Where Nothing Sleeps Volume Two: The Complete Short Stories and Other Related Works

By Denton Welch

The second volume of Denton Welch’s complete collected short works

English novelist Denton Welch originally trained as a visual artist, and a painterly perspicacity and talent for human observation are evident in his writing. His close attention to detail renders even the most seemingly mundane trivialities memorable and important. Though he died at the young age of thirty-three, Welch was quite prolific, doing most of his writing while bedridden after a bicycling accident that left him seriously injured. He produced three novels, over seventy-five short stories, and a journal that ran over two hundred fifty thousand words long.
 
This volume includes “Man in a Garden,” a brief prose piece that recounts the sketching of a friend in a garden, and the poignant “Memories of a Vanished Period,” which takes place at a wedding. Also included is a selection of stories that depart somewhat from Welch’s standard autobiographical style, venturing into the territory of fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Feb 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504002936

Denton Welch

Denton Welch (1915–1948) wrote three novels and many short stories, journals, and poems. Born in Shanghai to an American mother and an English father, he was raised in England, and his principal ambition was to be a painter until a bicycling accident left him partially paralyzed at the age of twenty. After that, he began to write a series of autobiographical works. He died at thirty-three of complications resulting from his injuries. 

Book preview

STRANGE DISCOVERIES

When I was an art student I lived in a room at the top of an eighteenth-century house on Croom’s Hill. My one small sash window looked on to Greenwich Park, where lovers lay in the grass, and dogs and children played all day under the great Spanish chestnuts. Little traffic noise came up to me, but there was always the sound of feet on the pavement, so that I had a feeling of holiday, imagining groups of people climbing up to Blackheath to go for long walks, to gather round the huge bonfire on Guy Fawkes’ Night, or to swing in the painted boats when the fair came. I remember everything about this room, because I was alone in it so much and because I had never before had a place of my own to enjoy.

On each side of the window the ceiling sloped down to within three or four feet of the wide old floorboards. These had been freshly ochred, and on this unpolished, tawny floor lay the pale skin of a lioness. It belonged to the owner of the house, and the comfortable bed was hers too, but nearly everything else had been bought with my weekly pocket-money.

Every afternoon I would go searching in the junk shops of the neighbourhood. When school was over, I used to jump on a bus and then get off at any street that looked promising.

I found my dressing-table in an old stable-yard on the other side of the heath. A man kept an open-air shop there and walked up and down behind his pile of furniture, like a truculent soldier behind a hastily thrown-up barricade. He let me have the early-Victorian worktable for seventeen shillings, and I put it on my shoulder and carried it home there and then, for I was too impatient to wait for it to be delivered.

I scraped the thick dirt off the pedestal with pennies, and rubbed all the surfaces with beeswax and turpentine until the rich rosewood shone. Over the cradle-like box, which had once been covered with pleated silk, I stuck silver and black striped paper; then I stood the transformed table under a long plain mirror and put my brushes on top and my handkerchiefs and socks in the drawer.

Next to the dressing-table I placed my chest. It was really the bottom half of a Chippendale tallboy, but I covered the rough pine top with a piece of worn Chinese brocade, and pulled off the clumsy wooden knobs which had been fixed on the drawers. As I had no brass handles to match the beautiful key scutcheons, I used to open the drawers by fitting my forefingers into the holes where the knobs had been.

In one rather dark corner glowed a little Flemish cabinet which I had bought for ten shillings in the New Cross Road. It was seventeenth-century ebony and tortoiseshell work. A vermilion ground showed through the translucent parts of the tortoiseshell, and there was a thread of ivory inlay round each black panel. When I found it, the drawers were filled with nuts and bolts, and thick black grease smothered the surface. I think some mechanic must have been using it for years in his workroom.

