Miss Smythe said. ‘People are longing for a message of hope.’
‘Hope?’
‘Yes, hope,’ Smythe said. ‘Can’t you see what hope there’d be, if everybody in the world knew that there was nothing else but what we have here? No future compensation, rewards, punishments.’ His face had a crazy nobility when one cheek was hidden. ‘Then we’d begin to make this world like heaven.’
‘There’s a terrible lot to be explained first,’ I said.
‘Can I show you my library?’
‘It’s the best rationalist library in South London,’ Miss Smythe explained.
‘I don’t need to be converted, Mr Smythe. I believe in nothing as it is. Except now and then.’
‘It’s the now and thens we have to deal with.’
‘The odd thing is that those are the moments of hope.’
‘Pride can masquerade as hope. Or selfishness.’
‘I don’t think that has anything to do with it at all. It happens suddenly, for no reason, a scent… ‘
‘Ah,’ Smythe said, ‘the construction of a flower, the argument from design, all that business about a watch requiring a watchmaker. It’s old-fashioned. Schwenigen answered all that twenty-five years ago. Let me show you… ‘
‘Not today. I must really take the boy home.’
Again he made that gesture of frustrated tenderness, like a lover who has been rejected. I wondered suddenly from how many death-beds he had been excluded. I found I wanted to give him some message of hope too, but then the cheek turned and I saw only the arrogant actor’s face. I preferred him when he was pitiable, inadequate, out of date. Ayer, Russell - they were the fashion today, but I doubted whether there were many logical positivists in his library. He only had the crusaders, not the detached.
At the door - I noticed that he didn’t use that dangerous term good-bye - I shot directly at his handsome cheek, ‘You should meet a friend of mine, Mrs Miles. She’s interested…’ and then I stopped. The shot had gone home. The spots seemed to flush a deeper red and I heard Miss Smythe say, ‘Oh, my dear,’ as he turned abruptly away. There was no doubt that I had given him pain, but the pain was mine as well as his. How I wished my shot had gone astray.
In the gutter outside Parkis’s boy was sick. I let him vomit, standing there wondering, has he lost her too? Is there no end to this? Have I now got to discover Y?
8
Parkis said, ‘It really was very easy, sir. There was such a crush, and Mrs Miles thought I was one of his friends from the Ministry, and Mr Miles thought I was one of her friends.’
‘Was it a good cocktail party?’ I asked, remembering again that first meeting and the sight of Sarah with the stranger.
‘Highly successful I should say, sir, but Mrs Miles seemed a bit out of sorts. A very nasty cough, she’s got.’ I heard him with pleasure: perhaps at this party there had been no alcove-kissing or touching. He laid a brown-paper parcel on my desk and said with pride, ‘I knew the way to her room from the maid. If anyone had taken notice of me, I should have been looking for the toilet, but nobody did. There it was, out on her desk; she must have worked on it that day. Of course, she may be very cautious, but my experience of diaries is they always give things away. People invent their little codes, but you soon see through them, sir. Or they leave out things, but you soon learn what they leave out.’ While he spoke I unwrapped the book and opened it. ‘It’s human nature, sir, that if you keep a diary, you want to remember things. Why keep it otherwise?’
‘Did you look at this?’ I asked.
‘I ascertained its nature, sir, and from one entry judged she wasn’t of the cautious type.’
‘It’s not this year’s,’ I said. ‘It’s two years old.’
For a moment he was dashed.
‘It will serve my purpose,’ I said.
‘It would do the trick as well, sir - if nothing’s been condoned.’
The journal was written in a big account book, the familiar bold
‘Hope?’
‘Yes, hope,’ Smythe said. ‘Can’t you see what hope there’d be, if everybody in the world knew that there was nothing else but what we have here? No future compensation, rewards, punishments.’ His face had a crazy nobility when one cheek was hidden. ‘Then we’d begin to make this world like heaven.’
‘There’s a terrible lot to be explained first,’ I said.
‘Can I show you my library?’
‘It’s the best rationalist library in South London,’ Miss Smythe explained.
‘I don’t need to be converted, Mr Smythe. I believe in nothing as it is. Except now and then.’
‘It’s the now and thens we have to deal with.’
‘The odd thing is that those are the moments of hope.’
‘Pride can masquerade as hope. Or selfishness.’
‘I don’t think that has anything to do with it at all. It happens suddenly, for no reason, a scent… ‘
‘Ah,’ Smythe said, ‘the construction of a flower, the argument from design, all that business about a watch requiring a watchmaker. It’s old-fashioned. Schwenigen answered all that twenty-five years ago. Let me show you… ‘
‘Not today. I must really take the boy home.’
Again he made that gesture of frustrated tenderness, like a lover who has been rejected. I wondered suddenly from how many death-beds he had been excluded. I found I wanted to give him some message of hope too, but then the cheek turned and I saw only the arrogant actor’s face. I preferred him when he was pitiable, inadequate, out of date. Ayer, Russell - they were the fashion today, but I doubted whether there were many logical positivists in his library. He only had the crusaders, not the detached.
At the door - I noticed that he didn’t use that dangerous term good-bye - I shot directly at his handsome cheek, ‘You should meet a friend of mine, Mrs Miles. She’s interested…’ and then I stopped. The shot had gone home. The spots seemed to flush a deeper red and I heard Miss Smythe say, ‘Oh, my dear,’ as he turned abruptly away. There was no doubt that I had given him pain, but the pain was mine as well as his. How I wished my shot had gone astray.
In the gutter outside Parkis’s boy was sick. I let him vomit, standing there wondering, has he lost her too? Is there no end to this? Have I now got to discover Y?
8
Parkis said, ‘It really was very easy, sir. There was such a crush, and Mrs Miles thought I was one of his friends from the Ministry, and Mr Miles thought I was one of her friends.’
‘Was it a good cocktail party?’ I asked, remembering again that first meeting and the sight of Sarah with the stranger.
‘Highly successful I should say, sir, but Mrs Miles seemed a bit out of sorts. A very nasty cough, she’s got.’ I heard him with pleasure: perhaps at this party there had been no alcove-kissing or touching. He laid a brown-paper parcel on my desk and said with pride, ‘I knew the way to her room from the maid. If anyone had taken notice of me, I should have been looking for the toilet, but nobody did. There it was, out on her desk; she must have worked on it that day. Of course, she may be very cautious, but my experience of diaries is they always give things away. People invent their little codes, but you soon see through them, sir. Or they leave out things, but you soon learn what they leave out.’ While he spoke I unwrapped the book and opened it. ‘It’s human nature, sir, that if you keep a diary, you want to remember things. Why keep it otherwise?’
‘Did you look at this?’ I asked.
‘I ascertained its nature, sir, and from one entry judged she wasn’t of the cautious type.’
‘It’s not this year’s,’ I said. ‘It’s two years old.’
For a moment he was dashed.
‘It will serve my purpose,’ I said.
‘It would do the trick as well, sir - if nothing’s been condoned.’
The journal was written in a big account book, the familiar bold
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