Read Online The Pyramid by William Golding - Free Book Online Page A

turned away towards the street.
    “Evie—”
    She did not answer, but went on walking. At the bottom of the Bridge where the street began she glinted back over her left shoulder, lifting her hand by it and wiggling the fingers. I stood, my walking stick across my thighs, and watched her. She was doing her walk again, our local phenomenon, nothing moving but legs below the knee, on the invisible line patrolled daily by Sergeant or Mrs. Babbacombe . She moved from light to light; and with my new craving, my new wickedness, I saw and understood how the moneyless shapes of men outside each pub watched her, their heads turning with a silent and hopeless avidity. She would be fifty yards past them, when the burst of jeering, libidinous laughter came. I knew that I should never be able to endure it myself, my feet swollen, face rigid; but Evie never faltered. I went home by way of side alleys to avoid running that gauntlet.
    Next morning, shaving sullenly, I had an idea that stopped the razor on my cheek. There, in the Ewans’s stable was Robert’s bike. I looked out quickly and saw that nothing had been done about it at all. I finished shaving and hurried down to breakfast, telling myself I must be careful and diplomatic. Lead the conversation round, bit by bit.
    I was so quick that both my father and mother were still eating. My mother broke off to fetch my breakfast from the pan. This was fortunate.
    “Young Robert’s bike is still in the stable, I see.”
    “Oh?”
    “Yes. It is.”
    My father glanced up under his eyebrows through his pebble glasses.
    “Best place for it.”
    I nodded, and kept the ball in play.
    “It’s out of the rain, anyway.”
    “Ha!”
    My mother came back and put my plate down with the kind of firmness that always indicated further communication .
    “Don’t think you’re going to have that bike, Oliver, either to borrow or buy!”
    My mouth fell open. She sat down again.
    “Besides,” said my father, “We couldn’t afford it.”
    “I’ve got—”
    “And you’ll need it,” said my mother, “every penny of it.”
    “If Robert—”
    “I do wish you’d clear your mouth before speaking, dear,” said my mother. She swallowed. “He will want it again anyway . If his father lets him ride it again, which I doubt. Ewan’s not a fool.”
    “How can he want it again if he’s a cripple?”
    “Cripple!” said my mother. “Who gave you that idea?”
    “He was badly bruised,” said my father. “He’s broken some ribs too. But he’ll be all right.”
    “I thought—I saw the bike—it was so badly damaged—”
    “Just a few weeks,” said my father. “Young Ewan’s all right. Teach him a lesson, silly ass!”
    “Every week you see something in the Stilbourne Adver tiser . Killed, like as not. Oh! Which reminds me, Father—Imogen Grantley’s getting married in Barchester Cathedral !”
    “That’ll be a big do,” said my father as he pushed away his plate. “When?”
    “July the twenty-seventh. Only gives her a few weeks. But of course with money to spend—”
    “Lot of nonsense,” said my father. “Dressing up.”
    “After all, Father, her great-uncle was Dean. He married a Totterfield. Then—I wonder who she’ll have for bride’s maids?”
    “Not me, at any rate,” said my father. He twinkled through his pebbles and stood up. “I’ve got work to do.”
    “Oliver, dear, eat your other egg!”
    “Put the bike out of your head, old son. When you’re as old as I am, you’ll understand.”
    “Eat it up.”
    “Leave me alone!”
    “Don’t speak to your mother like that!”
    “Leave me alone! Leave me alone! I—don’t want it!”
    My father sat down and looked at me gravely.
    “He’s up and down all the time,” said my mother looking at him. He looked back. She nodded meaningly. “I always wondered if it was a good idea.”
    They began to weave a web across the table of care and attention.
    “Routine,” said my father. “That’s what he needs