The Pyramid by William Golding Page A

pointedly as I could if he should notice me; but he wasn’t there. The punchball was motionless as ever between its upper and lower attachment and the motor bike was on its stand in the corner. It was chalky all over, and even at that distance I could see the deep gouges in the metal. One of the handlebars was bent right back. I was excited immediately ; and a little worried too—not for Robert but for myself. I did not like my pleasure in the sight of the wrecked bike. I even spoke aloud to force myself into the correct human position.
    “Poor old Robert! I hope he’s not hurt—”
    Then I remembered the fluttering white embroidery, the naked knee, and my thoughts and feelings became too confused for understanding. I shaved as quickly as I could, and hurried downstairs. Breakfast was waiting for me, though my father had already gone through into the dispensary. When she heard me, my mother came in to give me my breakfast.
    “Seen Robert’s bike?”
    My mother put down the hot plate and wiped her hands on a tea towel.
    “Heard about it. I knew that would happen sooner or later. Young men—motor bikes ought to be banned from the road.”
    “Is he hurt?”
    “Of course he’s hurt! What d’you think?”
    “Badly?”
    “They don’t know yet. Took him to the hospital.”
    I helped myself to HP sauce.
    “Anybody else hurt?”
    My mother was silent for a while. Her silences always made me uneasy. She could see through a brick wall, could my mother. Uneasily I remembered how dark it had been under the bridge—reassured myself. There was no reason why I should not have met Evie accidentally on top of it, and stopped to chat. After all, she worked practically in the same house.
    “Anybody else hurt, Mother?”
    “Motor bikes aren’t the only thing I’d ban!”
    She gathered together the débris of my father’s breakfast.
    “Nobody else was hurt—more’s the pity!”
    I watched her under my eyebrows as she went back to the kitchen. Clearly my mother was having one of her moods. She did not have them often, but when she did, I found it necessary to stand from under. I should not get more accurate news from her today, no matter how diplomatically I probed for it. I could not question my father either; or rather, though I could question him, he would have forgotten the details already. That left Evie herself. So after breakfast I strolled through to the dispensary, where my father was working silently as usual. I heard the laborious clatter of a typewriter from the reception room. It was true then. She was all right. Not hurt enough to stay away—well enough to get there on time, too. All at once I was swept up on a wave of joy. What my swung fist had failed to do to Robert, he had done for himself, without any help from me.
    “Can I give you a hand with anything, Father?”
    My father swung his heavy head round. There was surprise behind his pebble glasses. He tugged his grey moustache once, shook his head briefly, then swung it back again. I had some kind of intuition that my mother’s mood had started very early. I went to our piano and tried to strike a mean between finger-soreness, irritating my mother, and reminding Evie that I was there. I wandered into the town; saw Mrs. Babbacombe pecking at Sergeant Babbacombe by the Town Hall, so loitered, until she had gone on. When I passed him in my turn, he looked from the mat he was brushing and nodded to me. There was no doubt about it. He had never done it before, but now he nodded to me. I gave a jerk of my head which might be taken either as recognition, or avoidance of a fly and walked on. I was so surprised that I stood for a long time before the window of the Antique Shoppe, examining the contents. I did not know what to think. I read such titles as were still legible among the tattered books, picked one out and examined it. I did not see it. I saw instead Sergeant Babbacombe’s extraordinary nod—as if I were a soldier too, or drinking companion. I put