ended our brief friendship. Instead, he and Williams became inseparable.
It was, I remember, a particularly beautiful autumn. Red, dead leaves gleamed all day in the soft sunlight. On warm afternoons I walked alone through the gorse-covered hills. I did not make friends easily; and I missed the company of Markham.
As the weeks passed it became clear the murder of Markham’s parents by the Mau Mau was now generally accepted. It might be thought that against a background of Markham’s stories and avowed intentions a certain fear would have developed; an uneasiness about sharing one’s daily existence with such a character. It was not so. Markham seemed almost dead himself; he was certainly not a figure to inspire terror. The more one noticed him the more unlikely it appeared that he could possibly have had any hand in the events in Kenya, although he had been in the house at the time and had himself escaped undamaged.
I thought that only I must have been aware of the ominous nature of Markham’s association with Williams. Williams, I knew, was up to no good. He whispered constantly to Markham, grinning slyly, his small eyes drilling into Markham’s face. I didn’t like it and I didn’t know what to do.
One afternoon I walked into the town with a boy called Block. We went to a cafe with the intention of passing an hour over tea and cakes and, if the coast seemed clear, a surreptitious smoke.
‘This is an uncivilized place,’ Block remarked as we sat down. ‘I cannot imagine why we came here.’
‘There is nowhere else.’
‘It is at least too revolting for the Bodger or any of his band. Look, there’s our dreaded Williams. With Markham.’
They were sitting at a table in an alcove. Williams, talking as usual, was fiddling with the spots on his face. As I watched him, he picked a brightly coloured cake from the plate between them. It looked an uninviting article, indeed scarcely edible. He nibbled at one corner and replaced it on the plate.
‘Whatever does Markham see in him?’ Block asked.
I shook my head. Block was a simple person, but when he next spoke he revealed a depth I had not before had evidence of. He cocked his head to one side and said: ‘Williams hates Markham. You can see it easily enough. And I believe Markham’s terrified of him. You used to know Markham rather well. D’you know why?’
Again I shook my head. But there was no doubt about it, Block was quite right.
The nub of the relationship was William’s hatred. It was as though hatred of some kind was essential to Markham; as though, since he had no father to hate now, he was feeding on this unexplained hatred of himself. It all seemed a bit crazy, but I felt that something of the kind must be true.
‘I feel I should do something about it all,’ I said. ‘Williams is a horribly untrustworthy fellow. God knows what his intentions are.’
Did Williams know something we others were ignorant of? Something of the double death in Kenya?
‘What can you do?’ Block said, lighting the butt of a cigarette.
‘I wonder if I should talk to Pinshow?’
Block laughed. Pinshow was a fat, middle-aged master who welcomed the personal problems of his pupils. He was also a bit of an intellectual. It was enough to tell Mr Pinshow that one had an ambition to become a writer or an actor to ensure endless mugs of black coffee in Mr Pinshow’s room.
‘I often wonder if we don’t underestimate Pinshow,’ I said. ‘There’s lots of goodwill in the man. And good ideas quite often originate in unexpected quarters. He just might be able to suggest something.’
‘Perhaps. You know more about Markham than I do. I mean, you probably know more about what the matter is. He doesn’t seem much good at anything any more, does he?’
I looked across the room at his sad, lost-looking face. ‘No, I’m afraid he doesn’t.’
Block suddenly began to laugh. ‘Have you heard Butler’s one about the sick budgerigar?’
I said I didn’t think I had, and he leaned forward and told me. Listening to this obscene account of invalid bird- life, I made up my mind to see Pinshow as soon as possible.
The evening light faded and Mr Pinshow continued to talk. I tried in the gloom to take some biscuits without his observing my action. He pushed the box closer to me, oblivious, or so I hoped, of my deceit. ‘
I said: ‘There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love.’
‘Ah, Wilder.’ Mr Pinshow drew a large coloured handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose.
‘The only survival,’ I added, ‘the only meaning.’
Mr Pinshow replaced his handkerchief. He scratched a match along the side of its box and held the flame to his pipe. ‘Love’ he said, puffing, ‘or love? One sort or the other sort?’
‘The other sort, sir?’
‘You question such a division? Good. Good.’
I said: ‘I wanted to speak to you, sir.’
‘Quite right. Fire away, then.’
‘In confidence, sir, I think Williams is a bad influence on Markham.’
‘Ah.’
‘I think Markham may be very upset about his parents’ death, sir. Williams is the last person…’
‘Come now, in what way a bad influence? Speak freely, my friend. We must straightway establish the facts of the case.’
