The Pyramid

by William Golding

  *

  That evening when I went to bed, my left hand jumped and throbbed. I put it outside the bedclothes to cool it; and then, finding that not much relief, I propped my forearm on the pillow so that my hand was above my head in the air and some of the blood drained from it. It was extraordinary how different life had become. Even the thought of Imogen, though she caused me my usual pang, brought no more than a covered one, a pang with the point blunted. I pinned the memory of a scented, white body over it. I found myself wishing strange things, wishing that Imogen might know I had had Evie; that she might see—but she knew of course—how pretty was our local phenomenon, this hot bit of stuff through which I had achieved my deep calm. I found myself envisaging Stilbourne with college gents to the east, stable lads to the west, a spread of hot, sexy woodland to the south of it and only the bare escarpment to the north. Chandler’s Close to the Old Bridge—a silver thread, a safe, patrolled line; but Robert had tapped the line with his motor bike by way of side alleys; and I, the even safer thread between the Close and her wooden, ridiculous church. I had, in terms of set book, cuckolded Sergeant Babbacombe. I was a bit vague about cuckolding, but it seemed the right word. Most of all, I returned to her body, enjoying it again in detail. I knew about the details now. I began to plan new triumphs. Tomorrow, with careless grace and ease, I would weave a chain of kisses from one pink tit to the other, laughing, and enjoying the shivers and the tremors of my possession. Hand throbbing above my head, head filled with white femininity, it was after dawn, before I fell asleep.

  The next day lingered even by breakfast time—stretched ahead an unendurable length. It was hot and bright and I could not think how to pass the time of waiting. My parents were still grave and anxious; so to make what amends I could I behaved as considerately as possible, helping with the washing up. I asked what I could do—shopping, perhaps; but my mother would not have it. When I went into the dispensary and asked my father if he would like me to deliver medicine—a thing I had not done for years—he merely shook his head. I could not go for a walk; for the opening medicine proved effective and powerful so that for most of the day I had to stay close to the house. Nor, with my swollen hand, could I play the piano. My father had taken the front off and put it in the dispensary against the wall so that he could mend it when he had time; and now when I sat on the music stool I was confronted not by music but by intricate works. This did not matter to me, though, and I was not particularly anxious to play. I did no more than try out with my right hand the chromatic scale of which I was proud because of its extreme velocity. The piano did not seem to have suffered much. Or rather, this last blow was no more than an additional damage to an instrument already punch drunk. Even the keys seemed to wear the ghastly yellow grin of someone determined at all costs to see the funny side of his own predicament and go down, game to the last.

  Surgery was not yet over by the time I was pacing to and fro in Chandler’s Lane but I was impatient. I walked by the hedge of clipped veronica, leaned for a while against the high wall at the bottom of our garden. I looked up at the slope to the escarpment with its cascading rabbit warren, its alders, and beyond them my clump of sexy trees at the top. I heard the church clock strike the hour and my heart thumped at the thought of Evie leaving the surgery. But Evie did not come. I waited with growing anger—walked almost to Chandler’s Close itself, but saw no Evie. Back and forth I patrolled on my silver thread and I could not leave it; knew gradually that I was stuck on it and should stay there if I had too until day had drained away if necessary, all night if necessary—should stay as long as there was the remotest chance—

  Then just when I had begun to think the chance was remote indeed, I saw her coming. She was being our phenomenon again and exhaling more than ever. She paced, and smiled, mouth open. She was glad and excited to see me for when I lifted my hand to her she laughed, tossing back her dark hair, and broke for a step or two into a run. Her scent came with her.

  “Hullo, Evie! You’ve been a long time!”

  “Been having my lesson.”

  “Lesson?”

  “You know. Secretarial.”

  “Oh! Old Wilmot—”

  Evie giggled and turned into the narrow path up to our clump without any compulsion. She glinted—or “flashed” would be a better word—over her shoulder and I followed close.

  “Short—’and. Short-hand.”

  “How d’you spell ‘pneumonia’?”

  Evie laughed aloud and broke into her girly run until the slope of the path stopped her.

  “Nothing like that!”

  The shrubby trees closed in. A breath of air pulled itself through the leaves between her dress and me and a cloud of scent from the honeysuckle enveloped us both. I picked my way after her, keeping close.

  “What d’you mean ‘Nothing like that?’”

  “Not medical things. Well—”

  She laughed again.

  “He just picks up any book.”

  The brambles slowed us. My nose was a very few inches from her hair. I did not know whether I was smelling the mixed enticements of summer, smouldering in the hedges that now met over us, or the scent of her body. Whether I could smell it or not, I could see how her body moved under the thin white and blue cotton. My own body rose. I caught her arm and pulled her round and kissed her hard. She took her mouth away, laughing.

  “No, no, no!”

  She pushed me away, laughing and flashing and breathing scent, and ducked on up the path.

  “He said he’d have to beat me if I didn’t do any better!”

  I roared with laughter at the thought of Captain Wilmot, heaving himself out of his electric chair and grinning like a wolf.

  “If he could catch you—‘Fix bayonets!’”

