I Hear Voices Read Online Free PDF Page B

the spies? Who really gave their attention to it? Not King Bohad of the emergent tribes. History states plainly that his main concern was wheedling. Not the High Minister of the Apennines. He got lost one afternoon and the sceptre slipped from his grasp. Did the Chamber, the Duma, the Pinnace or the Pentacle? Men frowning at each other, wondering about the milk situation or placating Baron Grüber. Deep are the roots of history. Subtle, profound and ineluctable are the forces that drive Mavis into Woolworth’s for green silk knickers. Did he who painted those knickers, paint the leaves? Did he who wove their fabric, weave the plots of dynasty and conquest? Did he chase the scaly fishes from the sea? Did he hurl the darting lizard through the sky? Did he refine the coarse visage of the ape until—until—
    I turn my head slightly. Susan stands in the doorway, spyingon me. I do not reveal my anger. One must be very cunning, very cautious and plan each gesture, each word and movement in advance or they will scoop you out from little signs.
    “I finished my egg,” I say casually, but then, although realizing that I am vitiating the effect by unconvincing elaboration, I find myself continuing, “Was it from Farmer Brown? I particularly noticed the grain. In any case, Cousin Susan, it was very thoughtful of you to cook it like that, knowing I can’t eat my eggs any other way. I thought I’d have a rest.”
    I move casually towards the bed, having planned to get in and then burrow beneath the covers but, with sinking heart, notice that Cousin Susan is laying out my suit. Now genuine revolt stirs in me and I march to the wall beside the bed and gaze at the toffee-colored paper.
    They make a great stir and chattering behind me.
    “Oof—” says little Jane.
    “What does it matter?” shrills Maria. “I did phone the laundry. Well —”
    “Is that a pie collar? Is it?”
    “Be quiet, Jane. Well, he’ll have to wear the blue one.”
    “You didn’t draw the curtains,” I reproach her, thinking this may shame her sufficiently to win me a short reprieve. “I say you didn’t draw the curtains, either of you. You don’t know what I may have missed.” They go on squabbling over the clothes. “I’m not going out,” I urge flatly.
    “Oh yes you are.” I hear the rough but somehow amiable voice of Maria, but I am cross with her too.
    “Is he going out?” asks the beastly, insensate sprout, glair dribble depending from her nose. “Is he going out? Is he going out?”
    Mechanically Cousin Susan threatens.
    “You’ll go out in a minute!”
    “You could stifle her,” I say, but this does not produce ahappy effect. Little Jane looks frightened and grows silent, watching me and sucking her thumb. Cousin Susan begins, “We could stifle—” but something makes her reluctant to continue and she shoos Jane from the room and goes on sorting clothes. But I realize that she will be ashamed and unrelenting later on and I tap triumphantly on the parchment. Now that I have attained the upper hand I do not want to be too exacting. I turn round and study them closely.
    “I could escape at any moment,” I announce coolly. They affect not to hear me but my knowledge of psychology and acoustics brings an ironic smile to my lips. I go closer and snap Maria’s apron elastic, at which she whirls furiously, but I mimic consternation and draw back to the wall again. “I could give you meanings,” I boast, but the situation is already fading. “Maria? Would you like to sniff an ancient rose?”
    “I have work to do,” she replies but, although she is always busy and practical and quite immersed in the demands that daily living makes on capable females, she finds time to dart me a look of such intense longing that her face is twisted by it into an ugly and disquieting shape. Another challenge. I have no ancient roses nor can one ever breathe them. I have no hands for Maria. I do not know her bridge. I do not know where she came