‘I am so weary of my world.’
‘You could grow just as tired of this one, Thea.’
The Dowager had noticed the hand. George quickly explained that mamma never approved of anyone changing sides.
‘Do have some more autumn raspberries, Thea,’ Humphrey invited, also coming to the rescue.
‘May I? And what is this wonderful stuff you eat with them?’
‘Just something we eat.’
‘Humphrey, you know I’m over all that.’
‘Well then, it’s cream.’
‘No, it isn’t. We eat cream too. My father had his specially made up for him.’
‘But this is real cream. It comes out of cows.’
‘How horrible!’ Thea exclaimed, dropping her spoon.
‘I knew you’d say that.’
He tried to take away her plate, but she stuck to it.
‘No, Humphrey. I have to remember there is beauty in taste.’
‘Miss Pretorius, you do not have to,’ Guelph asserted. ‘At this over-fruitful time of year I’d sometimes like to be a Euro-African and take a sandwich on the run.’
‘But what my palate likes, Guelph, my mind doesn’t. It’s absurd that I should love the taste of your hare that’s been hung for two months and not have the courage to look at it.’
‘Two weeks, not months,’ the Dowager corrected her. ‘And in a cool place.’
‘Well, whatever it is. And you are not to tell me what I am eating, Humphrey, until I have already raved about it.’
‘So long as it isn’t just bravado.’
The Dowager mentioned that in her experience bravado was the only reason why a sensible woman made a fool of herself.
Thea boldly met her eyes across the table.
‘It may be why she begins.’
‘Really, women are incredible,’ Humphrey said. ‘And all because I once brushed some maggots off a hare!’
Thea was about to turn on him, but realised just in time that he was well trained in pretending stupidity.
Occupied by the wisp of strain which blew across the table, they had not been listening to the forest. Guelph got up, his head bent to catch some distant sound. This time the message was clear.
‘Black Rod! Black Ro-o-o-od! A stranger coming up the western path!’
‘A stranger? We haven’t issued any permits recently, have we, George?’
‘It must be Pezulu’s secret agent again, pretending to be an Inspector of Missions. Guelph, do you want to go to the mainland for a course in Higher Thought and take a sandwich on the run?’
‘Not him, George. He won’t be back ever.’
‘Why not? He thought you’d seen the light.’
‘That old bull in Brentford marshes had better be shot.’
‘Oh no! He’s rather a friend of mine and no worse than his herd. Those wild cattle only kill for fun.’
‘I did tell the Inspector that he shouldn’t camp by the river,’ Humphrey confessed. ‘But perhaps I wasn’t convincing enough.’
A figure came staggering into the light of the braziers. His clothing was ripped by thorns and the tattered strips torn down by himself to tie the soles of his shoes to his bloodstained feet. The unshaven bristles on his face poked through a coating of mud. He stopped by Humphrey, tried to stand upright but swayed with fatigue.
‘Are you … Middlesex?’ he asked.
‘I am. Are you aware, sir, that this is a radioactive prohibited area?’
‘They say so.’
‘You have come here alone and on foot?’
‘I have.’
‘Where from?’
‘Avebury. I escaped.’
‘Into the forest? You? A welfare unit? How did you find your way?’
‘Compass.’
‘How long did it take you?’
‘Six days, I think. I may have lost count.’
‘And it’s me you have come to see? What’s your name?’
‘Alfred Brown.’
‘And what’s your crime? That unpardonable nationalism, I suppose.’
‘His daughter shot at my father and he provided the arms,’ Thea said coldly.
Alfred Brown had had only eyes for Middlesex. For the first time, he looked at the company, recognised Thea and hung on to the table to prevent himself collapsing.
‘It isn’t true,’ he cried. ‘Oh God, what was the use of coming here?’
‘I am quite sure it isn’t true, Mr Brown,’ the Dowager declared. ‘Can’t see much of your face under all that slime, but you don’t look to me like the kind of chap who’d give the job to your daughter. Do it yourself, you would! Humphrey, never mind the politics! He’s our guest. Guelph, tell ’em to bring the joint back. George, he’s bleeding all over the place. Clean him up!’
