by Mary Renault
“It wasn’t meant to be so funny. Quite a lot of people have started in Ouds and got to the West End. Why not you?”
“Why not indeed?” He had recovered an almost convincing flippancy. “When I open at His Majesty’s, I’ll send you stalls.”
“I’ll hold you to that. I shall keep this, and give it you then. Don’t laugh, I mean it.”
“I’ve got to laugh. But it isn’t rudely meant.” He added, under his breath, “Early successes. Great God.”
She had been watching his face, and, before she could prevent herself, said with the defensive impersonality which had become a habit with her, “Things stop mattering. I promise you they do.”
“I don’t quite see what you mean.”
His face had frozen. She regretted her folly; but the conversation had to be rescued. “Oh, I mean any of the contretemps that loom at the time. For instance—” She related a story against herself, about an indispensable object she had dropped on the theater floor on the first occasion when she had assisted Sanderson. It was true that she had minded a good deal. The operation had had to be held up for five minutes while it was re-sterilized; and she had been the first woman ever to be taken on Sanderson’s firm. “I couldn’t get myself inside the theater for a week afterward, even to look on. I imagined everyone talking about it. Then months later, when I knew him better, I mentioned it to him by way of a joke, and he didn’t even remember. People don’t; they’ve enough troubles of their own.”
He said, slowly, “It was nice of you to tell me that. You don’t really want this thing, do you? You’re welcome. Only stick it away somewhere, if you don’t mind.”
She went over to her desk, and put it in a drawer. “About this skeleton; if you can’t get one, would a skull be any help”? Now I think of it, I have got one of those.”
“No, do you mean it? But that’s terrific. I can suggest the body perfectly well, under some sort of rags. And the hands, threaded cane would make those …” He was well away at once, as if nothing had happened. Relieved, she would have looked out the skull for him then and there, but of this he would not hear. “Grubbing about in cold box rooms, when you’re not feeling good. The show isn’t for a fortnight. Mayn’t I come and collect it, some time next week? That is, if you don’t find me an intolerable nuisance, dodging in and out?” His doubt about this was evidently genuine. She reassured him, and to her own rather disgusted surprise (for she detested third-rate amateur acting) found herself telling him that she was looking forward to seeing the show. He looked doubtful.
“Well, I suppose I shouldn’t daunt you, charity and all that. But your time’s rather precious, it really doesn’t seem fair. It’s just a romp, you know. The most I hope to do is to get the lines heard and keep it moving. It’s a drafty hole, too.”
“I’d still like to come. What’s it called?”
“High Barbary. It’s piratical—hell’s bells and buckets of blood. Plenty of good type-casting parts, though. And the fellow who does Morgan has really got something. He’s the test pilot at the aircraft place. He’s half promised to take me up one day. Don’t mention that at home, though; you know how it is.”
“Don’t be crazy,” she said, with a warmth that surprised herself. “You’re not ready for that sort of thing. The internal strains are terrific. You couldn’t choose anything worse.”
“I thought you were all for me leading a normal life.”
So he did get it. “Do you call stunt flying normal?”
“I don’t know. The ordinary kind feels good. All right, if you think so. But it would have been something to look forward to.”
After he had gone, she found that it was this sentence, with it’s disturbing note of weary resignation, that stuck most in her mind.
Lisa stayed in London four days instead of two. She came back with an air of trying to be present but not wholly succeeding. But by next evening she was herself again—or, at all events, the self with which Hilary was familiar—and, coming to announce that dinner was ready, started, stared, and exclaimed, “My dear, what have you got there? Are you meditating on your latter end? I warn you, if Annie sees it you’ll have to be on the spot to render first aid.”
“I’m sorry.” Hilary followed her eyes and laughed. “I really ought to have put it away. Familiarity breeds contempt. I hope it didn’t give you a jolt.”
“Considering what the news has been like lately, I shouldn’t have thought you needed a memento mori.”
