Ritual in the Dark by Colin Wilson Page A

three or four evenings a week. Then I have a niece who stays frequently. . .
    The Jehovah’s Witnesses?
    Yes. Then I have many friends in Hampstead.
    He took a mouthful of the soup, and realised how hungry he was. A sensual gratitude rose from his stomach, and made him smile at her. She sat opposite him, and took a partly sewn tweed skirt from a white paper carrier which carried the inscription: Harrods. She took out a needle that had been pushed into the edge of the fabric, and began to sew carefully. He asked casually: What are you making?
    A skirt.
    Do you always do your own dressmaking?
    Usually.
    He finished the soup and pushed the plate away.
    That was excellent.
    Good.
    She stood up silently and opened the refrigerator; it was taller than she was.
    You’re not a vegetarian, are you?
    He said enthusiastically: Positively not! The plate contained a leg of chicken and three slices of ham.
    Help yourself to salad.
    Thanks.
    Would you like a glass of beer?
    I’d love some!
    He ate hungrily and drank half a pint of brown ale. It gave him pleasure to see her sitting opposite him, her head bent over the sewing. He helped himself to more salad, selecting with care the leaves of chicory and fragments of green paprika. He asked her suddenly:
    Were you never married?
    He knew the answer already, but wanted to see her reaction to the topic. It surprised him. She looked at him with obviously suppressed irritation, and answered:
    No.
    I hope you don’t mind my asking?
    Not at all.
    Her voice still had a sharp edge to it. He went on eating, and poured a second glass of beer, wondering why the question had annoyed her. He said carefully:
    You make me feel that I shouldn’t have brought it up.
    She went on sewing. He began to think she intended to ignore him, as a measure of her disapproval. Then she began to speak, still looking down at the sewing, her voice level and precise:
    It doesn’t annoy me to be asked. What annoys me is the assumption that usually underlies the question. Male bachelors are quite ordinary and acceptable, but unmarried women are called ‘spinsters’ and regarded as somehow incomplete. It’s all this nonsense of Byron about love being a man’s pastime, but a woman’s whole life. . .
    Normally, her sentiments would have struck him as dubious. But the meal had left him feeling good-humoured and in her debt. He said hastily:
    I agree completely. It’s utter nonsense. Of course women have every right to be as independent as men. . .
    She interrupted:
    I didn’t say that. I don’t believe most women are as naturally independent as men. But I have my own work to do, and marriage would. . . distract me.
    And what is your work?
    She smiled at him suddenly, and the school mistressy expression was replaced by a charm that made her appear younger.
    Are you really curious?
    Very curious, he said seriously.
    She went on sewing.
    I used to think about being a. . . a woman with something to say.
    A writer?
    Yes. Not necessarily, though. When I was a girl I had a book of lives of the female saints—St Catherine of Siena and St Teresa of Avila and the rest.
    You wanted to be a saint?
    I don’t know. I was too young then to know what being a saint meant.
    Do you know now?
    A little better, I think. I’ve been reading Simone Weil. She was a saint. I could never be like Simone Weil.
    Why?
    Because. . . oh, because I’m not clever enough and not strong enough and not. . . oh, I don’t know. . .
    And yet you don’t want to marry and have a family?
    Perhaps I might—if I met the man I wanted to settle down with.
    She looked up and noticed his smile. She said:
    I know what you’re thinking. Another woman who needs the right man. I’ve met so many of them. Waiting for Mr Right.
    He said:
    But in your case, it’s not merely that. You’d like to do something worth while with your life?
    She said, with a touch of tiredness in her voice:
    I don’t believe marriage should be a dead end for women, anyway. Most of them