After a silence, he said:
“She continued to study me with the most amazing eyes I have ever seen—eyes consumed by their own intensity. I admit I began to feel somewhat embarrassed. It was rather like being subjected to a third degree in the next world. I felt that nothing was hidden from her. Then—suddenly—I didn’t mind. I liked this wraith-like woman, who no longer inhabited this earth. She suddenly seemed familiar.”
I was too astonished to say anything, and eventually Mervyn continued.
“I suppose the third degree lasted about two minutes, then she announced that I was ‘The fragments of something big.’ ”
“What did you say to that?”
“I said the operative word was—fragments. Anyhow, she evidently did not regard it in the least extraordinary that I had turned up in her room. Not in the least! Still, I thought I’d better give some explanation of my visit, so I mentioned Carol.”
“Well—go on!”
“She said: ‘Who’s Carol?’ That did not help a lot. I told her that Carol was her daughter. Whereupon she replied that she hadn’t a daughter. That was only too true in one way but I decided that, having gone so far. I’d have to go the whole distance—so I said she must remember Carol, who had been murdered a few weeks ago.”
“What did she say?”
“She said we’d all been murdered. And how true that is! She was still leaning forward, devouring me with her eyes. It was quite clear that she regarded me as an apparition and, as I frequently feel like one, the situation was somewhat complex.”
“Did she mention me?”
“The only person she mentioned was Gertrude. She asked several times where Gertrude was. When I said she was out, she asked if I were certain she’d come back. I’m convinced that, if I hadn’t mentioned your name, she wouldn’t have remembered your existence.”
“What did you say?”
“It was some time before I left. She was lying down, staring at the ceiling. There had been a long silence. I told her I was living with Max Arnold, the artist.”
“Well, what did she say?”
“She didn’t say anything. She raised herself to an upright position—fixed me with a gimlet glance—then gave a slow, profound, and very prolonged wink.”
“Did you tell her anything about me?”
“No. There was something so final about that wink that I was speechless. I waited, thinking she might discuss you. But, no—not a word. What she did do, was to ask if my wife was still alive. I said I couldn’t go as far as that—but Ella certainly was still around.”
Mervyn rubbed his hands vigorously, then said:
“When I’d been there about an hour, the corkscrew of hunger began to turn in my vitals—so I asked if she’d like some tea. She replied that we didn’t want tea in the middle of the night. I admit the afternoon was gloomy and that lights were lit, nevertheless it was disturbing to discover that she thought it was midnight. Then I realised that, when I had gone, she would probably tell Gertrude that she’d a strange dream about a large man who wanted tea in the middle of the night.”
Mervyn lit a cigarette, then sat down and put his feet on the mantelpiece. He smoked for some minutes in a meditative manner.
“Extraordinary thing is that I felt so at ease with her that I told her all sorts of things about myself. She seemed as interested as a child listening to a fairy story.”
“What sort of things?”
“Oh, odds and ends that have been worrying me lately in a minor sort of way, don’t you know? For example, I told her that I never really feel anything nowadays. I keep sticking pins in my soul without the slightest effect. Then I told her something which really does bother me occasionally. And that is that I cannot get angry. No matter what happens, I simply cannot get angry. Not even when bulldozer women flatten me as they rattle to the head of the bus queue.”
Pause.
“She seemed to think that was excellent. She nodded approval—vigorously. Then I told her that everything which had happened to me before the war was so remote that it all seemed like a dissolving pageant—in which the least substantial figure was Mervyn Maitland.”
“Did she say anything?”
“No. And I was wrong in thinking that she was giving me her attention, because she suddenly asked whether I had more friends in the other world than I had in this one. That took some answering, but, eventually, I said I thought it was about fifty-fifty.”
“Why did she want to know?”
“She said that a tug-of-war goes on between one’s friends in the other world and one’s friends in this one. Your dead friends want you with them—and your living friends want to keep you here. So you are the prize in the tug-of-war. She then explained that, as your friends die, they join the rival team in the other world—and pull like anything to get you across the Great Divide. Eventually, of course, you are left almost alone in this world, so only one good heave is necessary by the other side’s team and—over you go!”
“Did you find anything to say to that?”
“I told her that I owed money to so many people in this world that I was certain they would do everything they could to keep me here. While I’m alive, they still have hope of repayment. God knows why—but they have! But, if Mervyn Maitland were to enter the many-mansioned house of Eternity, no threat, no writ, no Income-Tax assessor would be able to disturb his celestial repose. Hope would flicker out in the hearts of the Maitland creditors. There would be weeping and gnashing of false teeth.”
Pause.
“She seemed impressed. Possibly the economic advantages of death had not occurred to her. Then I told her something which really astounded her. And I’m not surprised, because it astounds me.”
“What on earth was that?”
“I told her that I love life. And I do love life, Max. It may be absurd, but I can’t help it. Despite all the horrors, all the humiliations—despite starchy foods, austerity, civil servants, and Savings Weeks—I love life. Even in moments of spiritual black-out, something in me whispers: ‘You’re alive, Mervyn. You’re alive. The sun shines’ for you; the stars glitter for you; for you, the moon sheds pale enchantment.’ Yes, I love life, Max. Every day—new mysteries, new miracles. Everywhere—the unexpected, the incalculable. Here I am, perched with humanity for a brief stay on this little planet, hurtling through the void. Even when I get up in the night, so hungry that I go to the kitchen—hoping to find the fragment of cheese intact in the mouse-trap—I rejoice that the Almighty has given me life on a Lend-Lease basis.”
Pause.
“That astounded her. In fact, I could see that she regarded me as a lunatic. This reversal of rôles was somewhat disturbing, nevertheless I gave her my views about survival after death.”
I was incapable of comment, so he went on:
“I said I was not dismayed by the fact that many people do not believe in survival—because I was convinced that caterpillars do not believe in butterflies. I was about to continue, when she suddenly thanked me for coming. I didn’t know what to say to that. It made me feel very peculiar. So I went on with my after-death theories and had just reached the height of metaphysical eloquence, when I saw that she was asleep. I rose quietly, then stood looking down at her. Now that the eyes were closed, the features had the finality of a death mask. Well, I thought I’d better go. And yet I felt that I couldn’t just walk out. After all, I’d never see her again. So I leaned down and kissed her forehead. Why not? She’s one of my people. Then, raging with hunger, I went to the kitchen—where I found a muffled-up Gertrude who had just come in.”