  “He said I’d like it.”

  “The old sod! You ought to tell your father!”

  Evie laughed too but on a higher note. We broke out of the path into the clump. I made a grab at Evie, but laughing still, she girly’d away among the bushes.

  “Evie? Where are you?”

  Silence, except the town noises from the valley under us. I blundered through the bushes and she was waiting for me, flushed and shining. I put my arms round her and she shoved with both arms.

  “No! No! No!”

  Clear, up from the town came the clangour of a brass bell and the outline of a raucous shout.

  “Hoh yay! Hoh yay! Hoh yay!”

  Evie caught her breath. Before my eyes, two buttonlike projections rose in the thin stuff over her breasts. She pushed against me, pawing, eyes shut.

  “Take me, Olly! Now! Have me!”

  And a minute later, flat among the flowers, cotton dress huddled up, eyes shivering, face twisted, changed from laughing—

  “Hurt me, Olly! Hurt me—”

  I did not know how to hurt her. As I beat my hasty tattoo in boyish eagerness, I was lost among the undulations, the contactings and stretchings of her body. She would not consent to any quick rhythm; only the long, deep ocean swell in which her man, her boy, was an object, no more: and this deep swell of an apparently boneless woman was accompanied by a turning away of the head, both eyes shut, forehead lined—a kind of anguished journey, concentrated on reaching a far spot, dark, agonizing and wicked. I was a small boat in a deep sea; and the sea itself was a moaning, private thing, full of contempt and disgust, a thing to which a partner was necessary but not welcome. I could no longer direct; and my boat was overwhelmed by waves, suddenly controlled by her, driven towards the rock, where a cry rose, loud and tortured, and I was among the breakers, ship-wrecked—

  The trees settled back into place. The only thing that seemed to make a noise was my heart. The flowers were still and remote as if they were painted. I got away from her quickly and lay with my face in dead leaves. A cold apprehension was settling on me and turning slowly to something worse. I heard her stagger to her feet and busy herself with her dress. I pulled myself to my knees and stared at her but she ignored me. Sh
e turned towards the path but I ran and got between her and it.

  “Evie!”

  She blundered sideways through the bushes and I went after her and caught her arm.

  “Damn you, Evie!”

  Then we were face to face, I shouting and she screaming as to whose fault it was and why and how, almost as though by making a noise we could put off some moment or other. And then as suddenly as we had begun, we fell silent again; and the irreparable fact made itself felt in cold, silent menace.

  Evie turned away, picking her steps among the trees towards the edge of the escarpment as if she needed air. I followed her, absurdly making as little noise as I could. I cleared my throat then whispered.

  “D’you think you’ll have a —?”

  She shook herself irritably and smoothed out some horizontal creases with unnecessary violence.

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “I thought—”

  “Well you’ll just have to wait and see, like me, won’t you?”

  She looked at me with her unpleasant, lopsided grin.

  “Thought you’d got something for nothing, didn’t you?”

  I stared back, my teeth clenched, hating the whole female race. As if she could read what was inside my head, she muttered at me.

  “I hate men.”

  A faint, brazen ringing came from the valley. We both turned to look. Sergeant Babbacombe had reached his second station. Between the alders, I could even see him, a tiny spot of red and blue, on the crest of the Old Bridge. Evie looked away from him. She was standing in front of me and a little to my right side. Her arms were folded under her breasts, legs straddled, head slumped. She was not a local phenomenon. She stood like a washerwoman. Slowly, she searched the town, from the church to the bridge, from Chandler’s Lane right across to the other slope up to the woods. When she spoke at last, it was the crude voice of Chandler’s Close, right at the other end among the ragged children, a voice hoarse and bitter.

  “And I hate this town—I hate it! Hate it! Hate it!”

  I looked down, past the brown cascade of the rabbit warren, down the green slope to the town itself. I examined the high wall at the bottom of our garden, our grass patch, the bathroom window. I looked over the roof to Miss Dawlish’s house, heard the matter-of-fact honking of a car. Down there, the depth of my offence was to be measured. I drew back, under the alders. Evie turned to me with a sneer.

  “Don’t worry. Nobody’d recognize you at that distance.”

  “Evie—what’re we going to do?”

  “There’s nothing we can do.”

  “Couldn’t you—”

  I had the vaguest idea of the biological factors involved, and no resource. I whistled ruefully to myself and put back the hair out of my eyes.

  “When will you know?”

  “Next Monday or Tuesday—perhaps.”

  She turned away from the town and began to thread through to the path. I followed, and neither of us said anything. The evening was very bright, and still warm. Perhaps it was the sight of her back, so slight and helpless, her bare arms so weak, that struck me with a sudden realization of what a dreadful thing it was to be a girl.

  “Evie—”

  She stopped, without looking round.

  “Cheer up. It may never happen.”

  She gave a kind of sob and started running down the path. I followed more slowly, wondering what to do. When I came out of the path into Chandler’s Lane she was thirty yards away and going home. She was pacing again, contained and secure.

