be vocabulary-conscious. She had been attending lectures, it was to be supposed, on the theory of art – or perhaps just on Immanuel Kant. ‘And as a needle,’ she added more colloquially, ‘that man in the tube would be a hard nut to crack.’
Tim had now possessed himself of pencil and paper. It was evident that he had a considerable capacity for doing whatever his uncle suggested.
‘I’ll try to work backwards to the beginning of the month,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it would be no go after that. I’ve a rotten memory. I know it as often as I look at all my bloody notes on my reading. And I believe there’s a theory that memory and intelligence are just different names for the same thing. It’s discouraging.’
‘There’s hypnotism,’ Anne said resourcefully. ‘All sorts of memories can be recovered that way. Even of being born, they say.’
‘Or conceived, I suppose.’ Lou said this rather tartly. ‘Or in the night of our forebeing or the Platonic anamnesis . All hooey. It makes me tired.’
‘And there’s the association of ideas,’ Anne went on unheedingly. ‘We just say things to Tim, and he makes spontaneous responses, and random recent memories are recovered that way.’
‘I’m going to wash up,’ Lou said. And she collected the coffee mugs and found her way to the kitchen.
Tim scribbled, bit his free thumb, scribbled, swore softly, scratched his head. Anne sat back and appeared to be according all these activities an equal respect. Averell sat back too. He had only a very little faith in the fruitfulness of the procedure he had suggested. And he was uneasy at his going along with these young people as he appeared to be doing. They weren’t dealing with some harmless scrape but with a couple of gravely criminal acts which it was the duty of anyone aware of them to bring to the knowledge of the police. Not to do so was probably a crime in itself as well as a moral delinquency; perhaps it was what was called compounding a felony. That he had himself that trivial and stupid motive for ducking the notice of the law added to his discomfort. If Tim’s affair took some further and yet more disastrous turn and the whole story emerged into the light of day this particular aspect of it wouldn’t look well.
But that, he supposed, was a selfish consideration. And there had grown up overnight a kind of unspoken assumption that he had agreed to play the thing Tim’s way and Tim’s friends’ way. He was steadily being admitted to more of their confidence on that understanding. It was an exceedingly awkward dilemma.
‘Do you know?’ Tim said, suddenly looking up from his task. ‘This employment would be a salutary discipline to recommend to anybody.’ He paused, and then glanced at Anne. ‘Anne,’ he said, ‘run along and help Lou scratch up something for lunch. We’ve got to eat, after all.’
‘Okay, Tim.’ Anne got up and departed as obediently – Averell thought – as if she were Milton’s Eve being banished while Adam held colloquy with a superior being. It suggested that even among the emancipated young certain of the old tyrannies of sexual subjugation prevailed at a pinch.
‘Chronicles of wasted time,’ Tim said. ‘And worse. Here’s no more than a fortnight – and a couple of exploits it just wouldn’t do to bruit abroad in the old home. How disgusting!’
‘Relevant exploits?’
‘Who can tell? But I think not. Anyway, I’ll put them on the reserve list. And here goes. So just listen, Uncle Gilbert.’
But again there was an interruption. This time, it was a ringing telephone bell.
11
Tim left the room to take the call. The telephone at Boxes was kept in a triangular cubby-hole under the staircase – Ruth having at some time had the very proper thought that young people ought to command a certain degree of privacy when using it. But this meant switching on a light, pulling a door to behind one, and crouching in a space which might have been
Tim had now possessed himself of pencil and paper. It was evident that he had a considerable capacity for doing whatever his uncle suggested.
‘I’ll try to work backwards to the beginning of the month,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it would be no go after that. I’ve a rotten memory. I know it as often as I look at all my bloody notes on my reading. And I believe there’s a theory that memory and intelligence are just different names for the same thing. It’s discouraging.’
‘There’s hypnotism,’ Anne said resourcefully. ‘All sorts of memories can be recovered that way. Even of being born, they say.’
‘Or conceived, I suppose.’ Lou said this rather tartly. ‘Or in the night of our forebeing or the Platonic anamnesis . All hooey. It makes me tired.’
‘And there’s the association of ideas,’ Anne went on unheedingly. ‘We just say things to Tim, and he makes spontaneous responses, and random recent memories are recovered that way.’
‘I’m going to wash up,’ Lou said. And she collected the coffee mugs and found her way to the kitchen.
Tim scribbled, bit his free thumb, scribbled, swore softly, scratched his head. Anne sat back and appeared to be according all these activities an equal respect. Averell sat back too. He had only a very little faith in the fruitfulness of the procedure he had suggested. And he was uneasy at his going along with these young people as he appeared to be doing. They weren’t dealing with some harmless scrape but with a couple of gravely criminal acts which it was the duty of anyone aware of them to bring to the knowledge of the police. Not to do so was probably a crime in itself as well as a moral delinquency; perhaps it was what was called compounding a felony. That he had himself that trivial and stupid motive for ducking the notice of the law added to his discomfort. If Tim’s affair took some further and yet more disastrous turn and the whole story emerged into the light of day this particular aspect of it wouldn’t look well.
But that, he supposed, was a selfish consideration. And there had grown up overnight a kind of unspoken assumption that he had agreed to play the thing Tim’s way and Tim’s friends’ way. He was steadily being admitted to more of their confidence on that understanding. It was an exceedingly awkward dilemma.
‘Do you know?’ Tim said, suddenly looking up from his task. ‘This employment would be a salutary discipline to recommend to anybody.’ He paused, and then glanced at Anne. ‘Anne,’ he said, ‘run along and help Lou scratch up something for lunch. We’ve got to eat, after all.’
‘Okay, Tim.’ Anne got up and departed as obediently – Averell thought – as if she were Milton’s Eve being banished while Adam held colloquy with a superior being. It suggested that even among the emancipated young certain of the old tyrannies of sexual subjugation prevailed at a pinch.
‘Chronicles of wasted time,’ Tim said. ‘And worse. Here’s no more than a fortnight – and a couple of exploits it just wouldn’t do to bruit abroad in the old home. How disgusting!’
‘Relevant exploits?’
‘Who can tell? But I think not. Anyway, I’ll put them on the reserve list. And here goes. So just listen, Uncle Gilbert.’
But again there was an interruption. This time, it was a ringing telephone bell.
11
Tim left the room to take the call. The telephone at Boxes was kept in a triangular cubby-hole under the staircase – Ruth having at some time had the very proper thought that young people ought to command a certain degree of privacy when using it. But this meant switching on a light, pulling a door to behind one, and crouching in a space which might have been
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