“I want it for a quite escapist purpose, really. It’s going to be a stage property in a play about pirates. I promised it to that Fleming lad.”
“Oh, he acts, does he? Well, I’m not surprised.”
“He does, I believe. But he’s only producing this time.”
“If he has the smallest spark of talent, I wonder what he’s doing here. He couldn’t need much, with that maiden’s prayer of a face. But I suppose even for that, one needs a certain amount of drive.”
It was not usual to find oneself making excuses for Lisa in order not to be annoyed. It was, indeed, so unreasonable that Hilary made herself particularly agreeable all through the ensuing meal. After it she explained that she was behind with her records, and spread them out ostentatiously in her sitting-room lest anyone, including herself, should doubt it.
He’ll probably forget to come, she thought when the clock’ struck eight-thirty; but a few minutes later she heard him being shown through.
“Are you busy?” he asked, looking at the daybook.
“No, I’ve finished now. It’s more comfortable doing it here than at the surgery.”
“Yes, I should think so. Have you been looking after yourself?”
Good heavens, she thought, has he got it into his head that I enjoy bad health. It serves me right. “I’m fit enough to push a house down. Look, there’s your skull.”
“My word, what a beauty.” He turned it over, lovingly. “Isn’t it clean?”
“We prefer them that way. I hope it’s realistic enough.”
“I should say so. I only mean it seems too good. All polished up, and the lid fitting so beautifully. To what base uses do we come, Horatio.”
“You can keep it, ready for that.”
“Hark at her, sweetie pie.” He addressed the skull, which returned a gap-toothed grin. “She thinks the milk isn’t wiped off our mouths yet.”
“Wouldn’t you like to do it?”
“I’ll tell you in ten years. You know”—he twirled the skull intimately between two fingers—“one knows simply everything about Hamlet at, say, nineteen. But everything—from the outside. It looks fine. Then one reads it again, after something’s happened, or something. And the outside has a little crack, if you see what I mean, through which you get a minute glimpse into the interior. Then you feel a bit of a fool, if you’ve any sense at all, and you put it in cold storage to take a look at when you’re thirty.”
He gave the last word so airy a remoteness that it might have been “fifty” with equal effect.
“I expect you’re right,” she said.
He wandered over with his burden, and curled himself on the hearthrug at her feet.
“I wonder just what sort of hell it was,” he said, “that Shakespeare went through. The private part, I mean. I think it will be a pity, really, if anyone ever digs up the facts. Not that they’d tell you anything, I dare say. But meanwhile, everyone who reads Hamlet will always be able to think maybe it was something like their own. And that’s rather steadying, I expect.”
“Yes,” she said. She looked down at him, for he was looking at the fire, the skull lying slackly on his knees. Presently, with-out self-consciousness or jar, he collected himself into the moment. Lifting the hinged vault of the skull, and peering with interest into the cavity, he asked, “Is that what they did to my head?”
“My dear! Not that size. Give it to me.”
He uncurled and shifted himself to lay it in her lap, resting his arm there along with it. She showed him on the
temporal bone the area of Sanderson’s flap.
“Quite a good slice, though,” he observed with unashamed importance. “Could you still find it on me?”
“With that thick hair? Not by looking; one could still feel it, I expect.”
He laid his head confidingly on her knees, so close to the skull that they almost touched brows. She put it down quickly on the floor, and drew her fingers through the heavy dark sweep of hair across his forehead. Faintly she traced the elliptical edge of the incision; the union had been the least degree uneven, so that it was palpable still, but it felt sound enough. As she explored it with the delicate stroking movements that were necessary to find so slight an outline at all (for the external weal had vanished long ago) she felt a difference in his weight and pressure, and saw that he had relaxed sleepily, and closed his eyes. Abruptly she took her hand away.
“Don’t stop,” he murmured placidly. “It feels nice.”
“Don’t be such a baby.” She laughed, and pushed his head away.
“Did you find it?”
“Just. It’s going on nicely. Don’t knock it about.”