In this same New Cross shop, kept by an easy-going man and his Irish friend, I also bought an alderman’s robe, which I had cleaned and mended, so that I could use it as a dressing-gown. It was made of thick crimson damask, lined with violet satin. The hanging sleeves and the hem were heavy with gold braid, and to wear it made me feel old and grand and unreal, so that I would put it on when I wanted to escape from my true self for a little.

My only chair was found one weekend in a country shop. It had little out-sweeping feet and a Greek spoon back, and so I suppose would be called Regency. The back was painted in white and terracotta, with the classic honeysuckle pattern surrounding a Gothic cusp and trefoil. The mixture of styles made it strange and, to me, very attractive. I found too, when I sat in it, that the curved back fitted round my own like a shell.

The bed I covered with my great-grandmother’s cashmere shawl. There were huge holes in it, but I ignored these, and saw only the amazing tree pattern which crept over the surface and seemed to gather to it all the lovely colour clashes and harmonies that there are.

Just above the bed, so that I could gaze into it in the morning, hung a little Rajput hunting scene, which I had found one day by running uninvited up the dark stairs at the back of my favourite shop. I had waited for some time in the show-room, and no one had appeared; so, armed with the excuse that I was looking for the owner, I broke into his private apartments.

I found him industriously repainting the clouds in a seascape. He was so good-natured that he didn’t even show surprise at my sudden intrusion. He let me look at everything, and it was while I was exploring the derelict room next to his own that I discovered the Indian miniature. Tiny huntsmen on horseback moved between rocks and trees, while their women bathed in a lotus pond. I thought for one moment that it was a shiny reproduction cut out of the Burlington Magazine and put behind dirty glass in a blistered maplewood frame; but when I took it to the light, I knew that I was wrong.

I think the man let me have it for eight shillings; and on my first free day, I took it to the British Museum, where someone in the Print Room told me that it was of the early eighteenth century.

‘It is the sort of thing we would like here,’ he added, but although his hint delighted me, I pretended not to notice, and took my drawing away, hugging it to me under my arm.

Later I was to make an even more exciting discovery, which should really be a story in itself, but I must just outline it here. One morning I was hurrying to the art school, when I saw in the old-clothes shop at the end of Croom’s Hill the glint of a gold background between the rudely gaping trousers and jackets, and the sad polka-dot beach-pyjamas. I was looking at one of the smaller panels of a medieval altar-piece, but the sight was too extraordinary to be believed; and as I was already half an hour late, I ran on, telling myself that it could only be a late Russian icon.

All day the picture haunted me; so after work I went straight back to the shop.

The picture had gone from the window. A moulded glass butterdish and a jug full of steel hat-pins stood there instead. I was afraid that it had been sold and that I would never see it again, but I went into the shop and after hard work discovered that the picture had been taken upstairs to be kept for a dealer.

Although I had only ten shillings in my pocket, I persuaded the man that I was able to pay the ten pounds he was asking, and he at last brought it down and held it out to me reluctantly.

I saw Mary and Joseph and the ox and the ass on each side of a baby whose little old man’s body was prickly with gold rays; and in the thick gold sky swam an angel, bearing a scroll on which I could just read the words ‘Gloria in excelsis’.

I knew that I must have the picture, and I bargained until the man came down to four pounds, then I stopped, not daring to press him any further. I left the ten shillings and ran back to the house to borrow the rest from my landlady.

When, a few days afterwards, I showed the picture to Professor Constable of the Metropolitan Museum, New York, he told me that it was Italian work of the late fourteenth or early fifteenth century, probably from some country place near Siena.

This knowledge enchanted me for weeks. Sitting alone in my room, gazing at the picture, I would try to remember his exact words and the way he looked as he passed judgement.

Then my eyes would wander to all the other things that I had collected. A few, like the picture, were rare and valuable; others, like the rosewood worktable, were quite ordinary; but they all brought something to me, gave me their usefulness, their beauty or their strangeness.

I would sit there musing, until perhaps Miss S., my landlady, came to ask me down to tea with her father, when I would go into the garden and find them under the fig tree which could never bring its fruit to ripeness, but always dropped it in a hard green shower. We would eat apricot jam on soft bread and butter; and afterwards the father would wander away, saying vague, polite things.

