter-skelter at a fair, rose from this room to the upper floors.

The whole effect never satisfied her. She was always changing the position of the totem pole, which
persisted
in looking as though it had just arrived and was waiting to be put into its proper place. Wetherby unkindly told her that she had not got a room at all, merely four walls containing so many cubic feet of space.

She had, in addition, her own study, known as the book-room. To Don she had given the old boathouse, now converted into a studio, since sailing made her seasick. He was supposed to work there and was
despatched
to it every day, immediately after lunch.

Sometimes he did do a little work. More often he read detective novels. Had his etchings ever meant very much to him he would not have married Martha. They had failed to support him and he liked comfort. He had all the whisky he wanted, in the boathouse cupboard, and a plentiful supply of whodunnits.

Upon this Tuesday afternoon, however, he felt
restless
, distracted by that inward eye which now so seldom blessed his solitude. Little seemed to catch it at East Head, although he had made numerous studies of boats lying on the sand. Today it had been caught, had been opened, and would not shut again. This had befallen him just as they were leaving the Pavilion. Martha had darted off to discuss something with Mr. Beccles, the manager. Don, while waiting for her, had strolled down on to the sea terrace. While there he had noticed a particular arrangement of people, reflections and shadows, on the beach. Somehow they were
dramatically
disposed. But this pattern occurred in a void. There was nothing to contain it. Sky, sea and beach stretched endlessly in all directions. To do anything with it he must …

He thought about it for the greater part of the
afternoon
, and drank a good deal of whisky while he was thinking. Just as a solution occurred to him Martha’s bell, shrilling suddenly, recalled him to the house. It connected The Moorings with the studio, but she never rang it without good cause, for she took his work very seriously.

He swore, and wondered why she should invariably hit upon the few occasions when he was really working. As he walked up the garden path he was aware that he had, in his preoccupation, put down rather a lot of whisky. The tide was high and washed against the garden wall. The wind blew in soft, short gusts. He felt mournful.

A door led from the garden into the music-room, which was empty. All the fluorescent tubes under the ceiling had been turned on, although it was still full daylight. A table stood ready with drinks and glasses. Somebody must be coming for a cocktail and that was why he had been summoned. There were three glasses. He had better begin to mix some Martinis.

As he crossed to the table he caught sight of
something
unpleasant out of the tail of his eye and turned to look.

It was on the piano dais—a mean, thin contrivance of rusty-looking metal, shapeless and jagged, yet oddly menacing, as though it might be about to hop down and attack him. The sight of it gave him quite a turn. What a bugger! he thought. She must have brought it this afternoon. She was up at Summersdown. Good God! The Apollo?

He approached it reluctantly, violently repelled, for it had shattered the last fragment of his own private preoccupation. This was not a moment at which he could wish to look at anything by Conrad. He did not much like Conrad’s work, although he was fond of the man.

Closer inspection robbed the thing of its formidability. Seen from behind, from either side, it looked like nothing at all. It was not even repulsive; it was merely silly.

‘Well?’

He looked up. Martha was leaning over the smooth steel wall of the staircase. She must have been standing up there, watching him, for some minutes.

‘What do you think of it?’ she asked.

‘It’s Conrad’s Apollo?’

‘Yes.’

She came down the stairs, disappearing and
reappearing
round the central column, until she reached the floor.

She had put on her cocktail clothes: skimpy black trousers fastened tightly round the ankles with a band of gold, and a short wide coolie coat of black and gold brocade. This exotic finery could not save her from looking like a conscientious governess. She asked him again what he thought of the Apollo. She seemed really anxious to know, which was not always the case when she demanded his opinion. Frequently she merely sought an endorsement of her own. Now, however, she had not quite made up her mind.

‘I don’t like it,’ he ventured.

‘But it’s very powerful, isn’t it? Didn’t it make you jump when you first saw it?’

‘Ye-es. But so would a turnip lantern.’

