Emily sighed and groaned, and the petals yielded more than nectar. They yielded fire.
The lovemaking surged inexorably to a mutual climax, while both of them said and did things they did not know they were saying and doing. Afterward, they lay close, still trying to touch each other with hands, arms, legs, breasts, faces, hair. Desire had abated, but passion had not.
Suddenly, Michael felt immensely sad; and because they were so close, the sadness instantly communicated.
“What is it, my love?” Her voice was deep now, rich with fulfillment.
And that changed his sadness into physical pain.
“Soon,” said Michael, “I think you may learn to hate me.”
She sat up. “What for? Whatever for? I love you, that’s all.”
“Darling,” he said harshly, “believe that I love you, too. Dearly, lastingly. Perhaps it would be possible to leave it like this…. But, I’m going to blow up the world. I’m going to pull down the decorations, tear away the back cloth, walk through the mirror. I’m going to get to the other side, find the real world, face it, take it for what it is…. Oh, darling, don’t you see? I love you, and yet I’m a bomb. I am going to blow us all to glory.”
She began to stroke his hair, cradling bis head against her breast. “You will do what is best. That’s all. I know you will. Just let us be together—even if we have to exchange The Man in the Iron Mask and Sunday afternoon walks in the park for a world where there are lizards and rocks and oceans and strange horizons. Just let us be together. That is enough.”
Michael’s face was wet. “Maybe I am not a bomb,” he whispered. “Maybe I only have a talent for inspiring mass suicide.”
25
It was Ernest who arranged for Michael to meet the self-styled leader of the students of North London High School, a drybone called Arthur Wellesley. The meeting had tragic consequences which ultimately forced Michael into a course of action he had not intended.
Ernest and Jane, though their relationship was not as intense as that of Michael and Emily, had become fond of each other and had begun to spend a considerable amount of their free time together. One fine Saturday, they decided to picnic on Hampstead Heath. It was not entirely a leisure project, because Ernest was still working on his map of London and intended to draw in the more important roads in the Hampstead district.
It was while he and Jane were resting after a light lunch that they were approached by Arthur Wellesley and two other drybones whom he referred to as his lieutenants.
Arthur Wellesley was tall. He wore a white shirt, a black belt, and black trousers and shoes, as did his companions. He stood with his feet astride and one hand on his belt, as did his companions. It looked like an affectation, or a regulation pose.
Ernest and Jane were sitting on the grass on the Heath, with their picnic basket open and the remains of the meal between them. Jane was frightened by the oddly formidable appearance of the drybones.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Arthur Wellesley.
“I would have thought that was obvious,” retorted Ernest calmly. “Who are you?”
“Arthur Wellesley, commander of the North London High School defense unit.”
“Commander of what?”
“The North London High School defense unit. You are from the Central London Group, I suppose.”
“Yes. My name is Ernest Rutherford, and this is Jane Austen.”
“Are you organized?” Arthur Wellesley seemed to ignore Jane’s existence completely.
“Organized?”
“Militarily organized.”
“No.”
“You have a leader?”
“Yes, we have a leader.”
“Good. Bring him here tomorrow morning. I want to talk to him.”
“I don’t know that he will want to talk to you.”
“He will,” said Arthur Wellesley with confidence. “Tell him it is important—and ask him if he knows Aldous Huxley.”
With that, the three drybones simultaneously turned and marched away, perfectly in step, perfectly in line, as if they had been practicing a long time.
The picnic atmosphere had evaporated, the lazy afternoon with Jane had disintegrated. Now, Ernest would have to get back to Victoria as soon as possible and talk things over with Michael.
Jane was pale and shaking. Ernest put his arms round her, trying to comfort her. He realized with comical amazement then that he had never held Jane in his arms before. He had been absorbed by other matters. Too absorbed.
“They looked dangerous,” explained Jane. “I—I felt they were dangerous.”
“Perhaps it is because they dress the same. It’s like a uniform.”
“Do you think they are dangerous?”
“I don’t know. Let us go and talk to Michael. That is the most intelligent thing to do.”
Jane began to pack the picnic basket. “I feel cold.”
“It’s a warm day.”
“I still feel cold. I was all right until they came…. Do you think they know about Aldous Huxley?”
Ernest shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea. We are all taking part in what is either a nasty comedy or a funny horror film. We have to live with absurdities and illogicalities and a great fog of ignorance. The point is, we have to live with it, Jane. If we worry too much—if we even think about it too much—we shall go out of our minds. So just try to take things as they come, my dear. A platitude, I know. But it is the only comfort I can offer.”
Jane had packed the basket, and they were ready to go.
As if on cue, an air raid began. Airplanes began to maneuver like tiny, metallic insects high in the blue sky. There was the distant crump of explosions, the chatter of guns.
Ernest looked up and began to laugh. “The war that doesn’t exist. The bombs that never fall. The planes that are whisked into the fourth dimension. It is all part of the horrible comedy, the amusing nightmare…. You know Michael has read all about the real war. He told me that there was no such thing as a force field, and that half London was razed to the ground…. This doesn’t even look real anymore. It was good enough to fool us when we were children, but not now. Somehow, that comforts me. Perhaps the drybones are not as clever as we suspect.”
Jane held herself against him. “I’m so cold,” she whispered. “Deep inside I am so terribly cold.”
Ernest said nothing. He held her tightly for a while. Then he tilted her face up and looked at it as if he had never seen it before. Then he kissed her—for the first and last time in their lives.
26
Michael had a fairly sleepless night. He was trying to decide whether or not it was a good thing to go to Hampstead and talk to Arthur Wellesley. When morning came he was no wiser—except that he knew that he would go.
Ernest’s description of the three drybone students had not been encouraging. Even at their best, drybones were antiseptic and devious. These, according to Ernest, were also sinister; and certainly they had had a profound effect upon Jane.
There were two mysteries. Why was a drybone and not a fragile the leader of what was grandly described as the North London High School defense unit? And what, if anything, did he know of the fate of Aldous Huxley? There was only one way to find out.
Michael came down to breakfast early, expecting—since it was Sunday and Mother and Father usually slept late—to have to prepare it himself. But when he opened the dining-room door he saw that the table was laid and that breakfast was almost ready.
Ever since the night they had been to see Gone with the Wind, Michael’s relationship with his parents had deteriorated steadily. In some ways he had lost his fear of them. In other ways he had become more afraid.