Soon a strange discordant music might come from the house; then I would know that he was playing his harp in the lovely old flagged kitchen.

I had seen him once in his woollen dressing-gown and skullcap, sitting in front of the huge golden instrument, plucking at the wires with his hands, while his eyes seemed fixed on the golden woman’s torso at the top. And as he played, he sang a stern hymn in a goaty falsetto, for he was a Plymouth Brother; but not, I believe, any longer of the ‘closed’ order.

IN BRIXHAM HARBOUR

Joan and I and Valerie went down to the harbour where the boats were bobbing about on the black and white slippery water. The moon was up, floating far out over the sea.

We stood on the end of the breakwater and let the wind blow our clothes flat against our bodies. It had a nice, smooth, feeling touch, like very soft hands.

Pretty, fat Valerie’s spotted rain cape filled with wind and bellied out. It crinkled and glistened like the water.

Someone passed us and went sinking down the stone steps. We heard him climbing into a boat and then push off. Soon he appeared, floating on the bright moon-path. He was singing now, and suddenly Valerie joined in, high above him. We nudged and pinched her to stop, but she laughed through her singing, making more and more noise.

‘Would you like to come for a row?’ the man called out.

‘Yes,’ shrieked Valerie. She shepherded us in front of her and we waited at the bottom of the dripping stairs.

When the boat was near the man stood up, leaned forward and caught an iron ring. The boat drew up to the stone wall with a little slap and click. We jumped in and sat down quickly for fear. The boat stopped rocking as the man pulled on the oars. We were not saying anything, only waiting for what he would say.

We seemed to be heading for a square hump of a boat; like a barge cut in half.

‘Come on board and have a drink,’ the man suddenly said, as we drew alongside.

‘What is it?’ Joan asked nervously. Then she laughed a little because she felt she had been rude.

‘It’s a painter,’ the man said. ‘There are three of us on board.’

He found the rope-ladder which hung down, and helped the two girls to climb. Soon we were all standing on the deck, waiting for him to appear. He swung himself over the rail like a monkey and then led us to the cabin door. Light leaked from cracks round the windows and we could hear voices.

The two inside looked at us curiously as we stood in the doorway. One sat at a table under the oil-lamp. The other lay on his back in an upper bunk. They were drinking whisky out of egg-cups.

‘John, some more egg-cups,’ our friend said to the one who was lying on his back.

John raised himself and felt in the mahogany cupboard at his head. We sat down at the wet-ringed table and waited. Valerie was talking a lot. She had discovered that they were midshipmen. She said that her father was in the Navy, but that he was a terrible bounder and hadn’t lived with her mother for years.

If they were midshipmen, I wondered why they were all dressed in dirty grey flannels instead of uniform. And the funny junk-like boat didn’t seem at all like a Naval vessel. But I was reassured when one of them said ‘wizard’; for that quaint adjective had long since become obsolete in other circles.

I think that the one in the bunk was pretending to be drunk, for he would ask irrelevant questions and then break off into snatches of song.

The whisky looked very repulsive in the bright blue egg-cups. As I shut my eyes to drink I heard Valerie explaining us to the midshipmen. We were art students who had decided to go for a bicycling tour together. Every night we stayed in a different youth hostel, or youth brothel, as she naughtily put it.

‘Oh, I say, but are they really like that?’ our first friend asked, shocked and fascinated.

‘Certainly not,’ Valerie said primly. ‘That’s only our pet-name for them. The sheep are strictly divided from the goats at ten o’clock. But perhaps you’ll tell me that’s no safeguard these days!’ she added knowingly, taking them all in with her eyes.

There was a moment of not understanding what she meant, then two of them blushed. I don’t think they liked her for making them blush.

