26

‘I paid five hundred pounds to a man called Swingler that he would hush the thing up. It was wasted money, for already the business is public property. Can one trust no one?’

‘You are a foolish old man,’ said Mrs Jaraby. ‘Surely you know that we must take our medicine? Five hundred pounds? You won’t see that again.’

‘It was my only hope.’

‘We are bystanders now. Haven’t I said that to you before? We cannot move events or change the course already set. We are at the receiving end now. Our son may call the tune and we must dance. It is only fair.’

‘It is not only fair. It is not fair at all. I am not finished yet, no matter what you say. They shall think the better of it and rescind that decision. I shall receive a letter.’

‘You shall receive no letter. As to being fair – well, we have had our period. Turn and turn about, you know.’

‘That is sheer fallacy. You have lost the capacity for thought.’

‘How pleasant that would be. No, I see things clearly still. I envy you your comforting confusion.’

‘They will write a letter. Even now they are thinking the better of it. Sanctuary resigned at the injustice.’

‘Who knows, you may even get your money back! The man may have a conscience and come with it tomorrow morning.’

‘It will rain all day. The heat has broken.’

‘The man can cope with rain. He is probably equipped with waterproof coats and wellingtons. Or do you mean that the new season brings fresh hope? Shall you mount a rearguard action this autumn, is that it?’

‘I am weary of your provocations. I am provoked enough as it is. The maniac Nox, those silent sheep around the table. Only Sanctuary had courage.’

‘Do not seek solace where there is no cause for it. Your public life has failed you too. You must weep if there are tears left with you, and keep your strength for years of slow time ahead. The man has been to see the birds. They will die, he says, one by one.’

‘I rejoice in that, as you did when my cat was gone.’

‘I killed your cat; you killed my son. The coloured things shall die around us, until the last one drops and we are again alone in this house, you and I, like animals of prey turned in on one another.’

‘If you have nothing better to say, may we have peace?’

‘Your friend Mr Dowse would turn in his grave to see you cast aside like this, in this ironic way. And how would faithful Monmouth mew now? No, I have nothing better to say. From now on you shall hear me only repeat myself.’

He did not speak. His eyes were open, but were sightless in their stare. She did not knit; she saw no point in knitting now. Basil would not return a second time; the house was a luckless place for him.

‘We are left to continue as we have continued; as the days fall by, to lose our faith in the advent of an early coffin. But we must not lose heart: let us think of some final effort. Shall we do something unusual to show our spirit, something we do not often do? You must play a drum in Crimea Road, or walk from the shops bearing kegs of Australian honey. Shall we take breakfast at noon somewhere in public, off the poisoned birds? And shall we march along the streets, talking and laughing, scattering feathers in our path? Do not be downcast; we must not mourn. Has hell begun, is that it? Well, then, I must extend a welcome from my unimportant corner of that same place. We are together again, Mr Jaraby; this is an occasion for celebration, and you must do the talking for a while. Cast gloom aside, and let us see how best to make the gesture. Come now, how shall we prove we are not dead?’