The Magus - John Fowles [148]
Barclay's Bank, Englands Lane, N. W. 3. The manager's name was P. J. Fearn. "And this." It was her passport. _Miss J. N. Holmes_. "N.?" "Neilson. My mother's family name." I read the signalement opposite her photo. _Profession: student. Date of birth: 16. 12. 1930. Place of birth: Cape Town, South Africa_. "South Africa?" "My father was a commander in the Navy. He died when we were only six. We've always lived in England. I mean he was English." _Country of residence: England. Height: 5 ft. 8 in. Colour of eyes: grey. Hair: fair. Special peculiarities: scar on left wrist (twin sister)_. At the bottom she had signed her name, a neat italic hand. I flicked through the visa pages. Two journeys to Italy, one to France, one to Germany. An entry visa into Greece made out in February; an entry stamp, March 31st, Athens. None for the year before. I thought back to March 31st; that all this had been preparing, even then. "They must have been blind. At Cambridge. No one marrying you." She looked down; we were to keep to the business in hand. "Which college were you at?" "Girton." "You must know old Miss Wainwright. Dr. Wainwright." "At Girton?" "Chaucer expert. Langland." She saw my trick; looked down, unamused. "I'm sorry. Of course. You were at Girton." She left a pause. "You don't know how sick I am of being a figure of mystery. Never using contracted forms." "Mystery becomes you. But come on. A teacher." She was an unlikely teacher; but then so was I. "Where?" She mentioned the name of a famous girls' grammar school in North London. "That's not very plausible." "Why not?" "Not enough _cachet_." "I didn't want _cachet_. I wanted to be in London." A germander light in her eyes, blue and unflinching. "I see. And Maurice was one of your pupils." Though she laughed then, it was against her mood. She apparently made up her mind that questions were not helping; that what she had to say was too serious for any more banter. "We, June and I, were in a London amateur company called the Tavistock Rep. They have a little theatre in Canonbury." "Yes. I went there once. Seriously." "Well, last summer they put on _Lysistrata_." She looked at me as if I might have heard about it. "There's a rather clever producer there called Tony Hill, and he put us both into the main part. I stood in front of the stage and spoke the lines and June did all the acting. In mime. You didn't read about this? It was in some of the papers... quite a lot of real theatre people came to see it. The production. Not us." "When was this?" "Almost exactly this time last year." We remained leaning close together. She began putting the books and letters back. "One day a man came backstage, told us, June and me, he was a theatrical agent and he had someone who wanted to meet us. A film producer." She smiled impatiently at me. "Of course. And he was so secretive about who it was that it seemed too clumsy and obvious for words. But two days later we both got a formal invitation to have lunch at Claridge's from someone who signed himself..." "Maurice Conchis." "We hesitated, then--just for fun, really--went along." She paused. "And Maurice... dazzled us. Lunch alone with him in his private suite. We were expecting one of those dreadful pseudo-Hollywood types who starts feeling you after the first ten minutes. Instead there was this charming, impeccably correct man. Then after lunch, when we were duly enchanted, he got down to business." "Didn't he tell you anything about himself?" She tossed her hair back. Serious and practical. I began to believe she might be a schoolmistress. "Oh yes. But all rather vague. A kind of lonely rich man, with houses in France and Greece. A bit of a scholar. We got that impression. And a lot about Bourani. He described everything here. Exactly as it is... as a place. And he told us about this film company he owned in Beirut." She silenced me. "And then--it was _so_ amazing--he suddenly sprang this offer on us. To star in a film he was going to make this summer." "What film?" "I'll tell you in a minute. At first we were terribly suspicious again. The