Valerie was well away with our first friend. She was still discussing us. I heard her say mockingly, ‘I’m not exactly fascinated by him, but we get on quite well together.’ I supposed that she was talking about me.

Suddenly they both stood up. There was some quick explanation about showing her something and he led her through the door. Joan and I looked at each other anxiously. We wanted to leave the painter. We had nothing to say to the other two midshipmen and they had nothing to say to us.

I looked at my watch.

‘It’s getting late,’ I said. ‘I think we ought to be getting back.’

We went on deck and heard giggling and quick words from behind a hatch. They are pretending that it’s all a game, I thought. We talked loudly so that they should hear us. The midshipman disengaged himself.

‘I’ll row you in,’ he said reluctantly.

But the boat was nowhere to be seen. He ran round the deck, peering into the black water. It had vanished. Valerie laughed and said, ‘We’ll have to spend the night on board.’ But Joan and I sank inside.

Then across the water we heard a stupid drunken singing and the splash of oars catching crabs. Suddenly the midshipman shouted insolent commands and swear words:

‘Bring that bloody boat here, you bastards.’ He was showing off his male qualities for Valerie’s sake. I hated to listen to it, it was degrading.

Gradually, the boat with the drunken sailors emerged from the blackness. It zigzagged across the moonlit water. We laughed to think that they were so drunk. They were making placating noises in their throats and saying, ‘All right, sir,’ in a rather dazed way.

They climbed clumsily up the rope-ladder and stood in front of the midshipman while he reprimanded them. They ought to knock him down, I thought.

We rowed in silence over the water. Valerie seemed to be meditating. The man caught the iron ring again and we began to prepare to jump onto the steps. At that moment Valerie rocked the boat, pushing it out slightly, then she stepped towards the stairs and, with a plushy, sloppy, bubbling sound, sank into the water. Her spotted rain-cape ballooned out and she giggled. She made no attempt to climb out. The man, seeing her there, thought that she could not swim. He waded down the steps, getting wet to the waist. Holding out his arms he said anxiously, ‘Catch hold of me!’

She caught hold of him, and pulled him in. They clung there in the water. I could imagine parts of their bodies touching all the way down through the wet clothes. But the man was not enjoying it. He dragged her to the steps and then broke away.

‘Goodnight,’ he said coldly, getting back into the boat.

‘Goodnight,’ we shouted, ‘thank you so much for our jaunt.’

Dripping Valerie linked arms with us and we began to run so that she should keep warm.

‘Well, you were well away,’ I said meaningfully. ‘But I am glad you gave him a ducking in the end.’

‘Wasn’t he a monster!’ she shrieked gaily. ‘The frightful way he talked to those men!’

I felt warm towards her for disliking him. Then I remembered the things she had said about us to him earlier in the evening, and the way she had been half lying on the deck with him behind the hatch, saying quick things and giggling hotly.

A PARTY

Fat Bertha Swan had bounced into the Still-life Room, given her invitation and bounced out again, shouting, ‘And see you damn well come in fancy-undress—you won’t be let in otherwise.’

Ian, painting alone in one corner, had smiled. He liked Bertha—even her exaggerated uncouthness and her absurd swearing amused him. He would certainly go to her party.

But now, as he sat on the bed in his room, he wondered what exactly fancy undress meant. He supposed it meant fig leaves, loincloths, straw-skirts, saucepan lids; but he wished he had asked some of the other students what they intended to wear. The knowledge would have given him more confidence.

Going over to the chest of drawers, he pulled out his faded mauve bathing ‘trunks’ and looked at them doubtfully. He remembered buying them with an unexpected postal order sent to him on his fifteenth birthday two years ago. His aunt had not thought mauve a very suitable colour for a boy, but he had liked them even more just because of her disapproval. Now moth holes stared up at him from important places; but these could be hidden. He had just been into the park to pick up some large plane leaves. He was going to sew a few on the shorts; the rest he would make into wreaths to wear round his neck and on his hair. Would they look like vine leaves? And would he look like Bacchus or was he much too skinny? Perhaps no one would guess that he was supposed to be a pagan god. He put his hand up and started to rub his scalp roughly. His hair at least was satisfactory, for it was short and curled tightly; although it was so strong and vigorous, the fear that it might one day all fall out sometimes came to Ian in his black moments. How terrible old age must be. How did one learn to bear the degradation?

