by Brian Aldiss
‘So you’re not staying here long, Noyes?’ Picket said, after they had conversed on general subjects for a while.
‘No,’ Soames said, then, ‘at least, I don’t think so.’
Father and daughter looked sharply at him.
‘I mean,’ he explained, ‘I shall leave in a fortnight if the Apostle is working satisfactorily, and if a plane then arrives to fetch me.’ It seemed silly to want to mention Dumayami’s prediction that he might never leave Africa at all.
‘Yours must be a pretty good job, Noyes,’ Picket commented, blowing covertly on his tea.
‘This is my most interesting assignment to date,’ said Soames, addressing his remark partly to Grace, whose eyelids fluttered once to acknowledge a compliment Soames had not intended.
‘I meant in terms of £. s. d.’ Picket said, staring moodily down at the patch of dry rot by his feet.
‘Grace has never had anything to do with the young Portuguese fellows, Mr Noyes,’ Mrs Picket suddenly observed, so surprising Soames that he could think of nothing to say. He need not have worried, for Mrs Picket, perhaps trying to mitigate the irrelevance of the remark, added, ‘The Portuguese have dances every Saturday night and goodness knows what goes on there. They let the blacks in, too.’
‘Twists and bossa novas,’ said Grace, with idle envy. Silence fell with the boring completeness of bolsters dropping.
Soames, finishing his tea, suggested he should be going. Despite the usual protestations, he stuck to his point, promising he would visit them again.
‘You could take me to the Portuguese dance if you felt like it,’ Grace suggested.
‘Yes, I shouldn’t mind her going if you were there, Noyes,’ Picket flattered immediately, patting his guest on the shoulder. ‘Why not do that? You’d make a good pair. And don’t heed anything you hear about any of us at the palace. Always remember, we’re British and they’re not.’
That at least was one religion the old man had never lost faith in, Soames thought. Yet Picket was only being logical: if he would not believe all men to be brothers under the skin, he had at least had the honesty to reject a religion which preached universal brotherhood.
The sky was dark overhead. As Soames moved down on to the verandah steps, the first drops of rain started to fall. He retreated; in a minute, a deluge of water fell like a curtain before them, hammering down on the earth in a fury of noise, turning the ground into a lake. They stared out at this inundation with Anglo-Saxon stoicism. Out of this solid yellow downpour, seeking shelter, came the native girl Pawli. She glistened with water, the rain bounded off her bare shoulders, her hair streamed, her long skirt clung about her legs. She took one quick glance at Soames from under lowered forehead, reminding him of a wild thing, something infra-human, not quite beast. As she jostled mannerlessly past them, one of her large nipples touched Soames’ arm. Then she was gone into the house, leaving a wet trail behind her and Soames staring at a damp patch below his elbow.
‘Have another cup of tea, Mr Noyes?’ invited Mrs Picket faintly.
‘I really ought to be going …’
‘Can’t go in this confounded torrent,’ Picket said.
‘I’ll drive you in the convertible,’ Grace said. ‘It’s ours till sundown. Come on, we’ll have to make a dash for it!’
Again father and daughter exchanged glances, then Grace was bursting across the open space, now no less than a muddy pond, to the car. Soames could see monsoon capes hanging on a peg in the hall of the bungalow, but since he obviously was not going to be offered one, there was nothing for it but to utter a hasty goodbye to his host and hostess and run after Grace.
They tumbled into the front seats of the vehicle together, laughing breathlessly for no reason and wiping the rain out of their eyes. Soames, pretending not to notice, noticed how tightly the blue and white dress now clung to Grace’s thighs. The beads of rain on her face gave her a sparkle she had not possessed before.
‘Of course, we’re quite crazy!’ Grace exclaimed, laughing again somewhat artificially.
Soames, humbly conscious of his own tedious sanity, did not reply. She started the engine and they slithered cautiously forward through the brown sea. The uproar on the roof was so colossal that it was a marvel how they could tell that an awkward silence had fallen between them.
They began to bump slowly downhill. The track had become a river of gurgling grit. When they reached the first line of rhododendrons, the wheel on Soames’ side dropped abruptly, the engine roared, progress ceased.
