The Pyramid by William Golding Page A

say—”
    “What was it then, Mother?”
    “ As I said,” she announced with dignity, “I’m going into Barchester. On Saturday.”
    My father rubbed his head, and identified Barchester in his mind.
    “Oh yes.”
    “I shall catch the one o’clock bus. The wedding isn’t till three.”
    “Wedding?”
    My father identified weddings.
    “Whose wedding?”
    My mother set down her cup with a clatter. Clearly, it was a mood-day.
    “Whose wedding do you think? The Pope’s? Imogen Grantley’s of course!”
    After a time I could hear them again. My mother was concluding a lengthy speech.
    “I shall have tea at the Cadena.”
    “Yes that’s the best place, I suppose.”
    “What d’you know about it, Father? You’ve never been there! I might go to the pictures afterwards.”
    “There’s a cinema in Stilbourne, Mother,” said my father, eager to help. “I don’t know what’s on, though.”
    “There’s a lot you don’t know,” said my mother tartly. “Right under your nose, some of it.”
    My father nodded placatingly.
    “I know. Perhaps Oliver would like—”
    “ Him !” She referred to me as if I were a contemptible object in Australia. “He’ll be traipsing about the countryside, I’ll be bound!”
    For a time we were all three silent. I could hear my mother tapping her shoe against the table leg.
    “So I’m not asking either of my fine men to escort me—”
    The tapping stopped. She paused, then completed her sentence with brooding finality, “—because I know it wouldn’t be any good.”
    My father and I looked at our plates, silent for different reasons.
    *
    Even by teatime next day, my mother was still smouldering ; and I, with much to conceal, had nervous thoughts that jumped into downright apprehension when she broke into our silence.
    “That girl was a long time in the dispensary, Father!”
    “Yes. Yes, she was.”
    “Well I hope you gave her some good advice. It’s time somebody did!”
    My father wiped his grey moustache and nodded soberly. People occasionally came to him for advice. This, I believe, was because he looked more like a doctor than Dr. Ewan did, and had not the awesome aura of Dr. Ewan’s county status. People could talk to my father, they said; and indeed this was true, since he seldom answered them. Chewing the cud of an idea until he had extracted the last possible juice from it, he would appear to listen to them as they rattled on. This gave them an impregnable sense of his wisdom; and indeed, since he was effortlessly good and kind and methodical and slow, he may have been wise too. My special relationship as a son, made it difficult for me to judge.
    “What did she want, then, Father?”
    The cynical end of me triumphed for an instant over apprehension and saw my father offer Evie some opening medicine. But he was staring at the teapot and pursing his lips. I waited.
    “She doesn’t think much of—people.”
    I debated with myself whether asking what girl this was would convey my indifference; and decided sensibly against. But my mother was glittering and nodding meaningly.
    “And that doesn’t surprise me! It doesn’t surprise me at all!”
    “Beasts,” said my father. “All men are beasts. That’s what she said.”
    “ Well ,” said my mother. “What d’you expect from a girl like that? Men are what you—”
    I blew tea all over the table cloth. This small crisis was a great relief; and by the time my back had been thumped I hoped the subject might be changed. But I should have known that my mother in this strangely extended Mood would not be content with a word or two only; and that my father would have to comply.
    “Go on then, Father. What did you say?”
    My father wiped his moustache, passed a hand over his baldness, adjusted his glasses, and stared at the teapot again. I could hear my mother’s foot begin to tap.
    “I said ‘No’.”
    The tapping went on, and my father heard it. He amplified.
    “I said no they weren’t. I