He sat down again on the bed and started to sew the plane leaves on the shorts; next he made the wreaths, binding the stalks together with black cotton. He worked quickly and deftly, enjoying the task.

He stood in front of the mirror, wreathed and garlanded, his small feet bare. A little tingle of pleasure passed through him. The effect was better than he could have hoped. But how was he to travel to Catford in this state? He would have to put his leaves in a suitcase and dress—or rather undress—and rearrange himself at Bertha’s. There was not much time to spare; he pulled on his grey flannels and navy-blue sweater, buckled up a pair of old sandals and ran to catch the bus.

Outside the small suburban house three cats wearing collars were fastened to a young oak tree. Ian saw that the tabby wore a blue collar, the ginger a green one, and the black Tom bright scarlet with brass studs. Bertha had often spoken of her cats’ dislike of visitors; Ian supposed that she had put them here to sulk on their own. They certainly looked disgruntled.

Charming, heavy, swart Bertha, dressed all in Union Jacks, opened the door herself. A smooth round pillar of stomach divided her bunchy brassière from her frilly skirt. She screamed, jumped up and down like a pneumatic road-drill, then hustled Ian into a bedroom on the ground floor. There he found the clothes of all the other guests strewn about him carelessly. He shivered a little as he pulled on his leaves, gowned himself and hung the garland round his neck: He tried not to feel naked and horribly defenceless. He longed for one of those awe-inspiring gorilla bodies. No one would dare to laugh then. If he clutched the garland close to his chest, hiding his nipples, he might feel a little more protected. But Bertha gave him no time for further anxious brooding. She burst into the room and cried, ‘Oh, but, Ian, you look sweet. What are you? A sort of little woodland sprite, or what?’

Overcome with confusion, Ian could only mutter savagely, ‘I don’t know. I’m nothing in particular, although I had thought of trying to come as Bacchus.’

‘But you can’t look nearly loose enough for that,’ shrieked Bertha, taking his hand and pulling him into the living-room. Mrs Swan lay on the sofa in the bay-window, her vast breasts and hips swelling up before her like miniature mountain ranges, one behind another. She wore black velvet trimmed with curtain lace, round her neck mauve pearls as large as sugared almonds glistened. Her face was unpainted but so heavily powdered that it looked as if it had grown a thick white fur.

‘I’m always so pleased to see Bertha’s friends,’ she said. ‘Dear young people all, I’m sure. I can’t get about easily now, so it’s a special treat to see new faces.’

There was something strangely mortifying in her universal indulgence. One was dismissed as Bertha’s friend, a dear young person, nothing more. Ian looked about him uncomfortably, his anxious smile becoming more and more fixed. What could he do with himself? Where could he go in this crowd? Nearly all the other guests were from the art school, but their nakedness had turned them into strangers. Stocky little Bobby Davies was holding Veronica Tooth’s hand as usual, but he was only wearing a strip of imitation leopard-skin and she looked like nothing so much as a large tablet of oatmeal soap tied with ribbons.

The lame youth, Treff Rowse, wore an elaborate papier-mâché codpiece which he must have modelled himself. Painted on it in bright colours was a terrifying face with staring eyes and wide-open mouth. One tape between his legs, one round his waist, held it in position. His buttocks were quite bare. For the first time Ian saw his poor withered leg. It was like the thin white stalk of a dying plant. How could he treat it so cruelly? How could he expose it to them all? But Treff seemed perfectly indifferent to it and everything else. He was in a sort of trance, crooning to himself and moving his arms and shoulders, quite lost in one of his never-ending variations and perversions of ‘Dinah’.

