glass; it tasted like lemon juice and water to his palate. Nunne said:
I want to get right away. Away from cities. I get sick…
Sorme said nothing. He could think of nothing that would not be cancelled out and invalidated by the facts. He thought: It's his problem.
Tell me, Gerard, have you ever felt really unintended? As if you can't choose any course of action because you're no more than flotsam?
Yes. Never for very long, though.
I do, Nunne said, as if he hadn't heard. You know, when I was at Oxford I used to know a chap called Nigel Barker. Terrific bloke. Most talented man I ever knew.
Splendid cricketer, classical scholar, mathematician. Best all-round sportsman in Balliol, but not one of these brainless sportsmen. Got some prize or other for Greek verse. I'd have sworn he'd have a charmed life — really cut out to do something big. Well, he went and broke his silly neck falling off a horse. Didn't kill him, but he's half paralysed. Funny.
Makes you feel everything's all wrong somehow.
Sorme said:
You know your trouble, Austin. You've got an overdeveloped sense of your own worthlessness.
Nunne halted the brandy glass before he drank, and stared at Sorme over the top of it, with surprise.
You've got something there. Sense of my own worthlessness. That's it. You know, we had a chaplain at Balliol who used to give me talks about that… About how the men who don't serve God never get on in the world.
He emptied the glass, and seemed to lose himself in speculation. He said finally: You're right about the worthlessness. I was always a worthless bastard if ever there was one. Neurotic little bugger all the way through my childhood, in trouble all through my teens. Always smashing up the car or driving it through somebody's back garden. You'd think if there was any justice in the world I'd break my stupid neck, wouldn't you? Not somebody like Nigel.
Sorme found Nunne's self-accusations embarrassing. He was in no position to contradict them. He said uncertainly:
You're creative, anyway. You write books.
Books, Nunne said sneeringly. By any standard of good writing my books are worthless, and I know it. So do you.
What if they were? I'm not saying they were — but what would it matter even if they were? You're still free. You can write books that aren't worthless.
Could I?
Why not? A lot of writers have started from a sense of worthlessness…
Baudelaire, Dostoevsky…
Nunne said softly:
Baudelaire. Everything in the world exudes crime…
When Sorme stared at him, puzzled, he said abruptly:
Don't mind me. I'm just a little drunk and tired.
His eyes, resting on Sorme, confirmed what he said; they looked blank and lifeless. He seemed to make an effort of will, and something like amusement came into them.
But you're OK, aren't you, Gerard? You're balanced and sane and level-headed?
Sorme suspected that Nunne had some secret joke. He said cautiously:
No, I'm not balanced. I'm just stagnant.
Oh, come! Let's not have any of that!
Sorme said, grinning: Stagnant, sullen and sex-starved.
Well, you shouldn't be sex-starved, anyway. I'm sure Caroline would oblige. Or that beefy girl who let me in.
Sorme smiled at the tartness in his voice.
No doubt. But I probably wouldn't enjoy it. You know, we had a phrase for it in the RAF. We called it 'having your oats'. That really catches its meaning — the straightforward physical act — having a nibble, a screw, dipping your wick. But that's not sex. Sex is the opposite of all that. It's the opposite of this feeling of being worthless, unintended. It's an overwhelming sense of power and security. It's the complete disappearance of the feeling of being mediocre. It's a strange conviction that nothing matters, that everything's good.
Nunne said with interest: Does it really mean all that to you?
Sometimes.
Then you're lucky.
Maybe. Maybe I'm not particularly lucky. Everybody's lucky, if only they knew it.
Even sadists and hopeless neurotics?
Everybody. You know, you say you often feel worthless. So do I, sometimes. But, fundamentally, I know I'm not. When I was a kid, my parents used to say I was born lucky. And the funny thing was, I always felt lucky, fundamentally…
Then you were lucky, Gerard. I wasn't. I had a loathsome childhood. My father bullied me, and my mother sat on me like a hen hatching eggs. She practically suffocated me. My main feelings in my childhood were shame and furtiveness. That's what my childhood was like. What do you say to that?
I understand it. I used to feel the same pretty often. Anybody does when they're children. Unless you spend most of your time day-dreaming. It's just the feeling of total lack of purpose in a child. You don't start to possess your own soul till you become an adolescent. And that sense of purpose, being your own master, is the greatest thing that can happen to you.
Nunne said:
Provided you're not up to your neck in a treacly mess of emotions.
Throw them off. Strangle them. I did. Anyway, you get moments of insight into yourself that make up for everything.
You do, perhaps.
Yes, I do. You know the Egyptians all believed they were descended from the gods? That's the feeling. For the Egyptians, man was a sort of god, a god in exile. For the Christian Church, he was an immortal soul, poised between heaven and hell. Today he's just a member of society with a duty to everybody else. It's the steady devaluation of human beings. But that's our job, Austin, yours and mine. We're the writers and poets.
We can fight the inflation. Our job is to increase the dignity of human beings, try to push it back towards the Egyptian estimate.
He began to feel excited and happy as he talked, and grateful to Nunne for releasing this sense of certainty. Nunne was listening with an expression of interest, but there was no response in his face. Looking at him, Sorme remembered his image, being burnt out inside, like a hole in a carpet. That was it. Something had short-circuited Nunne inside. His capacity to respond had been burnt out by guilt and fatigue. Nothing Sorme could say would strike any response; there was nothing to respond. Sorme stopped and stared at him, feeling the futility of saying more. He said finally:
You know, Austin, I wish you could tell me what's worrying you so much.
Why, nothing. Nothing you don't know about.
I don't understand. What's the use of being conscience-stricken? If you've done something bad, why waste time regretting it? If you can't stand by your action, then forget it. Dismiss it. Start again.
Nunne sat up in the chair. Sorme was aware of the effort it cost him. He smiled tiredly at Sorme.
Listen, Gerard, let's forget it, eh? I can't explain to you. I will one day. Don't get the idea it's a mystery. It's not. But let's not talk about it.
Sorme said:
Austin, I'm going to leave you. You look dog-tired.
I am. I shall take a strong sleeping-draught. Do you mind very much if I don't drive you home?
Of course not.
I'll send you in a taxi…
No!
