The Burnaby Experiments Page 5

  They were all in the ante-room just outside the gym. Marcus was terrified that he would lose Caldwell. Suddenly he began to go. Marcus tried desperately to keep him. It was no use. Caldwell said, “Meet me at Gibson’s corner.”

  * * *

  Marcus awoke with Caldwell’s voice still echoing in his ears: but Caldwell had gone. Marcus had a sense of desolation and tragedy. It was as if he had strayed into heaven, by some back entrance, and after a moment been cast out for ever. He felt miserable and without hope. In his dream everything had been infinitely better, infinitely more real than in the world to which he had awakened. In ordinary life he had not experienced an emotion so deep as the emotion which had pervaded his dream—and it had been a happy emotion. He could feel it in his mind, in his chest, in his stomach. He cherished it, but it melted like dew from a window-pane on a summer morning. It was sad: yet even this sadness was dear to him; he hugged it, and squeezed it to him; but it grew fainter and faded away.

  Presently Marcus began to think. He was at home. He was eighteen—nearly nineteen—and he had left school over a year ago. The Caldwell he had seen was a boy of fourteen or fifteen, and he himself had been about the same age.

  “Meet me at Gibson’s Corner.” The words still sounded quite clearly in his ears. It was hard to believe that they had not been actually spoken. Marcus wished that they had been spoken, and that he could return again to that schoolboy world. How carefree and happy it had seemed. But his boyhood had gone: like water it had run through his fingers. He felt old and troubled: he was a man and he still wanted to be a boy.

  Yet boyhood was not so very far away. It might just be possible to get back. If he could meet Caldwell at Gibson’s Corner, then he would get back. Caldwell had mentioned no time, but all at once Marcus knew that he had to be there at eleven o’clock on that very day.

  Immediately he became excited and confused. He’d go. No; it was silly. It was only a dream. All the same he’d go, just to see. And anyhow, it wasn’t really silly at all. Why shouldn’t this dream come true—like the maths questions at school, and the dream about Grannie long ago?

  It was queer about Caldwell. He couldn’t be like that now. But Marcus hadn’t seen him since he was like that. For when Caldwell was fifteen his father had gone bankrupt, and he had been taken away from school.

  Another queer thing was that at Shellborough, boys didn’t wear gym vests. In competitions they boxed in football jerseys, and at other times in cricket shirts and sweaters. Marcus didn’t think he’d ever seen boys wearing gym vests. It was funny that his mind should have invented such a scene.

  And with that he thought of the year which had passed since he had left school. So far he had been unable to get a job and to put in time he had been taking classes at a crammer’s at Belfast. This, however, was Saturday, and a holiday. If he said he was going into town this morning the rest of the family would ask questions.

  Marcus opened his eyes and looked round to see what sort of morning it was. His room was on the west side of the house—not the old house they had lived in when he was small, but a much nicer house into which the family had moved when he was eleven. Marcus propped himself on his elbow, so that he could see into the garden.

  It was a lovely, warm May morning with the sun shining. Marcus noticed the pink and white apple blossom, and the dewdrops sparkling everywhere, on cobwebs and leaves, and on the strip of grass below his window.

  Beyond the garden was a field, and at the far side of this field was a line of trees. Every morning now before he got up, Marcus would look out at these trees, and at one tree in particular—the tree nearest the left-hand corner of the field. It might have been a beech or a hornbeam or an alder—he didn’t know. He had only discovered it recently and it had never occurred to him to examine it more closely. He had never even said to himself “That tree is very beautiful”. Yet it was its beauty which made him stare at it. He would stare at it unwinkingly for long periods, half-sitting up in bed. Then he would find that he was cold, and that his right arm had gone to sleep and that his eyes were sore. It wasn’t a bushy tree: it was tall, slender and graceful. He could see the buds beginning to open, the first small leaves on its branches—and he envied it. Every year it was young again: it was born again, a child again, a boy again. . . .While he. . . . Every year he was older, and staler, and drier. Every year he was one, quite appreciable step nearer the grave. It made him sad. For years he had been young, young and fresh and innocent—and it had all been wasted. He had never even realized the ephemeral, youthful glory through which he was passing. He had even wanted to be grown up so that he could be free—free and independent. Now he was grown up, grown up, disillusioned, jobless.

  And only a few minutes ago he had been back, in that earlier, brighter world. It was tantalizing, saddening, to think that it had been just a dream, a chance dream which might never be repeated. Very willingly he would have sacrificed all the present, and all his future life as well, to have been allowed to remain in that dream. And it wasn’t just that he had been back at school: he hadn’t been so fond of school as that, after all. Of course it hadn’t really been school: it was some other place: the school gymnasium had just been a piece of borrowed furniture in a world where there were no calendars, and no clocks, no summer, no autumn, no winter. . . . A world where it was always spring.