‘I’m not quite, quite sure what I think,’ she allowed. ‘It knocked me over at first sight. But then I’m inclined to be suspicious of things which knock me over at first sight.’

She might well be, he reflected—remembering some incautious enthusiasms from which she had subsequently been obliged to retreat.

‘Why did you bring it?’ he asked.

‘Well,’ she said, sinking into a chair, ‘I went up to Summersdown this afternoon.’

‘Any news of Conrad?’

‘I don’t gather so. But Elizabeth is quite intolerable.
I’m not going to that house again. Conrad must come here if he wants to see us, and come without her. Why should we put up with her insolence? I shall pass the word round; I think we’d much better, all of us, keep away from Summersdown. She’s made it pretty plain that she doesn’t want to see any of us.’

‘What did she say particularly?’

‘Oh, she was just incoherent and abusive. She accused me of expecting everybody to sing for their supper! Such ingratitude considering … I didn’t say anything. I just left her and went off to find the Apollo. It was in the shed.’

She turned in her chair to have another look at it.

‘I must say,’ she added, ‘I find it … impressive. You know, Don, it is really Apollo. It has such
ruthlessness
, such non-humanity.… And then the thought crossed my mind that it might be in safer keeping. I’m not too sure that Elizabeth hasn’t got some
understanding
with that awful man. One doesn’t know what they’d do with it. So I put it in the car and brought it down here. Why don’t you like it?’

‘It just … says nothing to me.’

‘But his work is so different from yours.’

‘I know. But this isn’t like his work, somehow. You don’t get that impact of Conrad’s mind … his intellect.…’

‘I’m most anxious to hear what Alan says.’

‘Oh? He’s coming, is he?’

‘Yes. He’s looking in for a drink on his way back to Bristol. He’s been over at Ilfracombe, about a job there.’

So that was the trouble. She did not want absolutely to commit herself until Wetherby had given judgment.

‘He’ll crab it,’ prophesied Don.

‘Why should he?’

‘He invariably crabs Conrad. You must have noticed that. He won’t want a Swann in his pavilion. He’ll be furious.’

‘I shan’t tell him about that. I shall let him think I mean to buy it myself, and ask his honest opinion.’

‘His honest opinion! When has he ever praised anybody?’

The door bell rang.

‘There he is,’ she said. ‘Mix the Martinis, will you?’

She rose and wandered about the room, examining the Apollo from various angles, her small ferret’s head a little on one side. They heard Ahmed, their houseman, going to the door. Presently Wetherby appeared. He could not have failed to see the Apollo as soon as he got into the room, but he took no notice of it. He advanced upon them, rubbing his hands, and exclaimed in solemn tones:

‘Have you heard the news?’

‘No?’ cried Martha, looking startled.

‘East Head,’ he told them, ‘is to have a new public convenience.’

They smiled uneasily.

‘On the parade, beside the car park. It’s to be a most striking affair. Your friend the Mayor has got the contracts, and if you’ll take a tip from me you’ll keep an eye on his estimates or he’ll do you down. I’ve worked with him. But what a town you are! Always on the move. Always up to something. Thanks, Don.’

He sipped his Martini and stared blandly round the room, at everything except the Apollo.

‘I thought you’d had news of Conrad,’ said Martha.

‘News of Conrad? Why should I? Hasn’t he turned up yet?’

‘No. We’ve no idea where he is.’

‘Ah well!
Never
question
a
man
too
closely
when
he
tells
you
he
must
go.
Martha, you’re a cultivated woman, but I bet you sixpence you don’t know who wrote that. Do you?’

‘No.’

‘I knew you didn’t. Ella Wheeler Wilcox! Wonderful woman. Said what nobody else dares say. It wouldn’t be a bad inscription to put up over your new amenity. Well, Don? Very busy?’

‘No,’ said Don, wondering, not for the first time, why anybody ever let Wetherby into the house.

