The Burnaby Experiments Read online

  Next instant he had dropped the Strand and was clattering down the stairs. He jumped the last seven steps and burst out through the swing doors into the street. He turned to the left. The pavement was crowded and nearly everyone seemed to be coming towards him. It took him quite a time to reach the near end of Donegall Place. When he turned the corner he caught sight of the clock above the Bank. It was two and a half minutes to eleven. Immediately he got into a panic. The dream was right. Caldwell was going to be there, was probably there now, and he would miss him through sheer slackness. All the rest of his life he’d regret it—and he’d never really know.

  Well, he wasn’t going to let that happen. He got off the pavement on to the road and ran at full speed down the whole length of Donegall Place. He imagined that he was attracting attention, that people were stopping to stare after him. He didn’t mind: he liked it, liked to feel sensational.

  He reached the Junction, and there, standing at the corner waiting for him, was Caldwell. He was exactly as he had been in the dream except that he was not dressed in gym togs. He was wearing a grey suit with short trousers, but he was the same age as in the dream and his face was just the same. For an instant Marcus saw him as a little boy and was conscious that he himself had grown up—but it was only for an instant. After that he was ready for whatever Caldwell might suggest.

  “Hullo, Caldy,” he said a little nervously. “I’m just on time.”

  Caldwell looked at him with rather hot, dark eyes. “Hallo, Screwey,” he answered slowly. “I was afraid you weren’t going to come. It would have been an awful pity if you hadn’t.”

  They had both spoken casually, just as if they’d still been at school, and had met an hour or two before: now, suddenly, Marcus was overwhelmed with a tremendous feeling of relief. “Oh, Caldy,” he exclaimed. “I am glad you’re here.”

  To this Caldwell said nothing at first. He looked at Marcus very seriously, and rather strangely too. “Are you willing to go on with it?” he asked, in a husky voice that was like a grown-up man’s.

  “Oh yes,” Marcus responded eagerly. “I wouldn’t go back now, not for anything.” What “going on with it” meant he didn’t really know. At the very least he expected to have to run away from home, but running away in the ordinary physical sense might not be necessary. It might be something more mysterious than that. He might even have to lead two lives—one secret and glorious, the very thought of which would fill his ordinary life with joy. He might have to give up his present life altogether. He waited for Caldwell to tell him what to do. He was elated. Anything might happen. He felt that the whole, dull, ordinary world which he knew every day might suddenly fall apart and disappear, and that he would find himself with Caldwell in some sort of youthful paradise, bright and green and fresh. This morning, setting out on his bicycle, he had had a glimpse of it, but Caldwell would make him part of it, like the small leaves on the trees and the opening flowers.

  Caldwell regarded his enthusiasm rather soberly. “You don’t really know what you’re in for,” he pointed out. “When you do know you’ll maybe find you don’t like it at all. It’ll be very different from what you think.”

  Marcus couldn’t believe this. “I want to go on with it anyhow,” he declared impetuously. “I don’t care what it’s like.”

  “Very well,” Caldwell agreed. “You can give it a trial next week-end.” He sounded unexpectedly staid and self-possessed.

  “Why not this week-end?” Marcus demanded. “I’m ready to go. I’ve got money with me, and my Post Office book: so we can get more if we need it.”

  “What about your people?” Caldwell inquired. “Do they know you’re going away? What’ll they think if you suddenly disappear?”

  Marcus hadn’t considered his people. Caldwell’s question made him a little ashamed. “I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose they’d wonder what had happened to me. Maybe I’d better wait till next week after all.”

  “I think you had,” Caldwell replied. His manner was grave and slightly avuncular. It made the whole experience seem for the moment less of an adventure, less dream-like, less enchanting.

  Marcus was chilled: he felt that the ordinary world was closing in round him. “But, but. . . .” he began. “I mean if I’m going away they wouldn’t like it anyhow—or d’you mean I won’t. . . .” He broke off. After all Caldwell hadn’t asked him to come away anywhere permanently: that had been just his own idea.

