For the first time in her life, she felt that Willi Stock was an old friend. Regarding him in this category, she was able to secure her conscience in his company. For the Baron belonged to one of the half-worlds of Caroline’s past, of which she had gradually taken leave; it was a society which she had half-forgotten, and of which she had come wholly to disapprove. It was over a year since she had last seen the Baron. But Laurence had kept up with him, had mentioned him from time to time, which confirmed Caroline in her feeling, that she was in the company of an old friend. She greatly needed the protection of an old friend till daylight.
He said, ‘Eleanor is away on tour just now.’
Caroline said, ‘I know, Laurence had a postcard.’
Eleanor Hogarth was the Baron’s mistress. ‘Did he?’ said the Baron. ‘When was that?’
‘Oh, last week sometime. He merely mentioned it.’
They called him the Baron because he called himself Baron Stock. Caroline was not aware from what aristocracy he derived his title: nor had anyone inquired; she was sure it was not self-imposed as some suggested. He came originally from the Belgian Congo, had travelled in the Near East, loitered in Europe, and finally settled in England, a naturalized British subject. That was fifteen years ago, and he was now nearing fifty. Caroline had always felt that the Baron had native African blood, without being able to locate its traces in any one feature. She had been in Africa, and had a sense of these things. It was a matter of casual curiosity to her; but she had noticed, some years ago, when Africa’s racial problems were being discussed in company with the Baron, he had denounced the blacks with ferocious bitterness, out of all proportion to the occasion. This confirmed Caroline’s judgement; there was, too, an expression of pathos which at times appeared on the Baron’s face, which she had seen in others of concealed mixed colour; and there was something about the whites of his eyes; what it was she did not know. And altogether, having observed these things, she did not much care.
The Baron had set up a bookshop in Charing Cross Road, one of those which keep themselves exclusively intellectual. ‘Intellect-u-al,’ the Baron pronounced it. He would say, ‘Of course there are no intellect-u-als in England.’
It had been the delight of Caroline and Laurence to recall the day when they looked in on the Baron at Charing Cross Road, to find him being accosted by a tiny woman with the request:
‘D’you have any railway books for children?’
The Baron reared high and thin on the central expanse of grey carpet and regarded her silently for half a second.
‘Railway books for children,’ she repeated. ‘Books with pictures of trains and railways.’
The Baron said: ‘Railway books for children, Madam? I do not think so, Madam.’ His arm languidly indicated the shelves. ‘We have Histor-ay, Biograph-ay, Theolog-ay, Theosoph-ay, Psycholog-ay, Religio-n, Poetr-ay, but railway books for children. … Try Foyles across the road, Madam.’
He raised his shoulders and eyebrows as he turned to Laurence and Caroline. ‘My father,’ he said, ‘knew a man in the Belgian Diplomatic Service who was the author of a railway book for children. It was very popular and sold quickly. A copy was sent to a family in Yugoslavia. Of course, the book contained a code message. The author was revising the book for the second edition when he was arrested. That story is my total experience of railway books for children. Have you read this work on Kafka? — it has just come in, my darlings, my Laurence and my Caroline.’
In this way, Baron Stock was an old friend.
Caroline lay in the dark warm room on a made-up sofa bed. The Baron had left her just after four had struck. She had stopped crying. In case she should want them, the Baron had left a bottle of aspirins on a chair by the sofa. Caroline reached out for the bottle, unscrewed the cap and extracted the twist of cotton wool which she had hoped to find. She stuffed a piece in each ear. Now she was alone, it seemed to her that she had been playing a false role with the Baron. It was the inevitable consequence of her arrival at his flat in a panic, at a late hour; ‘Willi! Let me in, I’ve been hearing voices!’
After that, she was forced to accept his protection, his friendliness; was glad of it. And when he had settled her by the fire:
‘Caroline, my dear, how slender and febrile you’ve become! What kind of voices? How extremely interesting. Was it a religi-ous experience?’
She had begun to weep, to apologize.
‘Caroline, my dear, as you know, I never go to bed. Seriously, I never go to bed unless it’s the last possible alternative. I am delighted beyond words — Caroline, my dear, I am so honoured — your distress, my dear — if you can realize how I feel.’
And so she had to play the part. Now, alone in the dark, she thought, ‘I should have faced it out at the flat. I shouldn’t have run away.
The Baron, of course, was convinced she was suffering from a delusion.
‘It happens to many many people, my dear. It is quite nothing to worry about. If the experience should recur you will have a course of analysis or take some pills and the voices will go away. But I doubt that the phenomenon will recur. You have been under a considerable strain from what I hear of your severed relations with Laurence.’
‘We haven’t parted, really, you know.’
‘But you now have separate establishments?’
‘Yes, I’ve got rooms in Kensington. Laurence is keeping on the flat for the time being. He’s away in the country. I must get in touch with him tomorrow, first thing.’ She gave the deliberate impression of not wanting to talk any more.
‘In Sussex? With Mrs Jepp?’ — a genuine curiosity in his voice.
‘Yes.’
‘I met her one day about three years ago. Laurence introduced me. A fine old lady. Wonderful for her age. Quite excellent. Do you see much of her?’
‘I saw her last Easter,’ Caroline said, ‘she was grand.’
‘Yes, she is grand. She doesn’t visit London, of course?’
‘No,’ Caroline said. ‘That must have been her last trip when you met her. She hasn’t been to London since.
‘She doesn’t care for the Hampstead ménage?’
‘Well, she’s an independent soul,’ said Caroline absently.
She had only half taken in the Baron’s chatter, although he continued to speak of Louisa.
‘I must get in touch with Laurence first thing,’ Caroline repeated. ‘Mrs Jepp isn’t on the phone. I’ll send a wire. Oh, Willi! — those voices, it was Hell!’
Now, lying awake in the dark, Caroline recalled the conversation, regretting that she had shown such a supine dependence on the Baron. More and more she thought, ‘I should have stayed at home and faced whatever was to be faced.’ She knew she had tough resources. And as she tormented herself, now, into confronting her weakness, painfully she recollected the past hour; some of the talk which she had let slip so drowsily through her mind came back to her. It had struck her in passing that the Baron had seemed extraordinarily interested in Laurence’s grandmother. He was the last person one would expect to have remembered — and by name — an undistinguished old lady to whom he had been introduced casually three years ago. Mrs Jepp was not immediately impressive to strangers; was not at all the type to impress the Baron.
Through the darkness, from beside the fireplace, Caroline heard a sound. Tap. The typewriter. She sat up as the voices followed:
The Baron had seemed extraordinarily interested in Laurence’s grandmother. He was the last person one would expect to have remembered — and by name — an undistinguished old lady to whom he had been introduced casually three years ago. Mrs Jepp was not immediately impressive to strangers.