I said, "I suppose we think of the past as a tunnel. The present is lighted. Farther back it gets more shadowy."

"Yet," said Francis, "we often recalled the remote past with greater clarity. I can remember going to the synagogue with Christian—"To the synagogue?" I said.

Francis was sitting cross-legged in a small armchair, filling it completely, looking like an image in a niche. His floppy wide-legged trousers were stiff with dirt and grease near to the turn-ups. The strained knees thereof were threadbare and shiny and hinted at pink flesh beyond the veil. His hands, podgy and also very dirty, were folded in his lap in a complacent position which looked faintly Oriental. He was smiling his red-lipped apologetic smile.

"Why, yes. We're Jewish. At least we're partly Jewish."

"I don't mind your being Jewish. Only oddly enough no one ever told me!"

"Christian is sort of, well, not exactly ashamed of it—or she was. Our maternal grandparents were Jewish. The other grandparents were goy."

"Rather funny about Christian's name, isn't it?"

"Yes. Our mother was a Christian convert. At least, she was the slave of our father, an awful bully. You never met our parents, did you? He wouldn't have anything to do with our Jewish background. He made our mother break off relations. Calling Christian 'Christian' was part of the campaign."

"Yet you went to the synagogue?"

"Only once, we were quite small. Dad was ill and we stayed with the grandpops. They were very keen for us to go. At least for me to go. They didn't care what Christian did, she was a girl. And her name disgusted them, though they did call her by her other one."

"Zoe. Yes. I remember her getting her initials C. Z. P. put on a rather expensive suitcase—God."

"He killed my mother, I think."

"Who did?"

"My father. She was supposed to have died after falling downstairs. He was a very violent man. He beat me horribly."

"Why did I never know—Ah well—The things that happen in marriage—murdering your wife, not knowing she's Jewish—"Christian got to know a lot of Jews in America, I think that made a difference—I stared at Francis. When you find out that somebody is Jewish they look different. I had only after many years of knowing him discovered that Hartbourne was a Jew. He immediately began to look much cleverer.

Priscilla was restive at being left out of the conversation. Her hands moved ceaselessly, creasing the sheet up into little fanlike shapes. Her face was thickly patchily powdered. She had combed her hair. Every now and then she sighed, making a woo-woo-woo sound with a palpitating lower lip.

"Do you remember hiding in the shop?" she said to me. "We used to lie on the shelves under the counter and we'd think the counter was a boat and we were in our bunks and the boat was sailing? And when Mummy called us we'd just lie there ever so quietly—it was—oh it was exciting—"And the door with the curtain on it and we'd stand behind the curtain and when someone opened the door we'd move quietly back underneath the curtain."

"And the things on the upper shelves that had been there for years. Big old dried-up inkpots and bits of china that had got chipped."

"I often dream about the shop."

"So do I. About once a week."

"Isn't that odd. I always feel frightened, it's always a nightmare."

"When I dream about it," said Priscilla, "it's always empty, huge and empty, a wooden shell, counter and shelves and boxes, all empty."

"You know what the shop means, of course," said Francis. "The womb."

"The empty womb," said Priscilla. She made her woo-woo-woo sound and began to cry, hiding her eyes behind the large pendant sleeve of my pyjama jacket.

"Oh bosh," I said.

"No, not empty. You're in it. You're remembering your life in the womb."

"Rubbish! How could you remember that! And how could anyone ever prove it anyway? Now, Priscilla, do stop, it's time you went to sleep."

"I've slept all day—I can't sleep now—"You will," said Francis. "There was a sleeping pill in your chocolate."

"You're drugging me. Roger tried to poison me—I motioned Francis away and he left the room murmuring, "Sorry, sorry, sorry."

"Oh, whatever shall I do—"Go to sleep."

"Bradley, you won't let them certify me, will you? Roger said once I was mad and he'd have me certified and shut up."

"He ought to be certified and shut up."

"Bradley, whatever will happen to me? I'll have to kill myself, there's nothing else to do. I can't go back to Roger, he was killing my mind, he was making me mad. He'd break things and say I'd done it and couldn't remember."

"He's a very bad man."

"No, I'm bad, so bad, I said such cruel things to him. I'm sure he went with girls. I found a handkerchief once. And I only use Kleenex."

"Settle down, Priscilla. I'll do your pillows."

"Hold my hand, Bradley."

"I'm holding it!"

"Is wanting to kill yourself a sign of going mad?"

"No. Anyway you don't want to kill yourself. You're just a bit depressed."

" 'Depressed'! Oh if you knew what it's like to be me. I feel as if I were made of old rags, a corpse made of old rags. Oh Bradley, don't leave me, I shall go mad in the night."

"And the night-light. Bradley, do you think I could have a night-light?"

"I haven't got one and it's too late. I'll get one tomorrow. The lamp is just beside you, you can turn it on."

"At Christian's there was a fanlight over the door and the light shone in from the corridor."

"I'll leave the door ajar, you'll see the landing light."

"I think I'd die of terror in the dark, my thoughts would kill me."

"Look, Priscilla, I'm going into the country the day after tomorrow for a while to work. You'll be all right here with Francis—"No, no, no, Bradley, you mustn't leave me, Roger might come—"He won't come, I know he won't—"I'd die of shame and fear if Roger came—Oh my life is so awful, it's just so awful to be me, you don't know what it's like waking every morning and finding the whole horror of being yourself still there. Bradley, you won't go away, will you, I haven't anybody but you."

"All right, all right—"You promise you won't go, you promise—?"

"I won't go—not yet—"Say 'promise,' say it, say the word—" 'Promise.' "

"My mind's all hazy."

"That's sleep. Good night, there's a good girl. I'll leave the door ajar a little. Francis and I will be quite near."