  “You’ll have to decide for yourself,” Caldwell told him. “If you want to you’ll be able to stay with me, and I think we can manage it in such a way as not to offend your parents.”

  “I’ll want to stay all right,” Marcus repeated. “I know that.”

  “Very well then,” Caldwell answered. “Don’t say anything about this when you go home. Don’t even mention that you saw me.”

  Marcus looked round uneasily. “How do you know no one’s seen us?” he objected. “It’s just the sort of thing that would happen. I’ll probably meet someone in church tomorrow and they’ll say they saw me talking to you.”

  Caldwell smiled very slightly. “No one has seen me talking to you.”

  “You mean no one I know.”

  “No one you know.” He paused and it struck Marcus that there was a hidden meaning about his answer, but he couldn’t imagine what it was, and Caldwell went on speaking. “I’ll write to you—you’ll get my letter on Monday or Tuesday—and say I’d like to see you again. I’ll say I’m at my uncle’s house in Donegal, and I’ll ask you to come and stay for a few days at the week-end.”

  “Maybe they won’t want to let me go,” Marcus said. It occurred to him that his people were more difficult than other people’s people. You never could tell what they’d object to next.

  “Oh I don’t think they’ll stand in your way,” Caldwell replied easily. “You can show them my letter.”

  His assurance annoyed Marcus. “Maybe they won’t think such a fat lot of your letter,” he remarked.

  “Oh yes, they will,” Caldwell returned good-naturedly. “Just wait till you get it and see what sort of letter I can write. In any case you’re surely old enough to insist on going if you really want to—and in that case they’ve no excuse for worrying.

  “Now I’ll meet you here again next Saturday, but an hour later, twelve o’clock instead of eleven—unless there’s someone with you. If they see you off I’ll meet you on the train after it’s started.” His expression altered. “Oh look!” he exclaimed, and flung out his hand in the direction of the City Hall.

  Marcus looked, but could see nothing unusual. “Look at what?” he demanded. When he turned round again, however, Caldwell had vanished completely.

  CHAPTER X

  MARCUS looked this way and that: he couldn’t see Caldwell anywhere. Once or twice he turned round sharply in case Caldwell should be hiding behind him. But after an hour, spent in searching the streets round about, he gave up hope completely and drifted back to his father’s office for his bicycle.

  He felt as if he had suddenly become quite different from other people: it wouldn’t have surprised him very much if he had discovered that other people couldn’t see him. He rode home slowly and dreamily.

  “Hallo, Moony!” Margaret greeted him as he came in the front door. “Did you find out what you wanted to know?”

  “What I wanted to know?” Marcus repeated blankly.

  “Yes,” she said sharply, “what you went into the library to look up.”

  “Oh yes,” he answered. “I found what I went to look for.” As he spoke he smiled, but the meaning of the smile was a secret. He knew what nobody else knew, that there was another way of living, perhaps another world to live in. He hoped that Caldwell would teach him to appear and disappear, and introduce him to that other, hidden world. He wished it was Tuesday
and that the letter had come. He wished it was next Saturday and that he was with Caldwell once again.

  The letter did come. It said:

  c/o J. K. Burnaby, Esq.,

  The Garrison,

  Portmallagh P.O.,

  Co. Donegal.

  Dear Screwey,

  I am staying here with my uncle. Like you he’s a bit weak in the top story, but it’s good enough fun. Could you come next week-end and stay a few days? Uncle John would be delighted to have you. There’s bathing and tennis and we could go out in the boat.

  I’ve looked up the trains for you. If you catch the 1.25 from Belfast on Saturday and change at Letterkenny you should get into Portmallagh about eight if the train doesn’t break down. We’ll meet you there and run you across.

  Please do come.

  Frank Caldwell.

  Marcus didn’t think it seemed such a wonderful letter after all. It was just the sort of letter he would have expected Caldwell to write. He handed it across the breakfast table to his mother. “I’ve got an invitation,” he announced. “Caldwell wants me to go and stay.”

