Haven't you heard? He's been caught.
No. When?
Don't you listen to the radio? He was arrested this morning. At least a man was arrested, and apparently he confessed later.
Good! Thank heavens for that.
I'm not so sure it's an advantage for Oliver. If the Whitechapel police had still got the murders to worry about, they might pay less attention to a drunken prison warder.
Quite. But where does Oliver think the child might be hiding?
Oh, anywhere. She only disappeared this morning. She might have spent the morning in Petticoat Lane market, or in the docks. She's probably back home now — unless she's staying overnight with a friend. Or she may go to Oliver's.
I hope so. I wouldn't like to think of her wandering around on a night like this.
As if to emphasise the words, there was a sound of rain on the window. Sorme went to the window and peered out; nothing was visible in the darkness.
Have you left your bicycle outside?
No. I came by train.
It's just as well. Would you like something to eat? I'm just having something myself.
Thanks.
He leaned against the refrigerator, watching her slice a joint of ham. The wine he had drunk with Glasp had made him feel sleepy. He asked her:
Have you heard from Austin recently?
No, not for several days.
I don't know where he's gone to. I've been trying to contact him for the last two days.
He may be at the Leatherhead cottage. He often goes there for weekends.
Ah, of course!
She glanced at him doubtfully.
Have you… have you spoken to him since you talked to me…
She left the sentence unfinished. Sorme said:
I had lunch with him on Saturday.
Yes.
She sounded uninterested. He took the plate with sandwiches, and went back into the other room. The rain was now beating steadily on the windows. He unfolded the paper napkin, and helped himself to a sandwich, then looked at her, smiling. She said:
I've been thinking about Austin ever since the other night. It seems a pity that he hasn't any close relatives who could… talk to him about it. There's no one who knows him well enough to be quite open with him.
What could they do, anyway?
She lowered her sandwich instead of biting it, regarding him steadily. She said:
They might persuade him to see a doctor.
That's true. On the other hand, he might feel they just didn't understand, and tell them to go to hell.
That wouldn't matter. If someone is dying of a disease, you don't ask them if they want to be cured.
Austin's not dying. And I don't think homosexuality qualifies as a disease.
He could sense a frustration growing up in her; her eyes flickered with irritation.
But he ought to have a chance to lead a normal existence. He'll inherit a great deal of money and property. He should have a son to pass it on to. He should have a chance to marry and settle down.
He said patiently:
I can see your point. But I doubt whether Austin wants to settle down. And I can't imagine him as a husband! Besides, why should you want to alter his life? He isn't unhappy — at least, not for that reason. What would you say if Austin suddenly wanted you to see a doctor to cure you of religion?
Oh, don't be silly, Gerard!
But if it's so important to marry and settle down, why aren't you married?
Her face coloured; for a moment, he expected a snub. She swallowed the remains of a sandwich, and said in a level voice:
That isn't the same thing at all.
Looking at her face, he felt a curious impulse of tenderness; she was right; it was not the same thing at all. The idea of being frank with her about Austin came to him, but he dismissed it immediately. Instead he said:
All right… If you like, I'll talk to Austin about it — tactfully. But I doubt whether it would have an effect.
A kind of hopelessness came into her eyes. She said:
Perhaps you're right. Perhaps it isn't my business. I'm fond of Austin. He's the only person in the family that I ever cared for much.
He said gently:
You can't take the responsibility for other people, you know. The best you can do is to offer help when it's needed.
But supposing Austin needs help?
Don't you see, Gertrude, you can only help when you understand fully? Your temperament's too different from Austin's to do any good.
Why do you say that? Do you suppose I've never felt like Austin?
He said:
I don't know. Have you?
I've wanted to let all my impulses loose. I suppose most people have. Austin's been lucky. He's always had the money to go where he likes and do what he likes, and no one has tried to interfere with him. In another sense he's been unlucky, because he's had too much freedom. But he's really a good person. He could never destroy the good in him, no matter what he did.
You're probably right. But don't you see? The fact that you've wanted to let your own impulses loose doesn't mean you understand Austin's impulses.
Do you understand them?
I… don't know. I think perhaps I do.
Then explain them to me.
He stared into the fire, feeling no desire to talk. The evening with Glasp had tired him. Aware of the persistence of her eyes, he said finally:
It's a feeling of being at a total loose end… having no sense of purpose or motive — a feeling of being disinherited. As if your existence was meaningless. And then sometimes you get a glimpse of an insight — a feeling that human existence is meaningless, but that you've got to give it meaning. And then you suddenly feel that you've got to stop living like a bad actor in a second-rate play. Somehow, you've got to start living properly. Well, human existence is mostly taboos, laws and rules. So the first thing to do — if you want to start living all the way down — is to break the laws and rules. That's the way you feel about it. And it just depends which laws and rules you feel like breaking. A man with a neurosis about being socially underprivileged might try to rob a bank or throw a bomb at the House of Lords. But most men suffer from a feeling of being sexually underprivileged, so it's more likely to break out in that direction…
He checked the impulse to say more. She waited for him to go on; then, after a moment, said sadly:
He doesn't realise there are other ways of… living fully. I wish I could teach him.
The resignation in her voice stirred an obscure pity in him; he found himself wishing she was sitting beside him on the settee, where he could touch her. Immediately, he felt a distrust of his own impulse, remembering the last time he had tried to touch her. He stood up, saying:
I'm afraid I'd belter go… Excuse me a moment.
In the bathroom, he opened the window and looked out towards the Heath; the rain fell steadily. Drops of water ran down his face. The washbasin was half full of clothes soaking in soapy water; he leaned over the bath and washed his hands under the hot tap. He sat on the edge of the bath to dry his hands, taking pleasure in the warmth and softness of the towel, surprised by the curious happiness that rose in him, the feeling of expectancy.