There were a few people whom Ian did not know. He guessed that one of them must be Baby, Bertha’s younger sister. She had transgressed all the rules and come in a boy’s jacket and trousers, with a rather dirty scarf wound round her neck. Ian had been told that Baby had a passion for collecting books, which she hardly read, and that she pretended to enjoy smoking a foul little pipe made out of some soft pithy root with a surface like a lizard-skin. Ian felt in sympathy with Baby because she too was younger than the others and clearly very shy. She was so shy that he was afraid even to catch her eye.

But who could that other heavily dressed person be? That nun with white bands swathed round her face? Her clothes must be authentic; she had everything—even the heavy crucifix dangling from her girdle. Perhaps she was a real nun; but could a real nun be persuaded to come to a party, and such an undressed party? At that moment the young nun thrust her hands down and straddled her legs. She seemed to be searching vainly for pockets. Her pleasant broad face puckered and she gave a deep laugh. Ian knew then for certain that ‘she’ was a man.

People were gathering round the nun to examine her clothes and ask questions. They stroked the rich folds of her habit and one even picked up the crucifix shamefacedly and held it close to his face. Ian heard a girl say, ‘Nuns never look at their bodies; they bath in cotton shifts that come right up to their ears. It must be so difficult chasing the soap under the wet folds.’

‘I’ve got the hang of it at last,’ replied the nun and everybody laughed.

Ian, finding himself near the door, felt that it was a good moment to slip out.

There was nothing in the hall but a great coarse needlework hanging done by Bertha. Fat golden lions with rosy tongues lolled under giant arum lilies. The hanging went strangely with the corrupt, genteel wallpaper frieze of autumn leaves. Ian stood admiring it for some moments; he had always felt that Bertha was one of the most talented people at the school. The thought of her talent made him depressed with himself. He passed on into the dining-room, not thinking of what he was doing. Here the food was already laid out on the long table. It was childish and appetising. There were jellies and trifles, sardines and stuffed eggs and chocolate biscuits. On the sideboard stood carafes of lemonade, something which looked like raspberry syrup, and bottles of cider. All round the walls Baby’s books reached from floor to ceiling. Starting in one corner with The Treasures of Peru, Ian glanced quickly along the lines until he came to The Proceedings of the Sexual Reform Congress by the door.

Bertha, leading the other guests in to eat and finding him there, immediately accused him of gluttony.

‘What are you doing in here?’ she demanded. ‘Have you been picking the decorations off the trifle? I can soon tell how many sandwiches or biscuits have gone.’

‘I haven’t touched anything, Bertha,’ Ian protested, made to feel thoroughly guilty by her mock indignation. ‘I was just looking at Baby’s books. Hasn’t she got a lot?’

‘Yes, haven’t I?’ said Baby, suddenly emboldened and coming forward to his rescue. ‘Do you like books?’ She spoke as if they were avocado pears, or some other food for which a taste has to be acquired. There was no question here of weakness or excellence of different volumes. Books were books—things to be hoarded and treasured and touched.

Ignoring the food on the table altogether, Baby led Ian round the room again, sometimes crouching to pull out a large book, sometimes climbing to find a small one. Behind his polite exclamations Ian’s thoughts kept turning to sardine toast and trifle and lemonade. All at once Baby awoke to her duties as hostess. She shovelled several things on to two plates and returned to their corner.

‘I’m afraid you must be hungry,’ she said, offering him the things that he would not have chosen himself. They ate leaning back against the shelves. A greedy clatter of knives and forks arose from the table. Mrs Swan had dragged herself up from the couch and was moving weightily round the room, suggesting a cucumber sandwich here, a stuffed egg there, a glass of grenadine or a cheese straw. Ian noticed that parts of her mauve pearls, having lost their nacreous surface, had come to look like fungus puff-balls or snakes’ eggs. Spoons were already being dug into the bowls of decorated trifle. Some people were eating their little silver balls and some were not. Ian wondered for the thousandth time how they were made. He had wanted to know since his first infant party. Could it be that they were silvered with mercury? And mercury was poison—it made all your teeth drop out.

