The Collected Stories

I said: ‘There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love.’

‘Ah, Wilder.’ Mr Pinshow drew a large coloured handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose.

‘The only survival,’ I added, ‘the only meaning.’

Mr Pinshow replaced his handkerchief. He scratched a match along the side of its box and held the flame to his pipe. ‘Love’ he said, puffing, ‘or love? One sort or the other sort?’

‘The other sort, sir?’

‘You question such a division? Good. Good.’

I said: ‘I wanted to speak to you, sir.’

‘Quite right. Fire away, then.’

‘In confidence, sir, I think Williams is a bad influence on Markham.’

‘Ah.’

‘I think Markham may be very upset about his parents’ death, sir. Williams is the last person…’

‘Come now, in what way a bad influence? Speak freely, my friend. We must straightway establish the facts of the case.’

I knew then that the whole thing was going to be useless. It had been a mistake to come to Pinshow. I could not reveal to him the evidence on which my fears were based. I said nothing, hoping he would not press me.

‘I see,’ he said.

‘Perhaps I am making a mountain out of a molehill, sir.’

Mr Pinshow, however, did not think so at all. ‘This is a serious business,’ he said. ‘Though it is unusual in these matters, I am glad you came to me.’

Clearly, I had given the man a completely false impression. I attempted to rectify this, but Mr Pinshow waved me to silence.

‘Say no more, my friend. Leave the matter with me. You can rely on me to speak with discretion in the right directions.’

‘Sir, I hope I have not misled you.’

‘No, no, no.’

‘It is not a serious thing, sir. It is just that Markham was once a friend of mine and I am sure that now he…’

Mr Pinshow held up his hand. He smiled. ‘You are a good fellow. Do not despair. All will be well.’

God knows, I thought, what damage I have done.

‘Mind your own bloody business,’ Williams muttered to me. ‘Any more of this kind of stuff to Pinshow and I’ll have you for slander. Don’t you know that man’s a menace?’

‘Go to hell, Williams.’ And Williams, seeming a fit candidate for such a destination, shuffled angrily away.

After that, I decided to forget about Markham and Williams. After all, it had nothing to do with me; and in any case I appeared to have no option. I settled down to concentrating a little harder on my work and then, when I really had forgotten all about this strange alliance, I was summoned from class one day by the headmaster.

He stood by the window of his study, a terrible, sickly figure of immense height. He remained with his back to me when I entered the room and spoke to me throughout the interview from this position. ‘You will tell me what you know about Markham and the boy Williams,’ he said. ‘Do not lie, boy. I know a lie. I feel a lie on its utterance. Likewise, do not exaggerate. You will repeat to me simply and honestly all that is apposite. Unburden yourself, boy, that you may leave the room with your duty well done.’

I did not intend to lie. To conceal three-quarters of the story was not to lie. I said: ‘The whole truth, sir, is that…’ I paused not knowing how to go on. The headmaster said:

‘Well, boy, let us have haste with the whole truth.’

‘I can tell you nothing, sir.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Yes, sir. I know nothing of Markham and Williams.’

‘They are boys in this school. You know that, I presume? You have associated with them. You have spoken to Mr Pinshow of these boys. If their relationship is an illicit one I wish to know it. You will achieve little by reticence.’

‘There is nothing illicit, sir, in their friendship. I spoke to Mr Pinshow merely because I felt Williams to be the wrong sort of friend for Markham at this particular time.’

‘That is a presumptuous decision for you to make, boy.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Why, then, did you so perversely make it?’

‘I like Markham, sir.’

‘Why, then, did you not see to it that his days were made easier by persuading him personally against an ill influence?’

‘Markham no longer wished for my companionship, sir.’

‘You had harmed him in some manner?’

‘No, sir. At least not that I know of.’

‘Yes or no, boy? Do not leave yourself a cowardly loophole.’

‘No, sir. I had not harmed him.’

‘Well then, why did he not wish to converse with you?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’

‘You do not know. It is unnecessary to be afraid as well.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You see, boy, that you have placed me in an intolerable position with your wild irresponsibilities? I am the fount of authority in this school. You have made me uneasy in my mind. You have forced me to pursue a course I see no good reason for pursuing. Yet because there may be one tittle of reality in your guarded suspicions I must act as I do not wish to act. Have you ever placed yourself in a headmaster’s shoes?’

‘No, sir.’