George replied that gin was better than cold water, grabbed the bottle and knelt at his patient’s feet.
‘All right, son!’ he said as Brown’s yell startled the forest. ‘Dislocated toe that was. It won’t give you any more trouble after a good night’s rest.’
‘I’ve no time. They’ve got me now.’
‘Imagination, Mr Brown. Police are not allowed here without my permission,’ Humphrey told him.
‘I’ve heard things talking to me that probably weren’t there, sir, but I’m warning you straight. I’ve got the Corrector on my tail.’
‘Who the devil is he?’
‘It. It’s an it. They dropped it when they knew I must be in the forest. But it can’t see very well what’s under the trees.’
Guelph arrived with the remains of a sucking pig on its silver skewer and laid it before Brown with bread and wine.
‘Thank you, madam. Thank you, sir. But it’s time for talking that I want. I don’t know if you’re a father.’
‘No, nor do I,’ Humphrey replied.
As severely as was possible with his mouth full, Mr Brown explained that he was not referring to native customs whatever they might be.
‘I’d like just to sit and eat. But I’ve come to you for help, whether it’s your kind of manners or not.’
‘Go ahead, Mr Brown! So it’s as a father you think I could help, is it?’
‘Aye, you see, Silvia is all what Mrs Brown has got left. That’s what broke me up when they put me inside. There’s nothing I can do to make my people see sense, I said, so I’m free to think of myself and that meant Silvia and the missus. They don’t expect you to try to escape, you know, because there’s nowhere you can escape to. They’ll never guess that one of us immigrants would tackle the bush alone, I thought, so I’ll get a week’s start on Pezulu Pasha. And here I am, and I ask you on my bended knees, sir, do something for my Silvia! You could rescue her and hide her here. She’s a lovely girl, good as gold when it ain’t politics.’
Thea assured him promptly that Pezulu would find her very quickly.
‘Not if you said nothing, Miss Pretorius.’
‘I cannot be irresponsible, Mr Brown.’
‘I don’t know what you think, Humphrey,’ said the Dowager, ‘but so far as I go I’d be glad to offer hospitality to any pure, young immigrant girl who is in trouble. She could have grandfather’s old room.’
‘Of course, mamma. But if Avebury could do nothing, what chance have I?’
‘Protest! Work up your tribe and threaten!’ Alfred Brown urged him.
‘But they are my sons and daughters. Not in fact, but I’m responsible for them. And working them up, as you call it, seems to me a kind of murder of their souls.’
The whine of a little jet engine grew rapidly louder as some machine flew up the avenue. Alfred Brown stood up, dignified in spite of terror and his wounded foot.
‘I told you. It’s the Corrector. Thank you, Middlesex. We didn’t see eye to eye, and never will, but thank you for your kindness. I … I’ll try to behave decently.’
‘Sit and eat Mr Brown! You’re my guest. What’s that thing doing, Thea, with all those dots and dashes and peeps?’
‘Reporting its exact pos
ition, I think.’
‘How does it know old Brown from me?’
‘It’s tuned to him. They’d have taken his personal wavelength at the same time as his fingerprints.’
The Corrector cleared the trees and began to circle Alfred Brown, starting up its numbingly monotonous chants:
‘Stay where you are, Alfred … Stay where you are … It’s no good, Alfred … it’s no good.’
It looked detestably alive – short, black, about the size of an eagle, with compound insect eyes in front and quivering antennae on its back. The terrified Dowager threw a plate at it which astonishingly scored a direct hit and shattered.
‘An intolerable intrusion,’ she bawled. ‘I shall speak to Pezulu about it.’
‘Underground? Will that fix it?’ George suggested. ‘Stays? Stays over the spot? Well then, into the house and out again. Thing follows and gets caught between the doors.’
Alfred Brown whispered unsteadily as if the thing could hear:
‘When it cannot get out it bores.’