‘We’ve hit a pothole,’ Grace said contentedly, cutting off the engine. She had slid somewhat towards Soames. ‘We’ll have to wait till the rain has stopped; there’s nothing else for it.’
‘I’ll get out and push,’ volunteered Soames, without eagerness.
‘It will do no good. Half a dozen locals will be needed to push us out. I remember this particular pothole now, and it is extremely deep. I should have been more careful. I hope you’re not too vexed with me?’
Soames laughed angrily. ‘Not much good being vexed, is it?’ he said, looking at her squarely. She bit her lip and laughed nervously back, the doggy planes of her face standing out appealingly. Suddenly, she struck the steering wheel with her fist, turning her head away from Soames.
‘You somehow damn well know I drove into that pothole on purpose, don’t you?!’ she exclaimed, fierce tears in her eyes. ‘Oh, my God, why aren’t you a fool? I’m no good at pretending. I’m sorry, I’ve mismanaged the whole stunt very badly. You’ll just have to put up with this now until the rain stops. It won’t go on for long … I could scream!’
‘I wasn’t objecting,’ Soames said.
‘But you guessed, didn’t you? You knew I drove into that hole on purpose?’
‘All right, Grace, you’ve said you’re sorry. Now relax,’ Soames advised, eager to avoid a scene.
‘I’ve not said I’m sorry! I was going to say it, but now I don’t know. I can’t understand you …’
‘Naturally. You never met my parents.’
She sat in frustrated silence, balanced on an invisible knife edge, biting her lower lip, prepared to be pushed in any direction by one word from Soames. Soames said nothing.
‘You’re angry with me, aren’t you?’ she asked him finally.
‘No,’ Soames said angrily. ‘Not at all.’
‘Oh, stop being so negative, man!’ she exclaimed. ‘Put your arm round me, I’m wet and cold.’
‘Cold in this heat?’ enquired Soames sarcastically, but he did as he was bid and felt her soften against him, hardening his heart to a corresponding degree. He was perfectly well aware that to the Pickets he must represent both a potential husband and a free passage to England for Grace. His sympathy for her predicament as he saw it did not extend as far as that; nor did he intend to do anything now which would commit him later. This determination to act according to a cool appraisal of the facts was far from pleasing to Soames, who was not at heart a calculating man. Moreover, his blood and his head saw differently in the matter.
‘You’re trembling,’ Grace said.
‘Fever coming on.’
Silence.
‘Listen to the rain,’ she said dreamily, when they had been doing nothing else for five minutes. ‘I’ve heard it rain like that for years and years and years. I lie on my bed and listen to it. It’s surprising how much of it you can put up with … I don’t let myself get neurotic or anything, I just listen, and wonder how much of my life washes away in the rain. Sometimes I think listening to the rain is like bleeding to death … That’s a funny thing to say to a stranger, I suppose, but I just thought you’d be – well, interested. Or perhaps what I say is too trite? Perhaps whatever I say is trite. You don’t know what it’s like, Mr Noyes, to be born in a dump like Umbalathorp and have to live all your life here. It means you don’t know what you are or anything.’
‘Your father told me you were born in Kent,’ Soames said, putting reproach into his voice to hide the ins
idious tug of sympathy he was feeling. How would Mother have coped with this situation, he wondered?
‘Father lied,’ Grace said harshly. ‘Mother was pregnant when they got here. I’ve never even seen the sea. He’s always lying – it’s one of his few capabilities.’
‘It must be very trying for you,’ Soames said, marvelling as he did so at the lameness of the remark.
‘Very trying indeed! Are all the English as formal as you, Mr Noyes? I don’t want to be rude, but haven’t you got any feelings? Do you ever care about anything?’
‘For heaven’s sake,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m sorry about all this, but can’t we just leave the usual social barriers up between us without trying to batter them down? You’ll feel so silly about what you are saying afterwards.’
‘Oh, perhaps I will, and I’ll tell you something else that’ll make me even sorrier directly I’ve said it. Father and I had a little plan all cooked up to get you involved with me, never mind why. Well, I should like you to know that I wouldn’t get involved with you if you were the last man on earth.’