  Should he go to Gibson’s Corner? He couldn’t make up his mind. It would be silly to go. How could he expect to meet Caldwell, and find him just as he had been four years ago? He too must have grown up. He would be the same age as Marcus, or about the same age. And suppose he did appear, either grown up, or as he had been in the dream, what would happen? They had been friendly at school, but it had been quite a casual friendship. After Caldwell had left they had both written once or twice, but very soon the correspondence had ceased. Marcus remembered that it was he who was responsible for this: Caldwell had written last—and he had never bothered to reply. Very soon, indeed, he had quite forgotten about Caldwell, and for years he hadn’t thought of him at all—till this morning. He didn’t imagine that Caldwell had thought much about him either. At any rate there had been nothing emotional about their friendship. Why then had the dream been emotional? Why then did he feel that it was so important?

  Mr. Brownlow came in and said that if Marcus didn’t get up soon he would be late for breakfast; but Marcus had heard him coming and pretended to be asleep. Mr. Brownlow hesitated for a few moments and presently went out, closing the door softly behind him.

  CHAPTER VIII

  AS soon as his father had gone Marcus realized that he didn’t want to stay in bed a moment longer. His father actually had almost kept him back. He threw off the bedclothes and jumped on to the floor. It was ridiculous the way Mr. Brownlow had behaved—practically ordering him to get up, as if he were still about ten. You couldn’t give into that sort of thing, but it was best to resist it diplomatically, and not to hurt anyone’s feelings.

  Marcus felt full of life and energy, and rather pleased with himself. He snatched up his dressing-gown and without waiting to put it on set off at full speed for the bathroom. On the way he burst into the Shellborough football song, yelling the words at the top of his voice with almost no attention to the tune. He turned on the water for his cold bath and, running hot water into the basin, began to wash.

  It was not until after he had had his bath and was drying himself that he remembered that it was his morning for shaving. He examined his face in the mirror, and discovered two or three hairs on his chin and a faint growth on his upper lip. This pleased him. He filled the basin with hot water and got out his shaving kit. He sponged and soaped his face carefully, spending a good deal of time working up a thick, creamy lather. Yet in spite of the hairs he had discovered in the mirror, his razor, when he came to use it, met with disappointingly little resistance. He would have liked to hear a crisp, crackling n
oise—the sound of a blade mowing through tough, stubbly bristles.

  When he had scraped both cheeks, his upper lip, and his chin, he took his razor to pieces, and examined the soap which had gathered on the edge of the blade. It was quite white: there was no sign of hair. Marcus was annoyed. Sometimes he did need to shave every week—and sometimes his beard would hardly grow at all: it was most unreliable. He fitted his razor together again, and peering into the mirror shaved off a little hair from each side of his head just in front of his ears. The soap on the blade was black now all right, but he didn’t really feel satisfied. He knew he had cheated.

  While he was dressing he thought again about his dream. It was the prospect of meeting Caldwell which had made him get up so suddenly, but really he hadn’t quite made up his mind to go to Gibson’s Corner. He tied his tie, brushed his hair, put on his jacket, and stood in front of the dressing-table, thinking. In the top left-hand drawer was his Post Office Savings book. He got it out and looked at it. It showed a credit of nine pounds, three shillings and fourpence. The last entry was the withdrawal of two pounds, when he was eleven. It had been used for the purchase of a second-hand bicycle. Since then he had deposited nothing, and withdrawn nothing. He put the book in his pocket. The rest of his money was in a purse. He counted it. There were two shillings and four pennies, a ten-shilling note, and a pound note. He wondered if he would need any money and if what he had would be enough.

  He reached the dining-room at a quarter to nine and found that he was last. His father and mother and Margaret, his elder sister, had all evidently been down for some time. His mother and Margaret both said “Good morning,” but Mr. Brownlow said, “You’re late, Marcus. I don’t see why you can’t come down at the same time as the rest of us. You’ll have to get up when I call you in future.”

  “I did,” Marcus told him. “I had to shave.”

  “What were you shaving for?” Margaret asked, with a slight emphasis on the word “shaving”.

  “Because I had to,” Marcus retorted crossly. “You needn’t think you’re the only one that has a razor.”

  Margaret wasn’t pleased, and for a moment Marcus thought he was going to get into a row. They’d say he was indelicate—or something. He saw his father frown, and Mrs. Brownlow exclaimed, “Marcus!” But that was the end of it. And just as well too, Marcus thought. If they’d made a fuss he would have said that she did shave, and where. It was only her legs and under her arms of course, but he knew very well they wouldn’t have liked him to talk about it. Actually it was Margaret’s own fault. She’d told him about her shaving a few weeks ago. She’d been in one of her confiding, sisterly moods. He hated her when she was sisterly: she was so sentimental about it.

  Breakfast continued. Marcus was aware that he was in disfavour, and he ate his porridge without speaking. He realized, however, that he’d have to speak. If he went into town without telling anyone they’d wonder what had happened to him, and make a fuss when he got back. As it was they’d want to know why he was going into town. They were a beastly inquisitive family. Surely he was old enough by now to be able to go into town without being cross-examined by everyone.

  He began his bacon, and then, pausing between two mouthfuls, made his announcement as casually as he could. “I think I’ll take a little run into town this morning—there are one or two things I want to do.”

  Even to Marcus himself the remark sounded wrong—though he didn’t know why it was wrong—but the effect on the others was extraordinary. Mr. Brownlow stopped reading the paper and they all stared at him.