“Oh, I’m really very tender with it. I’m developing a permanent crouch from avoiding the low beam in the hall.” Recovering the skull, he remarked, “Queer to think one has this all the time, inside, isn’t it? I wonder what mine looks like.”
“I have the advantage of you; I’ve seen an X-ray.”
“Nothing’s hid from you, is it? Quite alarming. Did I look just the same?”
“Not really. This is a narrow one; a woman’s probably. The malar bones and the jaw would both be broader. And I don’t think I shall give it you, it’s making you morbid.”
“Oh, no, but why? It’s interesting. I mean, to know that everyone has a second face hidden away that nobody’s ever seen.”
“Well,” she observed, “it may be interesting to know; but to get much enjoyment out of it one would need to be pretty seriously dissatisfied with the face on top.”
He said nothing, but fiddled with the jawbone of the skull. Presently he exclaimed, “Good Lord, this hinges too; you never told me,” and made an elaborate business of closing it again. She saw that he flushed to the roots of his hair, and was stooping to hide it. How is one to cope with him? she thought.
“I’ll have to go,” he said presently, “after wasting another of your evenings. Sling me out, you know, any time. Shall I put ‘Skull of mutineer kindly lent by Dr. Hilary Mansell’ on the program?”
“Not unless you want to get me struck off for advertising. Shall I want a ticket, by the way, or do they collect inside?”
“They do, but I’ve reserved you a seat, of course. Oh, Lord, that reminds me. Mother says she hopes you can come round to tea first, then you and she can go together. Is that okay?”
“Why, yes, I think so. Yes, please thank her from me and say that unless something urgent turns up I’d be delighted.” There was no possible way of evading it this time; and, in any case, the desire to do so seemed increasingly silly. “About five?”
“Well, if you could make it earlier. Just so that I’ll see you before I have to leave.” He had become a little constrained; and would have borne off the skull naked under his arm if she had not pointed out to him in time the paper she had prepared.
Chapter Nine: A PART IN A PLAY
THE HOUSE WAS A smallish, but very pleasant combination of the Georgian style with the Cotswold tradition. It had a shell portico, broad windows, and the stone-tiled roof which, being pegged together, molds itself ever so slightly with age, like an integument, over the supporting beams, letting their bony structure appear. Patches of gold lichen, their color warm in the last light, patterned it here and there, and on the ledge above the porch stonecrop had taken root. She rang, and was taken by a well-trained maid into a room whose proportions were as perfect as the period of the house had made her expect. The contents had taste, good spacing, and the air of having accumulated effortlessly over some generations. From the pool of light under a lamp, Mrs. Fleming came forward to meet her; behind, in the shadows, Julian was already on his feet.
“How splendid that you were able to get here in good time.” The outstretched hand felt fragile and its faint pressure made Hilary’s naturally firm grip seem a little overhearty. “I hear you’ve been having a busy time. We were so sorry about New Year’s Eve, but of course we quite understood.” Hilary made suitable responses.
“Things are easing off a little,” she said; “they often do, just before the spring rush begins. I’ve been looking forward to my evening off.”
Mrs. Fleming said, “It’s very good of you to give it up to us. I’m afraid it isn’t going to be a very exciting evening for you; in fact, I was just saying to Julian that I felt sure you would prefer a quiet dinner and a little music, to rest you, instead of being dragged off to see amateur theatricals in a drafty hall. He expects everyone to share his enthusiasms.” She smiled at him with affectionate indulgence.
“I couldn’t possibly let her off.” Julian was still standing a little in the background, with the shy deprecating smile which, lately, she had less often seen. He was wearing a dark suit and, because she had generally met him fresh from the road, looked by contrast very well-brushed and combed down. “After all, a vital member of the cast is appearing by her permission.”
“What do you mean, dear? Is one of them a patient of yours, Dr. Mansell?”
“He means the skull, I expect,” said Hilary.
Mrs. Fleming gave a delicate shudder. “That horrible thing. I made him take it straight down to the hall. It made me feel quite uncanny to see it about his room. Of course, it was very kind of you to lend it. I do hope it won’t get damaged.”