‘Absolutely excellent!’ said Soames angrily. ‘In that case, please get your hand off my shoulder. You’re pawing me worse than your father did!’
The fight went out of Grace. She collapsed limply into his arms, sobbing loudly. In the confined space in the front of the convertible, no hope existed of avoiding the duties of comforter. Indeed, it was not an unpleasant duty, as duties go. Gradually, under Soames’ soothing, Grace quietened, nestling against him. It felt unexpectedly homely to have her there. The rain drummed down like war drums. When her lips came up to his mouth, they were as soft and hot as lips usually are. Her mouth was half open, her eyes closed. One of her arms went round his neck. With some surprise, Soames realised that his hand had reached the top of her leg unaided by anything but instinct. Grace opened her eyes as she felt him draw back from her.
‘Not here, Grace,’ he said, remembering his resolution. ‘This is impossible here. Someone may come by.’
‘Nonsense,’ she said urgently. She tried to pull his head down to her face again; when he resisted, fear welled into her eyes like a spasm of pain; it happened so close to him, his attention was so closely focused on her countenance, that Soames also felt its hurt, though without correctly divining its source. He was aware, for a second, of Grace as a person, with importance, life and sensibilities in every way commensurate with his own – then the uncomfortable vision was gone.
‘Please – now!’ she begged, almost inarticulately.
‘I can’t,’ Soames said, feeling a reasonless fright. ‘I can’t, Grace; I …’ But he could think of no sort of reason she could possibly accept.
‘This may be my last chance,’ she said. ‘Look, it’s not the sort of thing a woman likes to have to ask … Oh God, oh hell … please – what’s your first name?’
‘Soames. It was my mother’s idea.’
‘Please, Soames, for my sake. It’s an awful thing to ask, but please do it to me, now, now. Another time … No, it must be now. I’m not ugly. I’m not trite. Inside me, it’s – there’s a great thing, Soames, to be expressed. I can’t tell you, but it’s vitally important. Will you believe this?’
‘I can’t!’ Soames exclaimed, struggling with her. ‘Heavens, surely you can understand. It’s not just something you do –’
‘Don’t say that! Listen, this isn’t any sort of a trap, I swear; it’s got nothing to do with Father’s plan, and I swear I’ll not hold you to it after or anything. All I’m asking –’ She was working herself up into a frenzy now, talking wildly, trying to undo the white buttons at the shoulders of her dress until he seized her fingers.
‘No! No, I tell you!’ Soames exclaimed frantically. ‘Cool down, Grace, will you? If you feel like that, why be so superior about the Portuguese? I’m not going to touch you.’
‘You would have done if I hadn’t wanted you to,’ she said, half to herself. Again he had that disconcerting glimpse of her as a person.
‘I’m sorry –’ he began, then checked himself; he was not sorry.
The heat had left Grace, or she knew herself defeated; she drew back from him, sprawling awkwardly across the steering wheel.
‘I thought perhaps they’d told you about me at the palace,’ she muttered, ‘but I see by what you say they haven’t. I’m not repulsive, am I, Soames? You’re normal, aren’t you? Then I’m asking you still, please to take me. Just occasionally there is something vital one human can do for another; this is that sort of time. Some vital, imperative thing … Just once in your lifetime.’
‘You make me sick,’ Soames replied sulkily.
‘Yes … I suppose I do,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Oh, I feel like filth asking you. You make me feel like filth. You’re –’
She didn’t finish the sentence; instead, she flung open the car door and jumped into the rain.
‘You filthy, smug, English swine!’ she yelled. ‘You’re indecent!’ Then, turning her distorted face away, she began to run back up the hill through the pouring rain. Instinctively, fearing her to be crazy, Soames jumped into the flood after her. He caught a glimpse of her flashing legs before he slipped and fell flat in the mud swilling round the car. When he picked himself up, he was drenched and Grace was gone.
His insides felt as if they had been churned with a stick. Without another thought for the convertible, leaving its doors swinging open, Soames started off at a jog-trot down the rude road in the direction of the town.
