The Pyramid (24 page)

I paused in the hall, envisaging the long corridor at the head of the stairs. But no. There was a limit to exorcism. I went quickly down the two steps, through the yard into the garden, and blessed the warm hand of the sun.

Henry’s men had already begun to dismantle the long wall that lay between the laurel bushes, the laburnum trees, and his spreading business. They had piled the valuable old brick; but in two places the wall had collapsed under its own weight, hiding flowers and weeds under a pile of red clay and yellow cement. I was curious to see the bottom of the garden where I had never been; and I walked forward along a cinder path that plantains and dandelions had invaded. I pushed between laurels, and the little river was before me. This end of the garden was an enclosure by the river bank, with stone steps, forget-me-nots, wallflowers not yet in blossom, and shallow, sliding water. On the top step above the water, was a windsor chair. Though spiders had spun between the members, and birds had fouled the seat; though the polish had cracked into a dark roughness, yet the chair stood there, mutely insisting how she had used it—every evening perhaps, in the last summer and autumn, among the midges and swifts. Opposite the chair and against the long wall, was a surround of brick; and the wall above it was black with smoke. I peered into the surround, and saw at once that this had been no ordinary bonfire. Even after the rain of two or more winters, there were still enough bits and pieces, spines, corners, whole sodden covers indeed, for me to decipher them.
Breitkopf
Und
Hartel,
Augener‚
MacMillan,
Boosey
and
Hawkes
‚
and the almost incombustible stacks of the
Musical
Times
—

Henry could never have done it. The music had been worth real money. I saw a glint of metal, picked out a steel strip and my guess became certainty. The lead bob had melted away, but the knife-edge and the sliding weight that adjusted the ticking of the metronome to an unbearable accuracy were identifiable. Henry would never have burnt old Mr. Dawlish’s metronome, that valuable antique, in its polished case. Nor, I thought, as I caught a bleak eye staring at me from the ground, would he have smashed Beethoven into plaster fragments with a hammer blow. And that sodden angle of wood, might well be all that was left of a frame and a photograph—

I sat on her chair, put my elbows on my knees and my face in my hands. I did not know to what or whom my feelings had reference, nor even what they were.

“You’ve looked all over, then?”

Henry stood on the other side of the gap in the wall, brown face, liquid eyes, white hair—all very trim and calm. I got up and began to climb the pile of bricks, clumsily.

“Can I lend you a hand?”

“I can manage by myself—thanks.”

Side by side, we sauntered back between the machines. Our heads were bowed, hands clasped behind us, pace very slow, like mourners.

“That was a nice thought of yours, Henry, that
inscription
.”

He said nothing. I glanced sideways at him.

“Quick to feel, slow to learn. That’s me.”

We stopped and faced each other.

“You could say, Henry—you
could
say—”

You could say that the only time she was ever calm and happy, with a relaxed, smiling face, they put her away until she was properly cured and unhappy again. You could say that, for example.

But really, you could say nothing.

“It doesn’t matter.”

We walked on again in silence to the pavement before the apron. I took out some notes to pay for the petrol and looked for the Petrol Lady. She emerged, but Henry waved her away.

“Allow me, sir. No, not at all. It’s a pleasure, meeting you after all these years.”

He took my money and went to change it. I stood, looking down at the worn pavement, so minutely and illegibly
inscribed
; and I saw the feet, my own among them, pass and repass. I stretched out a leg and tapped with my live toe, listening meanwhile, tap, tap, tap—and suddenly I felt that if I might only lend my own sound, my own flesh, my own power of choosing the future, to those invisible feet, I would pay anything—
anything
:
but knew in the same instant that, like Henry, I would never pay more than a reasonable price.

“—and ninepence is three pounds. Thank you, sir.”

I looked him in the eye; and saw my own face.

“Goodbye, Henry.”

He raised his hand, saying nothing. I got into my car of superior description, moved away, over the Old Bridge and at last on to the motor road. I concentrated resolutely on my driving.

Books by

Sir William Golding

1911–1993 

Nobel Prize for Literature

Fiction

L
ORD OF THE FLIES

T
HE I
NHERITORS

PINCHER MARTIN

FREE FALL

THE SPIRE

THE SCORPION GOD

DARKNESS VISIBLE

THE PAPER MEN

RITES OF PASSAGE

CLOSE QUARTERS

FIRE DOWN BELOW

THE DOUBLE TONGUE

TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH

(a revised text of
Rites
of
Passage,
Close
Quarters
and
Fire
Down
Below
in one volume)

Essays

THE HOT GATES

A MOVING TARGET

Travel

AN EGYPTIAN JOURNAL

Play

THE BRASS BUTTERFLY

LORD OF THE FLIES

adapted for the stage by

Nigel Williams