  “What are you going to do in town, dear?” Mrs. Brownlow inquired.

  “I thought I might drop into the library for a little,” Marcus replied, in a tone that was meant to keep Margaret quiet, but didn’t.

  “What do you want to go to the library for?” she demanded. “You got three books there yesterday and you can’t possibly have read them all.”

  This made Marcus indignant. “People don’t just go to the library to borrow books,” he pointed out scornfully. “They go to consult books, and read papers, and journals, and quarterlies, and things. You want to know everything, Margaret. I don’t see why you can’t mind your own business.”

  This outburst left Margaret quite unruffled. “I’m only trying to be helpful,” she asserted. “What is it you want to find out? Maybe I could tell you.”

  Marcus determined to be crushing. He’d be sarcastic. He’d say he didn’t know why people ever bothered about the Encyclopædia Britannica when she was about. But all at once he remembered something which the others probably would be able to tell him. “Where’s Gibson’s Corner?” he asked.

  “Why do you want . . . ?” Margaret was beginning when Mrs. Brownlow stopped her.

  “I don’t see why you can’t answer an ordinary question,” she said quite sharply. “Gibson’s Corner is at the Junction, on your left as you turn into Donegall Place from Castle Place. There used to be a jeweller called Gibson there, but it’s something else now.”

  Mr. Brownlow looked up from his paper. “You could go in on your bicycle,” he suggested. “It’s a nice morning for cycling, and you could leave it in the office.”

  This struck Marcus as a good idea. He would start immediately after breakfast and avoid any further questions about his real reason for going into town: for he was quite sure that none of them regarded the visit to the library as anything more than an excuse. If he rode quickly he would get to the office before his father. It was just possible that his father intended to waylay him there and ask further questions. He was really just as inquisitive as Margaret.

  So Marcus gulped down the rest of his breakfast and slipped out through the kitchen, while Mr. Brownlow was putting on his boots in the hall. His bicycle was in the garage, and in less than a minute after leaving the house, he was out on the road, and sailing downhill towards town.

  The cool morning air swept round him. He could feel it rippling through his shirt and chilling the warm skin on his chest and belly. All the leaves seemed bright and fresh: the sun shone: the birds were singing: the sky looked like a pale blue mist. There were only a few small clouds, and they were wispy and ethereal. It was in fact a perfect early summer morning.

  Marcus had the feeling that he was setting out on an adventure; but he wasn’t quite convinced of it. “When will I see this road again?” he asked himself. Immediately it struck him that he was being silly, and he answered out loud, “About lunch-time, or a bit before it if you’re hungry.”

  This produced a thoroughly practical state of mind. He wondered why he was going into town, and decided that he didn’t really expect to see Caldwell. He was going just in case—and because he knew that if he didn’t keep the appointment he was sure to regret it ever after. Still, he hoped to see Caldwell and felt that there was a chance that he might. And if he did . . . . Why then, all sorts of things might happen. He felt indeed that if Caldwell were there he would be able to open some sort of door, which would lead right out of the present disappointing, ageing world to another world where everything was green and bright and complete and satisfactory. He felt that Caldwell—if the dream Caldwell did turn up—would take him straight back into the world of his dream. He knew too that if he got the chance he would go back there without a moment’s hesitation, though it should mean abandoning his family and friends and everything else in his present life.

  Marcus had started off at a great pace, but gradually, as he became absorbed in his thoughts, he rode more and more slowly. It was five to ten when he reached his father’s office, and he knew that his father might arrive at any minute. He threw his bicycle into the yard at the back and hurried out, hardly pausing to answer the various members of the staff who wished him “Good morning”. And it was just as well that he did hurry, for before he reached the other side of the street he caught sight of his fath
er coming round the corner from the station. Mr. Brownlow waved at him with his umbrella, but Marcus pretended not to see and dived down a side street.

  After that he went to the library—partly because he had nothing else to do till eleven, partly to justify what he had said at breakfast.

  CHAPTER IX

  FOR the first half-hour Marcus was bored. He glanced at the papers, but they didn’t interest him. Even the pictures in Punch, which in the ordinary way hardly ever failed to amuse him, did fail this time.

  It occurred to him that a story might hold his attention and make the time pass more quickly. So he went to the next floor and taking the Strand from the rack settled down with it in a leather-covered armchair under one of the windows. In the Strand was a new Professor Challenger story by Conan Doyle. Marcus began to read it and almost immediately he became enthralled. It was the sort of story he liked—fantastic and exciting. Stories like that made him feel that his eyes couldn’t travel fast enough as they moved backwards and forwards across the page. He found that now: his eyes seemed almost to drag. He knew there wasn’t time to finish the story, but he couldn’t bear to put it down and he went on and on, not daring to look at the clock. But gradually a consciousness of guilt began to trouble him and spoil his enjoyment. He stood up and turned round so that he could see the clock on the top of the Scottish Provident building at the opposite side of the street. It was five to eleven. For an instant he hesitated. Conan Doyle’s fantasy had somehow made his own fantasy seem more improbable. It was all nonsense. He knew there’d be nobody there. . . .