  I went home, confounded at the sight, and unnerved at my peril. I remembered Oxford with an awful pang. If—if—she had her baby, it was goodbye to Oxford. I could hear the whispers and titters coming out of the very bricks and mortar. Left school at eighteen to get married. Had to. Or if not, it would be seven and sixpence a week—maintenance. I knew about seven and sixpence. It was one of our snigger-triggers, like monthly, or nine months and a whole dictionary of others.

  “It may never happen!”

  Then, with great force, the thought of my parents hit me. My father, so kind, slow and solid, my mother, tart, yet with such care of me, such pride in me—It would kill them. To be related even if only by marriage, to Sergeant Babbacombe! I saw their social world, so delicately poised and carefully maintained, so fiercely defended, crash into the gutter. I should drag them down and down through those minute degrees where it was impossible to rise but always easy to fall—Yes. I should kill them.

  I tried to sneak upstairs but it was no good.

  “Oliver! Is that you, dear?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Hurry up and have your supper.”

  I went through into the dining room. They were both sitting at the table. I looked at the cold ham. I had forgotten about food, and did not want any.

  “I’ll skip it.”

  “Nonsense!” said my mother glittering, at me. “A growing lad like you! Sit down, there’s a good boy. Besides, Father has something to tell you.”

  I sat down obediently and stared at the slices of ham on my plate.

  “What are you waiting for, Father? Tell him!”

  My father finished his mastication, his eyes thoughtful, the ends of his grey, walrus moustache moving gently up and down. Then he turned his bald head slowly in my direction.

  “It’s about the piano, Olly.”

  “I said I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all done with,” said my mother, laughing gaily. “Quite, quite done with. Over and done. Listen!”

  “We’ve been thinking. It’ll take a long time to repair. Glue would have to set—and so on. But that hand of yours’ll keep you off it for weeks I should think—”

  “Get on, Father! You’re always so slow!”

  “Now you’ve never had a proper present for working so hard. So we thought, your mother and I, we’d get them to take the piano into Barchester and recondition it. Two jobs at once. Money’s tight, of course—isn’t it, Mother?”

  “Money’s always tight—that’s money!”

  “But I’ve been into it a little, and I think we can just about—”

  “And if your hand’s better in time you could always start playing the violin, Oliver, you used to play so beautifully before you went mad on the piano!”

  “Then when you come back from Oxford for the holidays, you’ll have a proper instrument.”

  He turned back to his plate and went on eating.

  “Of course,” said my mother, “it won’t be a BBC piano you know!”

  “Be better, though,” said my father. “They can do a lot. It not as though it’s a wooden frame after all. Wooden frames always go. I don’t know why they use them.”

  “Perhaps they can even get the keys white again.”

  “Wooden frames always go. It’s the climate.”

  “We don’t need the candle holders. They can take them off.”

  “Iron frames give you a steady tension. Ours is an iron frame.”

  “What’s the matter, dear? Now come on! It’s all forgotten and done with!”

  “Steady on, old son!”

  “It’s The Blood you know, Father.”

  “Show us your tongue old son.”

  “Don’t bother him. Eat some ham, Oliver. That’ll do you good.”

  My father got up ponderously and plodded into the dispensary.

  “Why, you old crybaby,” said my mother gently. “I know how it is, dear. Growing up is difficult even for boys. It’s the blood, you see. Everything stirred up. Now eat your ham dear and you’ll feel much, much better. Why, I remember—you’d be surprised, Olly. We’re really very proud of you, you know, my dear, only it wouldn’t be good for us always to be telling you about it. Here’s the mustard.”

  My father came back silently and put a little glass down by my plate. In it was some more opening medicine.

  *

  The days dragged themselves away. Mrs. Babbacombe continued to flash me her brilliant sideways bow
from any distance up to fifty yards. Evie did not walk the patrolled route any more. When I waited in Chandler’s Lane it was with less and less hope. Sometimes I could hear her typing in the reception room, and sometimes I saw her making her quick way from surgery to her home, but that was all. Evie was avoiding me. Monday came, Tuesday and Wednesday, and she made no sign. I had settled from terror to a state of continual worry. My dreams had a new dread; and always the same thing. I dreamed I was walking about Stilbourne, but condemned to death. My parents were in the dream—indeed all the people of Stilbourne were there and all concurred in the death sentence since my crime, which the dream left vague, was unpardonable. I would wake up with relief to find it a dream; and then remember Evie.

  A week later I saw Evie again, though not to speak to. I was in the bathroom and caught sight of Evie and Dr. Ewan’s weedy partner, Dr. Jones, walking up and down together on the larger of the Ewans’s two lawns. I stared at her first, anxiously, as if I had X-ray eyes; but could make out nothing different about her. Indeed, if anything, she was more the same than before. She was moving only below the knee, her matted, unruly eyelashes were flickering, her mouth was open, lips smiling mysteriously and exhaling. I was at once indignant and relieved. Surely a girl in her condition—if she was in her condition—But weedy Dr. Jones was behaving strangely. His hands were clasped behind his thin body. He would warp his knees away from her, look down sideways and laugh. He didn’t look much like a doctor, I thought; more like a silly old man—forty if he was a day.