“It won’t matter a bit if it does; I never use it.”
Tea arrived, and was dispensed by Mrs. Fleming behind faultlessly polished silver; Julian kept the little scones and wafer sandwiches in motion with unobtrusive assiduity. It was, Hilary reflected, like a scene typifying the English Home; Hollywood, with the help of technical advisers, could hardly have made it prettier. There was small talk about the London plays of the moment which developed into rather tricky going because Hilary and Mrs. Fleming had, it turned out, each visited those which the other had carefully avoided.
There was a slight pause, into which Julian rushed headlong, apologizing for the fact that he would have to be getting along, that he had some props to check up on, and that he had promised to make one or two people up. While he was speaking, a silvery insistent bell somewhere in the house began to ring.
“Yes, dear, run along,” said his mother. “I’m sure Dr. Mansell will excuse you. But just answer the telephone before you go. Clara does so muddle the messages sometimes.” The conversation turned to maids, a topic on which Mrs. Fleming’s views were highly representative. They were still on the subject when Julian came back into the room. He looked so reluctant to say anything that Hilary was sure an urgent call had come for her.
“Yes, dear?” said Mrs. Fleming. “What was it? I hope it’s nothing unpleasant; you look quite upset.”
“Well,” said Julian slowly, “something rather upsetting’s happened. It seems Tom Phelps had engine trouble with a plane he took up this afternoon. He managed to make a landing, but he was the other side of Bristol when it happened, and had to come down at Filton. He’s just rung up the works to say he’s not been able to get the plane fixed, and he can’t be back before tomorrow.”
Hilary looked at him curiously. It was, no doubt, a moment for exasperation, for dismay, even, possibly, for despair; but he was betraying none of these comprehensible emotions. He looked, in fact, anxious, wary, and apologetic.
“Oh, dear,” his mother was saying, “how very vexing for you all. I suppose, with that possibility, he wasn’t really a very good person to have. But you said he was so much the best, didn’t you? It’s so late now to put it off, isn’t it? What a pity.”
“Yes,” said Julian, looking at the middle distan
ce. “It is a bit of a nuisance. We can’t call off the show and I’m afraid the only person who knows the lines is me.”
There was a little silence. Hilary was about to fill it with some encouraging commonplace, when something stayed her.
Mrs. Fleming looked up from her lap. “But, surely, dear, that will be a very difficult arrangement. You’ve made yourself responsible for so much of the organization, I should think it will cause a great deal of confusion if you take an important part on the stage as well.”
“Well, I hope not. Most of the organization’s more or less coped with by now. We’ll have to risk a few trifles coming unstuck. I mean, it’s just one of those things. The show must go on, and all that, you know.” He gave a shadow of his deprecating laugh.
“Of course, you know best, dear, if you feel you can manage it. It would be a pity to disappoint the village. But I really can’t imagine why you didn’t arrange for a proper understudy, knowing what an uncertain quantity this man Phelps was. I thought it was always done.”
“In a sense,” said Julian, “I am his understudy. In a way. It’s Tom I mind most about, really. He was so keen, and he’ll be so sick about it.”
Mrs. Fleming was looking again at her ringed hands folded in her lap. Hilary sensed the approach of another silence, and said quickly, “Never mind, he’ll feel better than if someone incompetent was going to make a mess of his part.” Julian flicked at her, sideways, a look which was a curious mixture of appeal and apprehension.
“One has to allow, don’t you think, for the rather different mentality of these village people? They’re so touchy, you know, Dr. Mansell, and so suspicious of anything that’s done for them. They’re quite willing to accept a certain amount of help with organization; but if people like ourselves seem to be trying to take advantage of it to come into the limelight, they resent it at once. They think of it as ostentation. Julian’s become so used to the free and easy life at Oxford, where a little egoism is considered rather amusing, that I’m afraid he sometimes forgets to allow for their point of view.”