The Paper Men by William Golding Read Free Book Online Page A

place. The quaint old house, the water meadows, trees, hedges, bare downs closing in the two sides of the wide valley, the huge oaks and clumps of elms that Elizabeth said were dying. I felt detached.
    “Did you like it?”
    “Hell, yes!”
    “Why?”
    I never thought to hear a grown man say it, but he did.
    “It’s so green. That white horse cut in the side of the hill—everything’s so ancient—”
    “When I was there last they had motocross up the hill on one side of the White Horse on Sundays. The university archaeological society was skinning the turf on the other.”
    “But the people, Wilf! The customs—”
    “Incest, mostly.”
    “You’re—”
    “No, I’m not kidding. And don’t forget the coven.”
    “You are, you are, yes you are, Wilf!”
    “Usually reliable sources. Wilfred Barclay’s Stratford-on-Avon.”
    “I don’t think so, sir.”
    “What were you looking for? My finger prints?”
    “I had to talk to her. There’s a great deal only she knows.”
    “Well, I’m damned.”
    “And papers.”
    “Now look, Rick Tucker. Those papers are mine and nobody, nobody, is going to go mucking about with them.”
    “But—”
    “It was a condition. The house is hers, then reverts to Emmy in the event of. The papers are mine.”
    “Of course, Wilf. She said it was all very civilized.”
    “Elizabeth? She said that? Why, it was—”
    I stopped, not so much out of residual loyalty as caution. Elizabeth had been covering up, of course. It had been a rending, hateful match which would have broken my heart if I had had one and to which only Julian had managed to bring legal decency. I had given everything on my side, not out of generosity but just to be shot of the whole thing. Julian saved us from advertising the mutual hatred which linked us indissolubly for better or worse. Perhaps like me by now, she had worn away all but a vestige of the hatred and accepted the huge scar? Or had I? Had she?
    “She said she had to keep them but they were nothing to do with her.”
    “My papers?”
    “You’ve never understood, sir. You are part of the Great Pageant of English Literature.”
    He really did say that. It rolled forth like a statement being read out in court. The accused wishes to state that he is part of the Great Pageant —why, there was meat in it! Prisoner at the bar, you have been accused of being, and with intent to deceive, a part of the Great Pageant —
    “Balls!”
    Rick’s chin was back, forehead thrust forward, eyes looking out from under his ledge of rock.
    “So give over, professor.”
    “In any case, she refused me, Wilf.”
    “She never was promiscuous. I give her that.”
    “I know you’re joking, sir. But I see the hurt.”
    “Well, for God’s sake! How was Capstone Bowers?”
    “Well, I guess.”
    “Good. Very good.”
    “She wouldn’t even let me see the boxes.”
    “Good. Good.”
    “She said not without your permission. Written permission. That was the agreement, she said. ‘Gentleman’s agreement,’ she said and laughed. You both laugh a lot. I’d like to research that.”
    “Vivisection. You don’t know about my life. You aren’t going to either.”
    A minute cup of coffee and a large brandy had appeared on my rush place mat. I warmed the brandy with cupped hands.
    “It’s important to me, Wilf. Very important. I’d give anything— anything! You don’t know the competition—and I have a chance. There’s a man—I’ll tell you one day. But I must have your permission—”
    “I said no, damn it!”
    “Wait, wait! I’m not talking about the papers—there’s time and maybe one day—but there’s another thing.”
    “The devil of it is, I gave up drinking yesterday. Now here I am, without conscious volition, drinking brandy and really, you know, a little, just a little—”
    “Another thing—”
    “I’m what they call just a little on circuit. The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast. How odd it must be on circuit. Rather like motor