‘No, sir. I had sensed as much. They are shoes that pinch, boy. It is well to remember that.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Walk forward to my desk, boy, and press the bell you see there. We will order this affair one way or the other.’

Markham and Williams were summoned. When they entered, the headmaster turned from the window and faced us. He said to them:

‘Your friendship is in dispute. Your accuser stands beside you. Do not lie, boys. I know a lie. I can feel a lie on its utterance. Have you reason for shame?’

Williams, whose eyes were fastened on the legs of the headmaster’s desk, shook his head. Markham replied that he had no cause to be ashamed.

‘On what then is your relationship based? Have you like interests? Of what do you speak together?’

‘Of many things, sir,’ Williams said. ‘Politics and affairs of state. Of our ambitions, sir. And our academic progress as the term passes.’

‘We talk of one subject only, sir,’ Markham said. ‘The death of my father and stepmother.’

‘Yet you, boy,’ the headmaster said to Williams, ‘would claim a wider conversational field. The air is blackened with the lie. Which boy are we to believe?’

‘Markham is ill, sir. He is not at all himself. I give him what help I can. He does not recall the full extent of our conversation.’

‘We speak of one subject,’ Markham repeated.

‘Why, boy, do you speak of this subject to the exclusion of all others?’

‘Because I killed my father, sir. And my stepmother too.’

‘Markham is ill, sir. He…’

‘Leave the room, you boys. Markham, you shall remain.’

Neither Williams nor I spoke as we walked away from the headmaster’s door. Then, as our ways were about to divide, I said:

‘You know he didn’t. You know it is not true.’

Williams did not look at me. He said: That’s right. Why didn’t you tell Bodger that?’

‘You’ve made him believe he did it, Williams.’

‘Markham’s all talk. Markham’s a madman, eh?’

‘You’re an evil bastard, Williams.’

‘That’s right. I’m an unhealthy personage.’

He went on his way and I stood where he had left me, looking back at the closed door of the headmaster’s study. The little red light which indicated that for no reason whatsoever should the headmaster be disturbed gleamed above it. Within, I guessed that the curtains were by now closely drawn, since to do so was the headmaster’s practice on all grave occasions.

Suddenly I had the absurd notion of returning to this darkened room and demanding to be heard, since now I was free to speak. I felt for the moment that I could put his case more clearly, more satisfactorily than Markham himself. I felt that I knew everything: the horror of the thought that had leapt in Markham’s mind when first his father told him of the accident in Florence; the game he had made of it, and the later fears that Williams had insidiously played upon. But as I paused in doubt I heard the urgent chiming of a bell, and, like the object of some remote control, I answered the familiar summons.

That same evening Markham was driven away. He was seen briefly in the headmaster’s hall, standing about in his overcoat, seeming much as usual.

‘They’ve sent him up to Derbyshire,’ said Mr Pinshow when later I attempted to elicit information. ‘Poor lad; so healthy in the body, too.’ He would say no more, but I knew what he was thinking; and often since I have thought of Markham, still healthy in his body, growing up and getting older in the place they had found for him in Derbyshire. I have thought of Williams too, similarly growing older though in other circumstances, marrying perhaps and begetting children, and becoming in the end the man he had said he would one day be.

The Penthouse Apartment

‘Flowers?’ said Mr Runca into his pale blue telephone receiver. ‘Shall we order flowers? What’s the procedure?’ He stared intently at his wife as he spoke, and his wife, eating her breakfast grapefruit, thought that it would seem to be her husband’s intention to avoid having to pay for flowers. She had become used to this element in her husband; it hardly ever embarrassed her.

‘The procedure’s quite simple,’ said a soft voice in Mr Runca’s ear. ‘The magazine naturally supplies the flowers. If we can just agree between us what the flowers should be.’

‘Indeed,’ said Mr Runca. ‘It’s to be remembered that not all blooms will go with the apartment. Our fabrics must be allowed to speak for themselves, you know. Well, you’ve seen. You know what I mean.’

‘Indeed I do, Mr Runca –’

‘They came from Thailand, in fact. You might like to mention that.’

‘So you said, Mr Runca. The fabrics are most beautiful.’

Mr Runca, hearing this statement, nodded. He said, because he was used to saying it when the apartment was discussed:

‘It’s the best-dressed apartment in London.’

‘I’ll come myself at three,’ said the woman on the magazine. ‘Will someone be there at half past two, say, so that the photographers can set up their gear and test the light?’