Martha could no longer control her impatience.

‘Alan,’ she said, with a gesture at the dais, ‘I want you to look at this.’

He gave a dramatic start, went up to it, examined it carefully, and commented:

‘Very fetching. But what is it, exactly?’

‘Conrad’s Apollo.’

‘
What?
’

Sheer amazement, for an instant, ruffled his
composure
.

‘You say … Swann … did this?’ he exclaimed.

‘Yes.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Quite sure. I’ve just brought it from Summersdown. It was in the shed, where he put it on Thursday.’

‘If you say so.… But what about Gressington?’

Don had been wondering how she would explain that, but she did not seem to find the question embarrassing.

‘It’s not going,’ she said, ‘unless Conrad comes back and insists on sending it. In his absence, we’ve decided not to.’

‘No? Really? Why?’

‘Some rather disquieting information has come to my ears … I had a talk today with Mr. Archer … you know whom I mean?’

‘I should say I do, considering what he did to us on Sunday night. It’s my opinion he put vodka in that brew. Conrad’s dealer, isn’t he?’

‘Not at all,’ said Martha crossly. ‘He doesn’t handle Conrad’s affairs any more. But he dropped a few hints about Gressington. Of course he knows all the people there. He didn’t exactly say so, but I gather the prize is a foregone conclusion. All this business of an open competition is mere publicity. So, if there is no chance that Conrad could win the prize, I don’t think he should consent merely to be exhibited along with all the other entries. A good deal of second-rate work will probably be sent in; a lot of headaches for the adjudicators, as Mr. Archer put it. Since I’m in charge of Conrad’s concerns I think I shan’t send this in. I wouldn’t have urged him to compete if I’d known as much as I do now about Gressington.’

Wetherby nodded. He might be swallowing all this. He might not. His accustomed sly inscrutability had returned to him.

‘So now tell me frankly,’ she finished. ‘What do you think of it?’

‘I?’ He looked startled. ‘Oh … I’m only an engineer, though I call myself an architect. What I think can’t matter.’

‘Of course it matters. I … I rather thought it might look well in this room. But I’m not quite sure … you don’t get the … the impact of Conrad’s intellect … do you?’

Wetherby had a sudden attack of coughing.

‘Personally,’ began Don, ‘I …’

Martha silenced him with a peremptory look. They watched Wetherby, who was again scrutinising the Apollo. He went up to it, pulled it unceremoniously towards him, and ran a finger along one of its spikes. Then he turned and gave judgment:

‘I didn’t know he had it in him.’

‘You like it?’ cried Martha.

‘A terrific power went to the making of it. You must buy it, Martha. You really must. Just what this room needs! And if you give a penny less than two hundred pounds for it you’ll be doing poor old Conrad dirt.’

‘You do think it’s wonderful?’ she urged.

‘I’m stunned. It’s a miracle. I can’t think how he did it. I’ve never encouraged you to buy anything before, have I? But I do now. Thanks, Don!’

Wetherby took his second cocktail and grinned at them.

‘Exactly what I think,’ said Martha, in great
satisfaction
.

‘And Don? What does Don think?’

‘Oh, he’s a little bit frightened of it, aren’t you, Don?’

‘He’d better get over that, hadn’t he?’

Don put down a bottle hastily. He had nearly thrown it at Wetherby’s head.

‘It so defiantly gets away from the grocer’s idea of Apollo,’ suggested Martha.

‘Which grocer?’ asked Wetherby.

‘Oh … you know! Clive Bell’s grocer.’

‘I know nothing about Clive Bell’s grocer. Why should I? My grocer lives in Bristol, but I don’t expect anybody knows about him.’

‘Oh, Alan, don’t be tiresome. You know perfectly well what I mean. “Art and what the grocer thinks he sees are two quite different things.”’

‘I never met a grocer who thought he’d seen Apollo.’

‘All grocerdom will shriek at this, thank goodness.’