‘Laser, I suppose,’ Humphrey said. ‘Catching up fast with the Age of Destruction, aren’t you? How close to the victim does it stay?’
‘Close. Very close in front of his face wherever he turns.’
‘What else does it do?’
‘Nothing. It don’t have to. You have the screaming jerks when it …’
The Corrector homed in on him and remained motionless on station.
‘Stay where you are, Alfred … stay where you are … it’s no good, Alfred … it’s no good … none of that, Alfred.’
‘Too simple for city life. They’ll never think of it. Brown, stand with your face a yard from the brazier flame! Guelph, get me the forge bellows!’
He handed Brown the silver cover of the great dish which had held the sucking pig.
‘Use that for a shield and stand so that the Corrector is over the flame. And here’s a fox-skin for your hand,’ he added, ripping the cover off a chair, ‘in case the handle gets too hot.’
Himself he crouched at the foot of the brazier and as soon as Guelph returned began to bellow with powerful puffs until the brazier glowed white. The Corrector hovered directly above and, evidently programmed to maintain its position, continued to hypnotise its prey.
‘Stay where you are, Alfred … it’s no good, Alfred … None of that, Alfred.’
One of its antennae, reaching out to register the accuracy of its distance, drooped. Something popped with a slight spark and a lens fell out of the compound eye.
‘None of that, Alfred … it’s no good, Alfred … good Alfred … good Alfred … good Alfred.’
‘Nice, kind Alfred,’ Humphrey mocked. ‘But it’s too late for apologies now, baby beetle! Does anybody know if it’s likely to blow up?’
The Corrector began to scream. Under the circumstances the effect was harrowing, though the sound was familiar enough to any listener in Avebury trying to tune in to a remote station in the wilds of another Federation. Humphrey kept on bellowing. Thea and the Dowager shouted at him to get away from the thing. Guelph threw a coil of rope over its tail and walking backwards dragged it off and smashed it into the trunk of an oak.
Alfred Brown limped back to the table and tore in to more food.
‘Got to have them things, all the same,’ he said. ‘You couldn’t ask a policeman to go on searching this country day after day.’
‘Why not? You did.’
‘Because I had to. We aren’t all like you, Mr Middlesex.’
‘Well, you see, in order that my people may live I have to be sure who or what should die.’
‘Aye. It’s a shame we have nothing in common.’
‘It does not matter at all that we have nothing in common when we’re all in the same boat, Mr Brown,’ the Dowager said.
‘Does anybody know what mamma means?’ George asked cheerfully.
‘She means Britain,’ Thea replied.
‘Nonsense, girl! The immigrants know nothing about Britain. Guelph, give Mr Brown a hand to grandfather’s room when he’s finished.’
‘I think we’d better put him away under a good thickness of earth,’ Humphrey said.
The Dowager and Thea looked at one another with sudden uneasiness. Alfred Brown, weary of his own body, was resigned.
‘I can’t argue about that. You have your own people to look after like you just said, and I thought it might happen. If you’d be kind enough to let Mrs Brown know, and then she won’t keep worrying that I might be alive.’
Humphrey sat down by him and patted his shoulder.
‘Alfred, I am shocked to find how much more sinister I seem to you than I really am. It’s interesting too. I must give it some serious thought. George, shove Alfred on your stretcher and drive him at once to … Guelph, what’s old Giles’ name for that bit of rough stuff where his cows will go to calve?’
‘He calls it Golder’s Green, but my aunt says it’s Kilburn.’
‘That’s the place. And then get underground through the passage to the southeast.’
‘We can’t work our way through to West End any more,’ George said. ‘The spring tides fixed Leicester Square a couple of years ago.’
‘Then just put the thickness of the Hampstead Hills between Alfred and the next Corrector. You needn’t bother to go further.’
‘It’s a nasty place for him – those echoes, I mean.’
‘He can take them in his stride. It’s only the dead past that wants to see what you’re up to.’
‘Morning and evening are the worst.’
‘What sort of echoes?’ Thea asked. ‘What do you imagine they say?’