  Mrs. Brownlow read the letter. “Who are these Burnabys?” she inquired.

  Mr. Brownlow lowered his paper. “Burnaby?” he repeated interrogatively.

  Mrs. Brownlow handed him the letter. “Yes, dear. They want Marcus to go and stay.”

  Mr. Brownlow read the letter. “That’s very interesting,” he remarked, and it was quite clear that he had found something in the letter that had not been noticed by either Mrs. Brownlow or Marcus.

  “What is it?” Margaret demanded. “Let me see it.”

  “No, you can’t,” Marcus told her. “It’s a private letter of mine.”

  “Pig!” she retorted. “Mummy, pass it to me.”

  “It’s Marcus’s letter,” Mrs. Brownlow said calmly, “and it’s for him to say who’s to read it, though what objection he can have . . . .”

  Marcus gave in ungracefully. “Oh, all right,” he muttered. “Let her read it if she wants to.”

  “I think it must be him,” Mr. Brownlow went on. “You know the famous John Burnaby . . . .”

  “What’s he famous for?” Margaret asked.

  “He’s a millionaire,” Mr. Brownlow replied, “and a very peculiar one. He made all his money—and it’s said to be at least three million—on the stock exchange in less than five years. Then he retired completely and for the last ten years he’s been shut up in that house in Donegal. He’s supposed to be a bit odd. I didn’t know he’d any relations and from all that’s said about him you wouldn’t think he’d have a nephew staying with him—or allow that nephew to ask friends. All the same, Marcus, I think I’d go if I were you. It’ll be an interesting experience for you.”

  “I don’t know that I like the sound of it much,” Marcus responded with considerable cunning.

  Mr. Brownlow looked up and frowned. “Really, Marcus,” he exclaimed, “you’re most unenterprising. When I was your age I’d have jumped at an invitation like that.”

  “Oh, I’ll go all right,” Marcus said, “so long as you don’t mind my missing my classes.”

  Mr. Brownlow had forgotten about Marcus’s classes. “Oh well,” he answered, “if you are back on Monday evening you’ll only miss one day and I suppose you’ll be able to make it up.” In the meanwhile Margaret had read through the letter more than once. Obviously she thought there was something queer about it. Marcus noticed her looking at him and guessed that she suspected him of something.

  “When did you last see Caldwell?” she inquired.

  “We were in the same form at school,” Marcus replied. “He left at the end of his second year. His people lost all their money.” He felt that he had been rather adroit in appearing to answer her question without actually doing so. At the same time he knew she was still suspicious. He didn’t like the way she was watching him.

  “Funny having to leave school like that when you’ve a millionaire uncle,” she observed.

  “I never heard of his uncle before,” Marcus said. “Maybe his people had fallen out with the uncle and now Caldwell’s staying with him to make it all up.”

  “And they want you to go and stay.”

  “Yes, why not?”

  Margaret considered. Then without any warning and for no reason at all she asked, “It wasn’t to meet Caldwell, by any chance, that you went into town last Saturday?”

  Marcus was furious with her. How on earth had she guessed? He hated being made to lie. “No,” he growled. “Of course I didn’t. How do you think I’d see him?”

  “Are you sure you didn’t see him all the same?”

  “Of course I didn’t,” Marcus repeated angrily. “How was I going to see him?” But he knew that she knew he was lying.

  “Really, Margaret,” their mother said, “you do get some extraordinary ideas into your head; and I do think you might believe Marcus when he gives a straight answer to your question.”

  CHAPTER XI

  MARCUS packed immediately after breakfast on Saturday morning and caught the eleven o’clock bus into Belfast. He went first to the Great Northern station, where he left his bag, and then to Gibson’s Corner. Though he was seven minutes early, he was disappointed not to find Caldwell waiting for him. He had expected everything to happen in exactly the same way as last week. Caldwell’s absence undermined his confidence. Had he really seen him at all? Or had the whole encounter been imaginary? He put his hand into his pocket and felt for the letter: it was still there. He pulled it out and read it. The letter at any rate was not imaginary. Yet he couldn’t feel that it quite belonged to the ordinary reality about him—it was like part of a miracle.