The din was subsiding a little. Bare arms were thrown out contentedly along the backs of chairs. Smoke rings and spirals floated up. Pink tongues flickered round the last drops of sour-sweet cider in the glass-bottomed tankards. Out of the window the sluttish back gardens and sheds were fading into each other. The room was filling with shadows, so that the rows of books seemed to be closing in on the seated guests. Bertha struck a match and lit the scarlet candles in their curious makeshift holders, contrived out of raw potatoes sliced in half. From the open scullery door came the gentle dripping of a tap and the ghosts of yellow soap and cabbage water.

For a few moments the guests sat there comfortably enjoying the workings of the food inside them and the calm excitement of the gathering night. Mrs Swan had sunk into the gnarled armchair at the head of the table and was drumming on a plate with her pudgy fingers. Satisfied little rumblings and gurglings arose from her enormous body and every now and then the lowest murmur of words escaped from her lips. She seemed to be praying or chanting to herself.

Suddenly Bertha jumped up and broke the peace.

‘We must all play Sardines,’ she insisted, running to the window to blow out the last of the light.

‘Oh, Berty-darling, let’s have a little quiet,’ groaned Mrs Swan. ‘It never does to jig about after food. If you do, it turns on you.’

‘You can’t have quiet at a party, Mother,’ Bertha said, blowing out the candles and disappearing. She could be heard drawing all the curtains in the other rooms.

Soon the darkness was full of whispers and stealthily moving bodies. Ian made for the scullery door and stumbled down two unexpected steps, knocking over a metal tray or a dust-pan. Someone very near him laughed nervously at the clatter and he drew his feet back, afraid that the unknown person would trample on his toes. He could smell the sink now and the tang of shoe polish. Ancient food smells came to him, but he could find no one hiding in the corners. He left the kitchen, felt his way up the two steps and passed into the hall. Opening a door, he found himself in the bathroom—a cold white glimmer came from the bottom of the bath. He touched a soggy sponge and shivered. But the bathroom too was empty.

As soon as he opened the next door he became aware of stifled giggles. He ran his hand along the wall until he grasped a bare leg. The giggle turned into a little shriek. Something touched his head, bounced away and touched it again. A handle on a chain. He was now in the lavatory and people were huddled round the pan, some even standing on the seat. A hand stretched down to help him up. He managed to wedge himself between the other bodies. They clung together there, surging and swaying and giggling. Ian’s toes curled over the lip of the seat. He imagined himself as a primeval monkey standing on a branch in the chattering forest.

All at once he felt a hand exploring him. It ran tentatively down his arm, flickered over his stomach, one finger dipping for no more than an instant into the tiny cup of his navel before travelling on to his other arm. The hand had clutched his now, was kneading it excitedly in little rushes, rather as loving cats bite each other’s necks. Distractedly Ian put out his free hand and touched a crucifix. The shock of the cold little metal body sent a shiver through him, starting a hot prick of sweat along his upper lip. On his ear farthest from the crucifix he could feel warm damp puffs of breath. He listened for a moment, caught a characteristic whistle and gurgle in the nose, and knew that he must have Bertha on his other side. Now he could feel her starched Union Jack skirt scratching his side.

The anxiety of not understanding exactly what was happening was rapidly undermining Ian’s calm. Who could be fondling his hand so greedily? Could the nun have mistaken him for Bertha? They both had naked stomachs. Perhaps in his excitement the nun would not notice the great difference in their bulk. Had Bertha not mistaken him, but decided to tease him with these preposterous blandishments? Perhaps it was the nun who had decided to make a fool of him. This thought of maliciousness from a stranger was particularly hurting. The final confusion arose when he began to imagine that the hand belonged to someone quite unknown. There must be five or six other people standing on the seat, all within easy reach of him. Any one of them could be making a mistake in the dark. He was sure that there was some mistake or some intended cruelty. His own hand had gone stiff with discomfort and unhappiness. Yes, it was true; no one could ever love him.

