without so much as a scratch.’
When he had finished talking she said, ‘When will you leave for Ladylees?’
‘Tomorrow, as early as possible. By train; my car’s going in for repair. I’ll hire one at Hayward’s Heath for the few days.’
‘Don’t take Caroline.’
‘Why not?’
‘She isn’t strong enough, surely, to be mixed up in this?’ ‘I should say it would do her good.’
‘She will be in your way, surely, if you intend making inquiries.’
‘Not Caroline. She’s too cute.’
‘Tell Caroline to keep in touch with me, then. Ask her to phone every day and let me know what’s happening. I can depend on Caroline.’
‘Whisky makes you snooty,’ he said. ‘You can depend on me too.’
‘Wheedle the truth out of your grandmother,’ she pleaded.
As he started to leave, she said shyly in case there should be any offence, ‘Try to find out how much it will cost us to get her out of the hands of these crooks.’
Laurence said, ‘We don’t know who’s in whose hands, really. Better not mention it to Father just yet; it may turn out to be something quite innocent, a game of Grandmother’s —’
‘I won’t trouble your father just yet,’ she assured him abruptly. ‘He does so admire my mother.’ Then she added, ‘To think that our old trusted servant should do a thing like this.’
He thought that a bit of hypocrisy— that ‘old trusted servant ‘phrase.
‘You think I’m a hypocrite, don’t you?’ his mother said.
‘Of course not,’ he replied, ‘why should I?’
‘Everything O.K.?’
Caroline woke at the sound of Laurence’s voice. She was very sleepy still; this protracted waking up was also a sign that she was getting better. Muzzily, she was not sure if Laurence had said ‘Everything O.K.?’ or if this was something as yet unspoken, which it was her place to ask. So she said, all muzzed, sitting up, ‘Everything O.K.?’
Laurence laughed.
She rose sleepily and went into the bathroom to wash and change, leaving the door open to talk through.
‘Any incidents?’ said Laurence.
She was awake now. ‘Yes,’ she told him. ‘Lord Tom Noddy on the air.
‘Who?’
‘Madame Butterfly.’
‘And did you remember the tape-machine?’
‘Um. I pressed the button. But I don’t know if it’s recorded anything.’
She sounded diffident. Laurence said:
‘Shall I try?’ He was afraid the experiment might upset her, might turn the luck of Caroline’s health.
‘Yes, do.’
He arranged the recording device, and pressed a lever. It gave a tiny whirr, then came the boom of Laurence’s voice. ‘Caroline darling…’ followed by the funny, unprintable suggestion.
Caroline came out of the bathroom to listen, towel in hand. They were both eager for the next bit. It was a woman’s voice. Laurence looked up sharply as it spoke: ‘That’s a damned lie. You’re getting scared, I think. Why are you suddenly taking cover under that protestation?’
That was all. ‘Good Christ!’ said Laurence.
Caroline explained, rather embarrassed. ‘That was my voice, answering back. It seems, my dear, that these visiting voices don’t record. I didn’t really think they would take.’
‘What did they say to you? Why did you reply like that? What made you say ‘‘It’s a lie”?’
She read him the shorthand notes she had taken.
‘So you see,’ she said with a hurt laugh, ‘the characters are all fictitious.’
Laurence fiddled absently with the machine. When she stopped talking, he told her to hurry and get dressed. He kissed her as if she were a child.
As she made up her face she told him excitably, ‘I have the answer. I know how to handle that voice.’
She expected him to ask, ‘Tell me how.’ But he didn’t; he looked at her, still reckoning her in his regard as if she were a lovable child. Then he said, ‘Mother’s worried. I’m afraid there’s going to be a big shemozzle about Grandmother.’
It seemed to Laurence, then, that it was unsatisfactory for Caroline to be a child. He felt the need of her coordinating mind to piece together the mysterious facts of his grandmother’s life. He felt helpless.
‘You’ll help me with my grandmother, won’t you?’ he said. ‘Why?’ she said gaily. ‘What are you going to do to your grandmother?’ She looked mock-sinister. She was getting better. Laurence looked from her face to the shorthand notebook on the table, from the evidence of her normality to the evidence of her delusion. Perhaps, he