  Marcus was at one of the busiest points in Belfast. He was a stationary object in the middle of a bustling throng. Above the noise of trams and buses and cars, the noise of people’s feet, the noise of people talking, he could hear the raucous, almost lamenting, cry of an old man selling newspapers. “Skatchameah! Skatchameah!” For a moment he watched the flower-sellers in front of Mullans’. He wondered what he should do if Caldwell didn’t come. He couldn’t go home and tell the whole story. He’d have to catch the train and if Caldwell wasn’t on it, hope that at any rate he would abide by the arrangement in the letter and meet him at the other end. He pictured himself arriving at Portmallagh. He didn’t know Portmallagh, but he imagined himself standing alone on the platform of a Donegal railway station, with no one to meet him and nowhere to go. He looked up Castle Place. From the direction of High Street came a puff of wind, with a faint smell of the Lough. The Albert clock began to strike.

  “Hello, Screwey,” Caldwell said.

  The voice came from behind and Marcus turned round quickly. Caldwell had the air of having been present for some time, but of course he had just arrived. He was a little breathless and his expression was peculiar—cocky, but slightly uncertain, as if he were not quite sure of himself and of his welcome—as if he were unsure, almost, whether he had arrived at all or not.

  But Marcus was delighted. He stared at Caldwell without saying anything, without being able to say anything. It was just like last week, just . . . . just as he had wanted it to be. Caldwell was still young, still, except for his clothes, exactly as he had been in the dream. Marcus was immensely relieved. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be here,” he confessed. “I couldn’t believe it would work out right.”

  “It hasn’t worked out yet,” Caldwell replied shortly. “Come on. Let’s go to the station and make sure about your ticket.”

  “What about yours?” Marcus asked. “Won’t you need one too?”

  “I’ve a return.”

  They started up Donegall Place side by side, but the crowds seemed to confuse Caldwell. Everyone walked straight at him, and to avoid
collisions he kept skipping backwards and forwards in the most extraordinary fashion. It took them ten minutes to reach Donegall Square. “I wish you’d stay in one place,” Marcus complained. “It’s the way you keep hopping about gets you into people’s way. They can’t see where you’re going.”

  Caldwell laughed. “I don’t think they can.”

  “You’d better walk behind me,” Marcus said, and after that they got along a little more quickly. Nevertheless it was another ten minutes before they reached the station.

  Marcus paused outside the booking office. “What class did you come?” he inquired, a little embarrassed at having to put such a question.

  Caldwell didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t seem to understand the question.

  “Your ticket,” Marcus reminded him. “You told me you’d a return ticket. What class is it?”

  “Oh yes. I forgot. My ticket . . . it . . . it’s second class.”

  But he spoke as if he didn’t really know, and Marcus wasn’t certain whether to believe him or not. “You’d better look and make sure,” he said. “I want to book the same class.”

  “It’s second all right,” Caldwell repeated. “I remember.”

  Marcus was annoyed. “You jolly well ought to. It’d be funny if you didn’t.”

  He joined the queue at the ticket hatch, and while he was waiting his turn, watched Caldwell who was standing a few yards away. A man carrying a suitcase was coming towards the booking office. Caldwell was directly in his path. As the man approached, Caldwell began to fidget. Suddenly he stepped to one side. The man, intent on his own affairs, went past without appearing to see him. Marcus thought it over. He tried to remember if, when he was Caldwell’s size, people had ignored him like that. But he couldn’t recall any incident of the kind. There was undoubtedly something funny about Caldwell. It was funny that he had never grown up—yet at times he was very grown-up, far more grown-up than Marcus himself. Yet he didn’t look grown-up. At the moment indeed he looked rather like an orphan, a particularly nervous orphan. Though he had put himself in Caldwell’s hands, and intended to obey his instructions implicitly, Marcus felt that Caldwell was weak and defenceless. He would need to be protected and taken care of.