‘Nothing that I could ever make sense of. They flow like a mountain stream. Always in a hurry.’
The Dowager said goodnight, receiving a curtsy from Thea so graceful that it was hard to go on thinking of her as a flirtatious little scientist from the preposterous world of Federations. Guelph tactfully followed her, leaving Thea and Humphrey alone.
‘You frightened us all,’ she said.
‘Surely not you?’
‘For a moment, yes. Don’t ever think you have nothing in common with the immigrants. You once told me you were the roots. Another tree could grow out of them. And then you spoke of moonlight on a stream that you would show me so that I could understand your other world.’
‘Yes, the moon is full. I will show you as soon as my mother and my world know that you are in bed. Then come out quietly and we will go together to my church.’
She blew him a kiss and vanished into the house. What curious old-fashioned customs! There was no reason why host and guest should not walk together in the moonlight. Duty, perhaps. She had forgotten duty. She was the High Commissioner’s daughter and, from the Dowager’s point of view, a princess entrusted to her care by a prince. Charming! As if she was twelve years old. And probably the old girl wouldn’t give a damn if Humphrey chose to be followed about by half a dozen little farmyard virgins as lovely as saplings and as dull.
And what about this church of his? An ancient tribe living by tradition might still go in for some solemnisation instead of the simple Federal formality of applying for a licence to bear children. Would she mind if it did? These people found the Federation comic in its unreality, while even brave and solid citizens like that Alfred Brown found the forest equally comic in its barbarism. On whose side was she? Did it matter? Her Humphrey must always have a foot in both.
Well, now that the house was quiet, what about the Dowager’s princess climbing over the wall from school? Emerald and gold were all wrong for moonlight and running water. Some ingenuity was called for. She had chosen for that otherwise austere pack – why, Thea? – a long oriental nightdress of heavy white silk. With the silver squirrel cape which he had thrown over her shoulders and a wide silver belt, it was not too revealing. She looked in her mirror and let free her long hair. The moon in a black sky. Not bad. Ethnology permitted itself the ghost of a blush.
Standing unseen amon
g his fellow trees, still and expectant as one of them, Humphrey watched her return to the courtyard. Divinely lovely she was. The word was no mere expression of exaggerated praise but sprang from the depths of his priestless religion. On her first visit he had deified Thea. She was a lunar goddess made visible to the believer: at night silver, in the day tawny as the low harvest moon. Such reverence for beauty was, he thought, like a tunnel of flowering branches which he had entered rarely, but often enough to recognise that the circle of sky at the far end grew larger and larger until the seeker was out to freedom. On this second visit he had learned that there could never be freedom. He had too much to give, like that stallion in George’s story of the Age of Destruction which sired and died, the sole link between the past and a faint future.
He came out of the trees to meet her and bent to kiss her hand.
‘Why so sad?’ she asked.
It was no time for mystic visions of moon goddesses and stallions. He reminded himself promptly of the more mundane links between himself and Pretorius, himself and that brave and ridiculous Alfred Brown.
‘Not sad. Solemn. I was worshipping.’
‘Is the church you promised to show me here?’
‘No, but there is a church for me wherever you are.’
He led her to the point where the avenue ended, seemingly at a blank wall of growth, and then along a path twisting through dwarf woodland so that its course a few yards ahead was always invisible. They came out onto a slope of short grass, beneath which was an oval pool mirroring the moon. A shallow stream entered and left it mysteriously under hanging branches of hazel, rippling into the depths of fine pebbles that showed as sparks of light.
‘Sit down by me and you will feel my country.’
Thea did, oddly apprehensive. Yet it was a place which the casual wanderer, if he could ever have discovered it, would have passed with no more than a glance. There was nothing spectacular to be seen – no mountain peak, no waterfall, none of the commanding colours of the desert – only stillness. For the first time she understood the religion of these people: that in all beauty there was an element of fear – worship he called it – and in all fear an element of beauty.
‘I can imagine a guardian spirit,’ she said.
‘Of course.’
Arrows of Desire Page 7