It amazed her. “He told you our real names!”
“Just yours.”
“And what else?” She was propped on her right hand, staring suspiciously down at me as I lay on my side.
“I thought I was going to ask the questions.”
“What else? About who we really are?” I had never seen her so concerned; almost cross.
“This schizo thing.”
“Yes—and what else?”
I shrugged. “That you were dangerous. Good at deceiving. And that if ever one day you told me your real name I was to be especially suspicious.” She went back to hugging her knees, staring out through the branches of the two or three pine trees that stood between us and the cliff-top. The sea came through them, deep azure merging into the sky’s deep azure. The sun-wind shook the branches, flowed round us like a current of warm water. She looked lost in doubts; in anxiety; gave me yet another quick probing look.
“Do you trust us at all?”
“‘And everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go.’”
It was the wrong answer. She did not smile and killed the equivocal smile in my own eyes.
“I want a friend. Not a tame lamb.”
“I’m ready to be bought. By the right evidence.”
She searched my eyes, hunting down the other, physical, price I implied. Then looked away. “You realize that Maurice’s aim is to destroy reality? To make trust between us impossible?”
“I’m more interested in your aim.”
“Questions?”
“Questions.”
She turned away again, then changed her mind and lay on her side, on her elbow, facing me; a small smile.
“Go on. Anything.”
“You’re an actress?”
She shrugged, self-deprecating. “At Cambridge.”
“What did you read?”
“Classics. June did languages.”
“When did you come down?”
“Two years ago.”
“You’ve known Maurice how long?”
She opened her mouth, then changed her mind, and reached behind her for the bag, which she put between us. “I’ve brought all I could. Come a little closer. I’m so scared they’ll see what I’m doing.” I looked round, but we were in a position where they—whoever “they” were—would have had to be very close to see more than our heads. But I went nearer, shielding what she brought out of the bag. The first thing was the book.
It was small, half bound in black leather, with green marbled paper sides; rubbed and worn. I looked at the title page; Quintus Horatius Flaccus, Parisiis.
“It’s a Didot Ainé.”
“Who’s he?” I saw the date 1800.
“A famous French printer.” She turned me back to the flyleaf. On it was, in very neat writing, an inscription: From the ‘idiots’ of IVB to their lovely teacher, Miss Julie Holmes. Summer 1952. Underneath were fifteen or so signatures: Penny O’Brien, Susan Smith, Susan Mowbray, Jane Willings, Lea Gluckstein, Jean Ann Moffat… I looked up at her.
“First of all explain how you were teaching last summer in England and—remember?—coping with Mitford here.”
“I wasn’t here last summer. That’s the script.” She ignored my unspoken question. “Please look at these first.”
Six or seven envelopes. Three were addressed to: Miss Julie and Miss June Holmes, do Maurice Conchis, Esquire, Bourani, Phraxos, Greece. They had English stamps and recent postmarks, all from Dorset.
“Read one.”
I took out a letter from the top envelope. It was on headed paper. ANSTY COTTAGE, CERNE ABBAS, DORSET. It began in a rapid scrawclass="underline"
Darlings, I’ve been frantically busy with all the doodah for the Show, on top of that Mr. Arnold’s been in and he wants to do the painting as soon as possible. Also guess who—Roger rang up, he’s at Bovington now, and asked himself over for the weekend. He was so disappointed you were both abroad—hadn’t heard. I think he’s much nicer—not nearly so pompous. And a captain!! I didn’t know what on earth to do with him so I asked the Drayton girl and her brother round for supper and I think it went off rather well. Billy is getting so fat, old Tom says it’s all the grass, so I asked the D. girl if she’d like to give him a ride or two, I knew you wouldn’t mind…
I turned to the end. The letter was signed Mummy. I looked up and she pulled a face. “Sorry.”
She handed me three other letters. One was evidently from a former fellow teacher—news about people, school activities. Another from a friend who signed herself Claire. One from a bank in London, to June, advising her that “a remittance of £100 had been received” on May 31st.
“Our salary.”
It was my turn to be surprised. “He pays you this every month?”
“Each of us.”
“Good God.”
I looked at the letter from the bank again and memorized the address: Barclay’s Bank, Englands Lane, N.W.3. The manager’s name was P. J. Fearn.
“And this.”
It was her passport. Miss J. N. Holmes.
“N.?”
“Neilson. My mother’s family name.”
I read the signalement opposite her photo. Profession: student. Date of birth: 16.12.1930. Place of birth: Cape Town, South Africa.
“South Africa?”
“My father was a commander in the Navy. He died when we were only six. We’ve always lived in England. I mean he was English.”
Country of residence: England. Height: 5 ft. 8 in. Colour of eyes: gray. Hair: fair. Special peculiarities: scar on left wrist (twin sister). At the bottom she had signed her name, a neat italic hand. I flicked through the visa pages. Two journeys to Italy, one to France, one to Germany. An entry visa into Greece made out in February; an entry stamp, March 31st, Athens. None for the year before. I thought back to March 31st; that all this had been preparing, even then.
“They must have been blind. At Cambridge. No one marrying you.” She looked down; we were to keep to the business in hand. “Which college were you at?”
“Girton.”
“You must know old Miss Wainwright. Dr. Wainwright.”
“At Girton?”
“Chaucer expert. Langland.” She saw my trick; looked down, unamused. “I’m sorry. Of course. You were at Girton.”
She left a pause. “You don’t know how sick I am of being a figure of mystery. Never using contracted forms.”
“Mystery becomes you. But come on. A teacher.” She was an unlikely teacher; but then so was I. “Where?”
She mentioned the name of a famous girls’ grammar school in North London.
“That’s not very plausible.”
“Why not?”
“Not enough cachet.”
“I didn’t want cachet. I wanted to be in London.” A germander light in her eyes, blue and unflinching.
“I see. And Maurice was one of your pupils.”
Though she laughed then, it was against her mood. She apparently made up her mind that questions were not helping; that what she had to say was too serious for any more banter.
“We, June and I, were in a London amateur company called the Tavistock Rep. They have a little theatre in Canonbury.”
“Yes. I went there once. Seriously.”
“Well, last summer they put on Lysistrata.” She looked at me as if I might have heard about it. “There’s a rather clever producer there called Tony Hill, and he put us both into the main part. I stood in front of the stage and spoke the lines and June did all the acting. In mime. You didn’t read about this? It was in some of the papers… quite a lot of real theatre people came to see it. The production. Not us.”
“When was this?”
“Almost exactly this time last year.” We remained leaning close together. She began putting the books and letters back. “One day a man came backstage, told us, June and me, he was a theatrical agent and he had someone who wanted to meet us. A film producer.” She smiled impatiently at me. “Of course. And he was so secretive about who it was that it seemed too clumsy and obvious for words. But two days later we both got a formal invitation to have lunch at Claridge’s from someone who signed himself…”