‘We have an Italian servant,’ said Mr Runca, ‘who opened the door to you before and who’ll do the same thing for the photographers.’

‘Till this afternoon then,’ said the woman on the magazine, speaking lightly and gaily, since that was her manner.

Mr Runca carefully replaced the telephone receiver. His wife, a woman who ran a boutique, drank some coffee and heard her husband say that the magazine would pay for the flowers and would presumably not remove them from the flat after the photography had taken place. Mrs Runca nodded. The magazine was going to devote six pages to the Runcas’ flat: a display in full colour of its subtleties and charm, with an article about how the Runcas had between them planned the décor.

‘I’d like to arrange the flowers myself,’ said Mrs Runca. ‘Are they being sent round?’

Mr Runca shook his head. The flowers, he explained, were to be brought to the house by the woman from the magazine at three o’clock, the photographers having already had time to deploy their materials in the manner they favoured.

‘But how ridiculous!’ cried Mrs Runca. ‘That’s completely hopeless. The photographers with their cameras poised for three o’clock and the woman arriving then with the flowers. How long does the female imagine it’ll take to arrange them? Does she think it can be done in a matter of minutes?’

Mr Runca picked up the telephone and dialled the number of the magazine. He mentioned the name of the woman he had recently been speaking to. He spoke to her again. He said:

‘My wife points out that none of this is satisfactory. The flowers will take time to arrange, naturally. What point is there in keeping your photographers waiting? And I myself haven’t got all day.’

‘It shouldn’t take long to arrange the flowers.’

Mrs Runca lit her first cigarette of the day, imagining that the woman on the magazine was saying something like that. She had a long, rather thin face, and pale grey hair that had the glow of aluminium. Her hands were long also, hands that had grown elegant in childhood, with fingernails that now were of a fashionable length, metallically painted, a reflection of her hair. Ten years ago, on money borrowed from her husband, she had opened her boutique. She had called it St Catherine, and had watched it growing into a flourishing business with a staff of five women and a girl messenger.

‘Very well then,’ said the woman on the magazine, having listened further to Mr Runca. ‘I’ll have the flowers sent round this morning.’

‘They’re coming round this morning,’ reported Mr Runca to his wife.

‘I have to be at St Catherine at twelve,’ she said, ‘absolutely without fail.’

‘My wife has to be at her business at midday,’ said Mr Runca, and the woman on the magazine cursed silently. She promised that the flowers would be in the Runcas’ penthouse apartment within three-quarters of an hour.

Mr Runca rose to his feet and stood silently for a minute. He was a rich, heavily jowled man, the owner of three publications that appealed to those involved in the clothing trade. He was successful in much the same way as his wife was, and he felt, as she did, that efficiency and a stern outlook were good weapons in the business of accumulating wealth. Once upon a time they had both been poor and had recognized certain similar qualities in one another, had seen the future as a more luxurious time, as in fact it had become. They were proud that once again their penthouse apartment was to be honoured by photographs and a journalist. It was the symbol of their toil; and in a small way it had made them famous.

Mr Runca walked from the spacious room that had one side made entirely of glass, and his feet caused no sound as he crossed a white carpet of Afghanistan wool. He paused in the hall to place a hat on his head and gloves on his hands before departing for a morning’s business.

At ten to ten the flowers arrived and by a quarter past eleven Mrs Runca had arranged them to her satisfaction. The Runcas’ Italian maid, called Bianca, cleaned the flat most carefully, seeking dust in an expert way, working with method and a conscience, which was why the Runcas employed her. Mrs Runca warned her to be in at half past two because the photographers were coming then. ‘I must go out now then,’ replied Bianca, ‘for shopping. I will make these photographers coffee, I suppose?’ Mrs Runca said to give the men coffee in the kitchen, or tea, if they preferred it. ‘Don’t let them walk about the place with cups in their hands,’ she said, and went away.

In another part of the block of flats lived Miss Winton with her Cairn terrier. Her flat was different from the Runcas’; it contained many ornaments that had little artistic value, was in need of redecoration, and had a beige linoleum on the floor of the bathroom. Miss Winton did not notice her surroundings much; she considered the flat pretty in its way, and comfortable to live in. She was prepared to leave it at that.

‘Well,’ remarked Miss Winton to her dog in the same moment that Mrs Runca was stepping into a taxi-cab, ‘what shall we do?’

The dog made no reply beyond wagging its tail. ‘I have eggs to buy,’ said Miss Winton, ‘and honey, and butter. Shall we go and do all that?’

