Yet, when I had left this flat a few hours ago, I had believed that I was prepared for anything! It is true that I had been afraid of meeting a madwoman, but, even so, no horror I had imagined was comparable with those encountered in that insane room, where only a ghost could feel at home.
What I dared not remember was her acceptance of me as an inhabitant of her world. She had tried to establish terrible liaison between us. But I would not think of that, I dared not think of that.
Only a little less terrifying was her instant suspicion that I had secret knowledge of Carol’s death. From the moment she opened the front door till she stood at the top of the steps, watching me at the gate, suspicion had dominated her. Although everything she had said seemed as chaotic as the Bedlam of her moods, nearly every word derived from that suspicion and was relevant in relation to it. Every sentence, every question, was a tentacle writhing towards a secret she sensed and tried to probe.
Two hours must have passed while I lay inert in my arm-chair—the room lit only by a small reading-lamp and the glow of an electric fire—but, eventually, I decided that to-morrow I would give Antony a restricted account of my visit to Hove. I would say nothing of her acceptance of me as an inhabitant of her world, and nothing about her suspicions. I would not tell him that I had looked at those photographs of Carol—while that wraith of a woman watched me, with the concentration of a cat crouched to spring. I’d tell him only generalities, in a tone which would indicate that I did not want to discuss details.
I looked at my watch. Midnight. Everything seemed remarkably still. I listened intently, but could not hear a sound. Then, feeling restless, I went to the window, parted the curtains and looked out, but there was nothing to be seen. For some moments I remained irresolute, unable to decide whether to return to my chair, or to get some food, or go to bed. I stood, listening to the stillness, waiting.
Suddenly there was a shattering explosion, instantly followed by another. The building shook as if it had been hit by a battering ram. Then—a long reverberating roar.
Somewhere, not far away, a V 2 had fallen.
Minutes passed before the air ceased to shudder—and routed silence slowly returned.
My daily woman did not come on Sundays so, soon after ten o’clock, I went to a café for a light breakfast, returning to the flat at about eleven. All I knew was that I could not spend the day alone and, although I must telephone Antony, I knew I could not spend the day with him.
I picked up the receiver, dialled his number, then said directly I heard his voice:
“It’s Max. Well, I went to Hove yesterday and you were perfectly right—it was an ordeal. No need to go into details, because they only add up to the fact that it was an ordeal. One thing’s certain: I shan’t go again. But there’s something I want you to arrange for me. I’m determined to make her an allowance, but it is essential—absolutely essential—that she does not know it comes from me.”
“I can easily arrange that.”
“Thank you. By the way, there’s one thing you didn’t tell me about her.”
“What’s that?”
“She won’t be here much longer. You don’t? But have you looked at her—really looked at her?”
“I haven’t your eyes, Max.”
“But, my dear fellow, you can damned nearly see through her! She’s the ghost of the woman whose photograph hangs on the wall. She burns herself up. She’s like a blazing torch in a high wind. Anyway, I don’t think she’ll last long.”
After a pause, I added:
“Will you be seeing her soon?”
“Probably on Wednesday.”
“Don’t be surprised if you get a grotesque account of my visit. I don’t think there’s anything else. Except that I hope to see you before long.”
“I suppose you’re not up to seeing any one to-day?”
“I don’t know that I am. Why?”
“Harry Ambrose telephoned half an hour ago. He’s desperately anxious to see you. You’ll find him at the club.”
“Right! I’ll think about it.”
Almost immediately after I had replaced the receiver, Harry telephoned.
He must see me! And he must see me to-day! It was absolutely essential. He would have got in touch with me before this, but he’d been flat out since Wednesday. Would I lunch with him at the club—and go for a walk afterwards?
I said I did not want to lunch at the club, but would meet him at the top of St. James’s Street at two-thirty.
“It’s damned good of you, Max—at such short notice! But it’s important to me—really important.”
I put down the receiver, then, having tried to work out why Harry was so insistent, I remembered my first meeting with him, two or three years before the war.
One rainy night in Paris, a man came into a café, frequented chiefly by French people, where I was having a drink at a corner table. I noticed him instantly. He was about thirty-six with frank blue eyes, a resolute chin, and a mouth which had either just stopped smiling or was just going to. Any one could see that he was very male, positive—without problems of any kind. You could not imagine him indecisive, or bored, or lonely. He had the casual confidence of a man who had never been embarrassed in the whole of his life.
“Mind if I sit here?”
“Of course not!”
“Thanks. Never been to this show before. Game in to get out of the rain. Lucky to run into you. Do finish that drink and have another.”
He continued to talk, as if we had known each other for years, then—automatically—we went to a restaurant and dined together.
There are a few people—very few—whose activities correspond perfectly with their temperaments. Harry was one of them. He was married and had a daughter and a house in London. And it was necessary for him to be married and have a daughter and a house in London. It was also necessary for him to travel—and he spent nearly half his time wandering about the Continent, buying gay amusing things in Vienna, Paris, Budapest, and so on, then sold them in London. He made a very good income—and he needed a very good income because he was extremely generous. Harry loved his life. He almost hugged himself when he told me about it. His vital expansive nature needed change, variety, the unexpected, but these would have been vanity and vexation of spirit if he had not had a home, a base, to which to return. He was the strangest mixture of a married man and a bachelor whom I have ever encountered, and circumstances enabled him to play both rôles with zest.
He was abroad when war broke out and some months elapsed before he managed to get back to England. Naturally, his business had disappeared as totally as a burst bubble. He had saved nothing, but apparently this swift reversal of financial fortune did not disturb him. He sold his house, rented a much smaller one, then took a full-time job in the A.R.P. He had considerable organising ability, great courage, and was worshipped by every one. His district was subjected to terrible raids—one of which destroyed his house, killing his wife and daughter. Some months later, he was awarded the George Cross for extraordinary bravery in desperate circumstances.
I met him occasionally at the club, although months sometimes elapsed between one meeting and the next. The only alteration I noticed in him was that he never discussed himself. What he talked about most frequently was the courage, kindness, and humanity of the Londoners whom he now knew so intimately. Harry called them “The host of the humble.” It was good to hear him talk of them as he had found them—as, he said, any one would find them who opened his heart to them. It was very good to hear him, for it convinced you that, so long as the host of the humble remains uncorrupted, England will survive—no matter how logically certain her eclipse may seem.