He arrived at the palace over an hour later. Although the rain still beat down, Soames hardly noticed it; nor did he give a thought to his bedraggled appearance. His mind gyrated like a labouring cement-mixer around the grey sludge disturbed by his brush with Grace. Never before had he been so conscious of his own inadequacies; his mishandling of the episode had been positively monumental. Of course she was a neurotic, but that in no way softened the beastly impact of the scene.
Trotting blindly up the stairs, he almost knocked Princess Cherry over. She jumped back with a little shriek.
‘You get wet with rain, Mr Soames,’ she exclaimed. ‘I send up two handmaids for drying you, quickly at once.’
‘No thanks,’ Soames said, ‘I’ll dry myself. But do me a favour, Princess – come up to my room and talk to me.’
‘I not dry you?’
‘Indeed not. I must just talk to you.’
‘Talk about autumn and John Keats? Not do any other thing?’ she asked saucily, following him up the stairs and along the corridor to his bedroom.
‘I want to ask you something, Princess. Nothing else.’
He pulled his wet things off and flung them distastefully on to the floor, while the black princess turned her back, covered her eyes and stood on tiptoe, possibly in embarrassment. When he had a couple of towels round him, he said, ‘You can look now, Princess. I want to ask you about the Pickets. Nobody tells me anything about them. The Picket girl – Grace. What’s the matter with her, what’s happened to her?’
The princess had stiffened at the name of Picket. She pouted and walked about the room.
‘Better for you to talk about autumn with me than this,’ she protested. ‘Pickets do bad things. Once in the years gone they have a small school for teaching English; I go there, and several other boys and girls go. Pretty soon, many complaints arise; my father, he close down the school. Pickets are not a good lot. Miss Grace – I do not know how to say this remark before you or you think me coarse girl – Miss Grace keep servant girls from slums, many of them, now have one called Pawli.’
‘I saw her,’ Soames said, remembering the feral eyes in the rain and the strong, bare shoulders. ‘Go on, Princess.’
‘Miss Grace go to bed with this bad Pawli. It is bad deed in Goya to be what you call a Greek girl, Lesbian. Make people very shameful, like me to have to tell you.’
Back to Soames, like a boomerang returning right in the eye, came the meaning of Grace’s plea, ‘just occasionally there is something vita
l one human can do for another’; she had been trying to break back into the world of ordinary desires.
Coitala called at Soames’ room that night; he repulsed her with such harshness that she never came again.
Only a quarter hour after the girl had gone, while Soames stood moodily watching a gecko chase its own shadow, Timpleton broke into his room looking wild and dishevelled.
‘Boy, I’ve had an evening on the town!’ he said. ‘You should have been with me!’
Soames turned as the smell of strong spirits hit him.
‘Ted, I’ve no wish to hear how the cockroaches crawled over your arse,’ he said. ‘Save that sort of local colour for when you get back home.’
Timpleton, steadying himself at the doorpost, surveyed his compatriot and said, ‘You’re not very interested in women, are you?’
‘On the contrary. Today I have undergone an American Massage and have nearly been seduced by a lesbian. This climate is having a peculiar effect on me. I feel, to be candid, like a man slowly coming to face his destiny, and a man doing that hardly wishes to hear about cockroaches crawling over another man’s bottom. No offence, of course.’
Dazedly, Timpleton shook his head.
‘No offence, of course. I’m glad to hear you’ve been having a bit of fun.’
He left Soames to his unprecedented meditations.
PART TWO
Darker
Chapter Eight
‘Conspiring with him …’
The way the opposed forces of piety and wickedness have of intertwining together like lovers has been remarked since the earliest times; good and bad, beauty and horror, comedy and tragedy – they walk hand-in-glove down the ages like the figures of an old morality. Only in our psychological epoch, with its emphasis on behaviourism, has this duality been forgotten, superseded by the dangerous theory that no motives are entirely black or white; we are left with the grey uniformity of compulsion, when frequently the old notion of human nature as a chequer board of black and white provides a far better key towards the understanding of our fellows – as far as a fellow may be said to be understandable at all.