POST 18

Up early, carefully dressed for school the next morning, a fragile, restrained breakfast (as befitted one's new status as a potential Tower), Constance, her mind as clear as the blue sky, just breathed the summer air on the way to school, smiling at strange old ladies, toddlers, policeman, practising road courtesy, so that when, two or three times, it came, during the day, to the homework question, a certain set of contradictions took up her mind.

The desire to, as it were, confirm the teachers in their life's work, to be that star pupil with whom they shared gladly their life's involvement with the subject taught, came into conflict with the necessity (in fulfilling the confirmation) to tell a number of lies about the failure to produce any homework. There was something here in this particular department of failure and bad faith, that Constance occasionally felt very bad indeed about, and because of that she did not normally persist in investigating it, in case she caused herself pain. Today, the lies did not feel good at all, did not cohere with the radiance of her feelings, the experience she had had of Philip, in fact. She felt unusually apologetic and ashamed of herself.

Rather surprisingly, the results of having gone too far with Philip - quite unlike the fantasies inspired by wanting to go too far with Matthew - were won entirely to the cause of virtue. (This always was to be the case. Constance wanted to be of good character for Philip, Matthew she just wanted.) Homework dedicated entirely to Philip Harisonn - at some cost to syntax and mathematical calculation - took place during the following days. Describe as accurately as possible the causes of the Asiatic monsoons. Darling Philip, when I think of your early childhood in India. India. (Your ghastly sister.) Ah, the onset of those delicious south-west winds at the beginning of June, the imprisoned heat of the land, the inthrust of sea air into the hot interior, the formation of the great ascending air-currents. Why is Carbon Unique? Dearest Philip, if I am to speak of covalent bonds and stable linkages, my thoughts inevitably, I will be graphite to your diamond. Describe in 500 words The Rout of San Romano, by Paolo Uccello. I cannot make up my mind whether I should want you to be on those magnificent chargers, thrusting your spear about, right and sinister, in front of the picture, or whether I should prefer you to be lying with me tucked away in that quiet empty field on the left under the hedge, under the sun. I say you should be with me. The picture says, No. You must have a front place, you must be a principal character. `The motion picture art of Charlie Chaplin will inevitably make a Japanese laugh as heartily as a Dane'. Is this true? Discuss. As my friend Lieutenant Philip Harisonn has often said, the Chinese sense of humour is very different from ours. There is no tradition of Socratic thought in Chinese history...

It was all good health, great efficiency, the longing for some virtuous but inarticulable consequence from having gone far too far. Desk-clearing, room-cleaning, book-checking, joyous song broke out. One joyous verse of song jazzed up a bit. "To-mo-row shall be my-y-y dancing day. I would my tru-ue lo-ove did so chance to-oo see the legend of my-y play, to-o call my true lo-ove to my-y da-ance. Si-ing O my love, O my love, my love, my love..."

This annoyed Frances. That kind of thing was bad enough at Christmas, and repetition upon repetition got her serial-time thoughts badly tangled.

As Constance explained, it was not she, the sympathetic complaint-receiver, who was making this disturbance, but an independent spirit, the song itself, perhaps, who kept it up, kept itself up, perfecting itself; sometimes without her knowledge, or indeed her permission. Frances's head and temper got worse. How, being the cause of what seemed a real nuisance and being contrite about that, one could still feel so virtuous and unremittingly full of song was a mystery, but the song went on through the delight of all the cleansing activities, frequent baths, manicures and the care of blouses.

Her somewhat advanced though frequently short-stopping plans to seduce Philip when next he should appear or she appear unto him, were firmly based on the image of his preliminary phone-call - where, that is, he had not time to write; although there was a chance he might have time, three days, well two days, but that chance not, as it were, being taken up by him, did not seriously undermine the firmness of the expectations that without delay, let him only set foot in London, the telephone would ring; a plan to meet would evolve - a little vague at the moment as to detail in the expectant imagination, not for a lack but rather a plethora, a superabundance of detail, which made it difficult to know where in time to allocate, to expect, what delicious and virile development of the passions. There would be, would there perhaps? that invitation to supper declined by Frances?

In the event, the call came from Philip's step-mother. They were invited, everyone, to Loverdale House to say goodbye to her and Philip's father before they left London to go to New York and the United Nations.

"You sure they said Loverdale?"

"Where else do you expect them to be?"

"I don't know. I hate that place. I don't know why. I just do. Philip won't be there, I don't suppose?"

"He'll be there all right. I've spoken to him on the telephone," Frances said.

So much for the letter from Philip followed by a phonecall. Constance had not, either, envisaged a crowd scene. She and Philip would have to manage as best they could. Obviously, he had to clear things up with Frances first. But after that.

Barny, the hungry cat had returned again, its third visit. Because she liked cats, man to man without loving them, and would have liked to have a cat, but mainly because it was, to her, Constance, Philip's cat, she had been surreptitiously feeding it with scraps under the hedge at the side of the front garden. Frances who claimed to hate the `vicious brutes' had noticed Barny first this evening, from the top window, and leaving her work, actually leaving her work to do so, had rushed down the house like thunderbolts pursued by lightning, and chased him away with curses.

Constance went out later to find him, but failed.