He was just plucking up courage to snatch his hand away when the last person stumbled on their hiding place and the little crowd broke up, streaming out of the confined space to laugh and talk and stretch in the hall.

They played Sardines for a long time. Once Ian hunted with Baby. Under cover of darkness she had grown bold enough to smoke her little fibre pipe. When she lit the match, Ian saw her pinched face with the delicate nose and clear pink cheeks. Her pale hair, scraped behind her ears and tucked under the slouch cap, glistened for an instant. She looked remote, fanatical, consecrated in some way—but to what? To her book collecting? He kept with her because he liked the glow which quickly grew and faded whenever she sucked at the pipe. There was a dumb fellow-feeling too—not strong, but there. Ian, trying to explain it to himself, could only think of aspects of Baby that were not in themselves very winning. She had nothing to say; her mysterious preoccupation dulled her response to other people. She seemed to enjoy flouting her body. The scraped-back hair, the dirty scarf, the rough boy’s clothes, gave her a secret pleasure. While she stood alone, her eyes far away, it was easy to believe that she had a contempt for ‘ordinary’ people, for their cocksure silliness and unreality.

Ian grew so tired of stubbing his toes on unexpected pieces of furniture, of waiting breathlessly in the dark, that at last he crept up to the French window and let himself out into the garden. The night wind blowing on his hot skin made him shiver, but he welcomed it. He went over to the cats. They were all lying down, like the lions in Trafalgar Square. The tom had made one of those amazing smells, fascinating and horrible in their pungency, their power to evoke all scenes of human squalor and misery. Ian squatted on his haunches near the cats and made sucking, cheeping noises in a forlorn effort to please them. Strangely enough the tabby roused herself and ambled up to him. She began to rub herself against his thighs. The feel of her soft fur on his bare flesh was delicious, but somehow vaguely shaming. Like some solemnly planned voluptuousness, it was too soft, too yielding, with no tang in it. Bertha was wrong about this cat, at least—she certainly showed no dislike of strangers. The tabby, trying to climb up on his knees, clutched at his chest when she found herself slipping. Ian gave a little gasp as the claws dug into his flesh. He put up his hand and felt a little trickle of blood. He licked it from his fingers, savouring the saltness on his tongue. Then he gathered up the cat in his arms and held it against his body. It was like nursing a huge silky cocoon, a baby wrapped in folds of slime, a purring seed about to burst from its velvet pod. He bent his head, cooing over the cat as if he would send her to sleep. She patted him once with her paw, ran her rough tongue over his skin, then nestled herself more snugly in his arms. The feathery brush of her fur, rising and falling, rising and falling, began to tickle just under his armpit. As a child he remembered his father tickling him there until he was unable to scream any more, until he felt he must go mad or die if the torture did not stop. The sensations came flooding back, turning the gentle tickle into something intolerable. The cat, as though she read his thoughts, turned in his arms and tried to struggle out, but perversely he held her, flattening her against him. In her alarm she gave him a savage little bite so that he loosened his grip; then she leapt away till the leash jerked on her neck, bringing her down, dejectedly. She was like a minute slave, bitter at the thoughts of her bonds. Ian stared down at her for a moment, then he turned abruptly and walked back into the house. He held the bite of his left pectoral muscle, but there was no blood this time. He knew just how it would look; there would be tiny white tooth marks, the skin abraded round the edge, as if he had been paper too much worn by indiarubber.

In the house the game had changed to Murder, but Ian was not to know this. Every room was still in darkness. Mechanically he crept about in search of the group of hiders. He was becoming more and more weighted and oppressed, and yet, at the same time, somehow hollow, as if he were a cave through which the wind was blowing. ‘Morbid’ was the word his aunt