had been unable to make anything of the reference to that wood on the last page of the diary. He must then have dismissed Underhill’s first purpose as too nebulous to be worth recording, possibly as empty vaunting or delusion. As regards the second purpose, Thornton had not, again, had the benefit of a conversation with Underhill’s ghost, as I had had, and could not have been expected to realize that this purpose had had to do with some form of survival after death. If Thornton had deduced the nature of the hiding-place referred to in the closing paragraph, he had no doubt been, as I could very well suppose from my reading of his book, too pious a man to contemplate disturbing the remains of a departed soul, even those of an ‘infamous creature’ like Thomas Underhill. I had no such inhibitions; and I was going to open that grave and coffin and see what ‘books and papers’ (as mentioned by Thornton) and other extras were to be found there.
As I sat on the hard scholar’s chair with the diary before me, I felt as elated and unsettled as I had done just before setting off today—more so. I see well enough now that a little more prudence would have been in order, but at the time I was revolted by the thought of prudence. Until Diana came along, I had had nothing to be more than trivially imprudent about for years, and never anything on this scale. There might even be something in—anyway, something interesting about—the supposed secret which was going to render me master of myself. I, of all people, could afford to learn that sort of secret. Not that I had forgotten what had become of the promises Underhill had made to the Tyler girl, and presumably to the Ditchfield girl also. These two, in fact, figured somehow in my motives for going on with the investigation, though I could not then have said how or how importantly.
But, talking of Diana … It was five-and-twenty to three, comfortable time to copy out Underhill’s last page, pack up and lock up here, return the key to Ware in the library, leave a thank-you note for Duerinckx-Williams at St Matthew’s lodge, drive down to Royston, have a furious argument there with the tiny wizened young man who supplied me with my drink and see to it that he would never again try to sell me pre-tax-increase stock at the increased price, go on to Fareham and the appointed corner and pick up Diana at three thirty.
That was just how it went. Diana’s questionings covered some of the same ground as those of the previous afternoon, eventually branching out into the general topic of what it was, or what I thought it was, that made men so different from women, by and large an easier assignment. Then, before we had quite reached the hollow on the hill, she started stripping with creditable speed. Everything was rather different from last time. When she was naked, and I was still stepping out of my trousers, she lay down on her back, stared at me and moved about a good deal on the ground. As soon as I reached her, she made it very clear that what the books used to call fore-play was not needed now; in fact, I had no chance to so much as kiss her until after the main stage of the whole business had been set in vigorous motion. It seemed to go on for hours, with Diana showing incredible energy. Whether this was natural or assumed I did not bother to wonder then, and quite right too. The distinction is in any case a doubtful one: orgasm itself is a reflex, but nothing much that accompanies even orgasm can be called so (let alone what people get up to during other parts of the performance). Nor did I ask myself whether Diana was reaching that point as often as her behaviour claimed, or indeed at all. That is not my way at such times, and even more quite right too. The mystery, the emotional secretiveness, the self-distancing of women, all the luggage of feeling they go about with and expect men to handle for them—these and countless more concrete manifestations start, not from the minor circumstance that women carry and bear and rear children, but from the fact that they do not have erections and do not ejaculate. (And, while we are about it, it is the fact that men do that deprives the passive homosexual’s role of any real depth or credibility.)
Ejaculation, as all good mistresses know, is a great agent of change of mind and mood. As, now, I lay beside Diana, it occurred to me first that she had been demonstrating her un-predictability: nothing but receptiveness yesterday, all positive action today. A moment later, perhaps more charitably, though perhaps not, I decided that yesterday she had been too excited not to behave as she really wanted to, whereas today’s gymnastics were designed to make me admire her sexual prowess: a move from involuntary narcissism, so to speak, into the purposeful kind. What of it, anyway? Both kinds suited me.
I told her more or less how unpredictable she was, and this went down all right. I was ready with further material of the same sort when she said:
‘About your idea that we all ought to go to bed, you and I and Joyce.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve been thinking about it.’
‘Good.’
‘Maurice.’
‘Yes?’
‘Maurice, what would you get out of it exactly? I mean, I can see what I’d get out of it, at least I think I can, but where would you come in?
‘I think so, yes. Well, seeing that it’s so much fun to go to bed with one beautiful girl, it ought to be twice as much fun to go to bed with two, if not more. More than twice as much fun. Worth trying, anyhow.’
‘Mm. You want to watch us at it, kind of thing, too, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do rather. I’ve never been able to see anything wrong with the idea of watching people at it, provided that’s not all you’re doing, and that won’t apply in my case, of course. And provided, as far as I’m concerned, that neither of the people is a chap, and that’s not going to apply either.’
‘I …
‘You can do whatever you feel like doing.’
‘No, but would you?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Oh. Maurice … Maurice, isn’t part of this whole thing doing what you’re not meant to do?’
‘I expect so, yes. And as good a reason as any, by God.’
‘You’re not to be cross, but I think that’s a jolly schoolboyish view.
‘Ah, so that’s why it’s got so much appeal.’
‘Well, one thing to be said for a threesome is that Jack wouldn’t approve,’ she said abruptly, so much so that she got to the end of the sentence at about the time she would normally be drawing the first word to a close.
I opened my eyes, on the instinct that tells us that having done so we will be better prepared for whatever may follow, even when the view consists of as little as, in my case, an irreducibly near cheek and part of a nose and chin. There is that,’ I said.
‘I know all doctors screw their patients but he might at least take the trouble to pretend he’s not,’ she went on, sticking for the moment to her new policy of talking at ordinary human-being speed. Then she reverted to the old one. ‘But—that’s— nuh—thing, compared to what I’ve really got against him.’
Silence fell. One of these days I would bury her in an ant-hill up to her neck or feign sleep when she did this to me, but not today. ‘What’s that?’
‘I hate him. I can’t bear him.’
‘You can’t?’ I may have sounded less mildly surprised than I felt. Diana so seldom provoked anything more than the merest flicker of reaction (apart from lust and annoyance in full measure) that I had probably got into a habit of overdoing the eyes and teeth.
‘Of …
‘What don’t you like about him?’
‘Oh, everything. I’ve been trying to make up my mind to leave him for simply ages. But, Maurice, don’t you think this is most peculiar?’
‘… Isn’t what most peculiar?’
‘Well. That you’ve known Jack and I for three years or more, and you’ve never noticed the absolutely obvious and simple fact that I can’t stand him. You really do not have, I suppose? I mean, you’re not joking?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m quite sure.’
