For My Son
DAVID
"If thou be among people make for thyself love, the beginning and end of the heart."
from the Instructions of Ptah-hotep
Introduction by Penelope Lively
The Pyramid is a triumph of economy and pungent effect; a brilliant insight into the social rigidity of English provincial life just before the second world war. It is three interlinked stories, the last of which was written first, and offered by Golding to Charles Monteith at Faber, who rightly suggested that something more was needed to make it a viable piece of fiction.
The same observer features in all three stories, as the central character in the first two—young Oliver, a clever boy about to go to Oxford, mired in adolescent cravings and insecurities. And mired also in Stilbourne, where he has grown up fettered by the stifling class structure of the day. Stilbourne is a fictional version of Marlborough, Golding's own home town, where Golding had known just such a climate.
John Carey, in his biography, records the verdict on Golding as an undergraduate, by officials at the Oxford University Appointments Committee: 'Not quite a gentleman', and 'N.T.S. with slight accent only. May come on'. ' "N.T.S." ', Carey explains, 'was middle-class slang for "Not Top Shelf".' Golding was affected all his life by a youth spent in this social quagmire, and The Pyramid is his scathing, funny, occasionally tragic revenge on a time and a place. It stands alone in his work as a piece of social realism but has all his trademark qualities of vigour, immediacy, innovative writing and vivid evocation. As always, he says most by saying least.
The first and longest section is the story of Oliver's sexual pursuit of Evie, daughter of Sergeant Babbacombe, the Town Crier. Evie works as receptionist for the doctor next door, where Oliver's father is the dispenser. Here, at once, is social entanglement: the doctor is at the top of the social pyramid, Oliver's family is a rung beneath, the Babbacombes further down yet. We see the whole situation through Oliver's eyes, along with his ingrained acceptance of the status quo: 'Understood as by nature.'
Evie is a sexual challenge, nubile and provocative, pursued also—or rather, exploited by—the doctor's son, Robert, a patronising public schoolboy. The account of the dealings between these three is wonderfully funny, but has a darker sub-text, especially where Evie is concerned. Oliver achieves his goal, but at a cost, and has also 'a sudden realization of what a dreadful thing it was to be a girl'. Golding's handling of Oliver's perceptions, and lack of perception, is of great subtlety: the reader is allowed to understand what Oliver has not. We look over his shoulder, as it were, and see that Evie has been the victim of what would today be called sexual abuse.
The second—and briefest—story sees Oliver now an Oxford student, home for the vacation and embroiled by his mother in the local amateur-dramatic production as an on-stage violinist and costumed beefeater. Here, the visiting director takes centre stage, an urban homosexual graciously deigning to lend some tone to this provincial effort. Golding's gift for dialogue comes into full play, with characters and situation established in a few deft exchanges—the tensions, the pretensions, the rivalries and humiliations. Oliver's mother is blithely determined that her son shall have his hour of glory; Oliver is squirming, and, ultimately, takes a step towards maturity, seeing with new eyes the girl he has previously revered. It is the moment when he begins to escape the straitjacket of Stilbourne.
Oliver is again the narrator in the final section, but here Miss Dawlish—known to him always as Bounce on account of her 'elastic step'—takes the leading role. Bounce has made token appearances earlier, but now we hear about the long-term relationship; Oliver has learned the violin with her since he was six, escorted initially by his mother and eventually penetrating her gloomy house on his own, twice a week. Thus, he becomes a witness to the drama of Bounce's involvement with Henry, the local garage mechanic, who becomes essential to her and whom she eventually houses, along with his wife and children. It is a pathetic story, full of hints, ambiguities, the invariable bursts of humour, and, eventually, a scene of outrageous tragedy.
Novel, interlinked stories—however you care to see The Pyramid it is remarkable for its veracity, its extraordinary evocation of a place and the perverse social rankings of that time. Golding's genius here is his ability to establish—to flourish—a character in a few lines of description and a snatch of dialogue. There are some excoriating moments—swift changes of direction that wrong-foot the reader: what you thought is not so, a sudden explanation startles, and negates what has gone before. These sleights of hand are owed to the economy of Golding's narrative, the way in which he can set up a situation in a line or two, and then undermine it a few pages later with an added twist. As with all Golding's work, you notice something new with each re-reading; The Pyramid can seem to work in layers—the surface story and the depths that only become gradually apparent. There is a deceptive simplicity—the bustling, and extremely funny, narrative about a car stuck in a pond, and a lost earring, is really cover for a great deal else. You read to find out what is going to happen, and discover that a great deal more has been told than you were expecting. The Pyramid is a powerful piece of fiction into which Golding has packed comedy, tragedy and an extraordinary evocation of a lost way of life—mercifully lost, one may think.