She protested still, but I left her and returned to the sitting-room. Only one lamp was lit and the room was ruddy and dusky. There were murmurs from the bedroom, then silence. I felt exhausted. It had been a long day.

"What's that vile smell?"

"It's the gas, Brad. I couldn't find the matches."

Francis was sitting on the floor beside the glowing gas fire with the bottle of sherry. The level in the bottle had dropped considerably.

"Of course you can't remember being in the womb," I told him. "It's impossible."

"It isn't impossible. You can."

"Nonsense."

"We can remember what it was like when we were in the womb and our parents had sex."

"If you can believe that you can believe anything."

"I'm sorry I upset Priscilla."

"She keeps talking about suicide. They say if people talk about suicide they don't do it."

"That's not so. I think she could."

"Would you stay with her if I went away?"

"Of course, I'd only want board and lodging and a bit—"I can't go though. Oh God." I leaned back against one of the armchairs and closed my eyes. The calm image of Rachel rose before me like a tropical moon. I wanted to talk to Francis about myself, but I could only talk in riddles. I said, "Priscilla's husband is in love with a young girl. They've been lovers for ages. He's so happy now he's got rid of Priscilla. He's going to marry the girl. I haven't told Priscilla, of course. Isn't falling in love odd? It can happen to anyone at any time."

"So," said Francis. "Priscilla is in hell. Well, we all are. Life is torture, consciousness is torture. All our little devices are just morphia to stop us from screaming."

"No, no," I said, "good things can happen. Like, well, like falling in love."

"We're each of us screaming away in our own private padded cell."

"Not at all. When one really loves somebody—"So you're in love," said Francis.

"Certainly not!"

"Who with? Well, I know actually and can tell you."

"What you saw this morning—"Oh, I don't mean her."

"Who then?"

"Arnold Baffin."

"You mean I'm in love with—? What perfectly obscene nonsense!"

"And he's in love with you. Why has he taken up with Christian, why have you taken up with Rachel?"

"And every man in London is obsessed with the Post Office Tower, and—"

"Have you never realized that you're a repressed homosexual?"

"Look," I said, "I'm grateful to you for your help with Priscilla. And don't misunderstand me, I am a completely tolerant man. I have no objection to homosexuality. Let others do as they please. But I just happen to be a completely normal heterosexual—"One must accept one's body, one must learn to relax. Your thing about smells is a guilt complex because of your repressed tendencies, you won't accept your body, it's a well-known neurosis—"I am not a neurotic!"

"You're trembling with nerves and sensibility—"Of course I am, I'm an artist!"

"You have to pretend to be an artist because of Arnold, you identify with him—"I discovered him!" I shouted. "I was writing long before him, I was well-known when he was in the cradle!"

"Sssh, you'll wake Priscilla. The emotion rubs off on the women, but the source of the emotion is you and Arnold, you're crazy about each other—"I am not homosexual, I am not neurotic, I know myself—"Oh all right," said Francis, suddenly changing his posture and turning away from the fire. "All right. Have it your own way."

"You're just inventing this out of spite—"Yes, I'm just inventing it. I am neurotic and I am homosexual and I'm bloody unhappy about it. Of course you don't know yourself, lucky old you. I just know myself too bloody well." He began to cry.

I have rarely seen a man crying and the sight inspires disgust and fear. Francis was whimpering loudly, producing suddenly a great many tears. I could see his fat reddened hands wet with them in the light of the gas fire.

"Oh, cut it out!"

"All right, all right. Sorry, Brad. Forgive me. Please forgive me. I expect I just want to suffer. I'm a masochist. I must like pain or I wouldn't go on living, I'd have taken my bottle of sleeping pills years ago, I've thought of it often enough. Oh Christ, now you'll think I'm bad for Priscilla and boot me out—"Stop making that horrible noise, I can't bear it."

"Forgive me, Brad. I'm just a—"Try to be a man, try to—"I can't—Oh God—it's just the bloody pain—I'm not like other people, my life just doesn't work, it never has—and now you'll throw me out, and, oh God, if you only knew—"I'm going to bed," I said. "Have you got your sleeping bag here?"

"Yes, it's—"

"Well, get into it and shut up."

"I want to have a pee."

"Good night!"

WL here's Arnold?"

"Gone to the library. So he says. And Julian's gone to a pop festival."

"I sent Arnold that review. Did he say anything?"

"I never see him reading his letters. He said nothing. Oh Bradley, thank God you've come!"

I hugged Rachel in the hall, behind the stained glass of the front door, beside the hall stand, next to the coloured print of Mrs. Sid— dons which I could see through the red haze of her hair. Still imprinted on my eyes was the vision of her broad pale face as she opened the door, crumpled into an ecstasy of relief. It is a privilege to be received in this way. There are human beings who have never been so welcomed. Something of Rachel's age, of her being wean. no longer young, was visible too and touching.

"Look, come upstairs."

"Rachel, I want to talk—"You can talk upstairs, I'm not going to eat you."

She led me by the hand, and in a moment we were in the bedroom where I had seen Rachel lying like a dead woman with the sheet over her face. As we came in Rachel pulled the curtains and then dragged the green silk counterpane off the bed. "Now, Bradley, sit down beside me."

We sat down rather awkwardly side by side and stared at each other. I felt the roughness of the blankets under my limp hand. The welcoming image had faded and I was rigid with confusion and anxiety.

"I just want to touch you," she said. And she did touch me with her finger tips, lightly touching my face and neck and hair, as if I were a holy image.

"Rachel, we must know what we're doing, I don't want to behau badly."

"Guilt would interfere with your work." She lightly closed my eyes with her finger tips.