Miss Winton had lived in the block of flats for fifteen years. She had seen many tenants come and go. She had heard about the Runcas and the model place they had made of the penthouse. It was the talk of London, Miss Winton had been told by Mrs Neck, who kept a grocer’s shop near by; the Runcas were full of taste, apparently. Miss Winton thought it odd that London should talk about a penthouse flat, but did not ever mention that to Mrs Neck, who didn’t seem to think it odd in the least. To Miss Winton the Runcas were like many others who had come to live in the same building: people she saw and did not know. There were no children in the building, that being a rule; but animals, within reason, were permitted.

Miss Winton left her flat and walked with her dog to Mrs Neck’s shop. ‘Fresh buns,’ said Mrs Neck before Miss Winton had made a request. ‘Just in, dear.’ But Miss Winton shook her head and asked for eggs and honey and butter. ‘Seven and ten,’ said Mrs Neck, reckoning the cost before reaching a hand out for the articles. She said it was shocking that food should cost so much, but Miss Winton replied that in her opinion two shillings wasn’t exorbitant for half a pound of butter. ‘I remember it ninepence,’ said Mrs Neck, ‘and twice the stuff it was. I’d sooner a smear of Stork than what they’re turning out today.’ Miss Winton smiled, and agreed that the quality of everything had gone down a bit.

Afterwards, for very many years, Miss Winton remembered this conversation with Mrs Neck. She remembered Mrs Neck saying: ‘I’d sooner a smear of Stork than what they’re turning out today,’ and she remembered the rather small, dark-haired girl who entered Mrs Neck’s shop at that moment, who smiled at both of them in an innocent way. ‘Is that so?’ said the Runcas’ maid, Bianca. ‘Quality has gone down?’

‘Lord love you, Miss Winton knows what she’s talking about,’ said Mrs Neck. ‘Quality’s gone to pieces.’

Miss Winton might have left the shop then, for her purchasing was over, but the dark-haired young girl had leaned down and was patting the head of Miss Winton’s dog. She smiled while doing that. Mrs Neck said:

‘Miss Winton’s in the flats too.’

‘Ah, yes?’

‘This young lady,’ explained Mrs Neck to Miss Winton, ‘works for the Runcas in the penthouse we hear so much about.’

‘Today they are coming to photograph,’ said Bianca. ‘People from a magazine. And they will write down other things about it.’

‘Again?’ said Mrs Neck, shaking her head in wonderment. ‘What can I do for you?’

Bianca asked for coffee beans and a sliced loaf, still stroking the head of the dog.

Miss Winton smiled. ‘He has taken to you,’ she said to Bianca, speaking timidly because she felt shy of people, especially foreigners. ‘He’s very good company.’

‘Pretty little dog,’ said Bianca.

Miss Winton walked with Bianca back to the block of flats, and when they arrived in the large hallway Bianca said:

‘Miss Winton, would you like to see the penthouse with all its fresh flowers and fruits about the place? It is at its best in the morning sunlight as Mr Runca was remarking earlier. It is ready for the photographers.’

Miss Winton, touched that the Italian girl should display such thought-fulness towards an elderly spinster, said that it would be a pleasure to look at the penthouse flat but added that the Runcas might not care to have her walking about their property.

‘No, no,’ said Bianca, who had not been long in the Runcas’ employ. ‘Mrs Runca would love you to see it. And him too. “Show anyone you like,” they’ve said to me. Certainly.’ Bianca was not telling the truth, but time hung heavily on her hands in the empty penthouse and she knew she would enjoy showing Miss Winton the flowers that Mrs Runca had so tastefully arranged, and the curtains that had been imported specially from Thailand, and the rugs and the chairs and the pictures on the walls.

‘Well,’ began Miss Winton.

‘Yes,’ said Bianca and pressed Miss Winton and her dog into the lift.

But when the lift halted at the top and Bianca opened the gates Miss Winton experienced a small shock. ‘Mr Morgan is here too,’ said Bianca. ‘Mending the water.’

Miss Winton felt that she could not now refuse to enter the Runcas’ flat, since to do so would be to offend the friendly little Italian girl, yet she really did not wish to find herself face to face with Mr Morgan in somebody else’s flat. ‘Look here,’ she said, but Bianca and the dog were already ahead of her. ‘Come on, Miss Winton,’ said Bianca.

Miss Winton found herself in the Runcas’ small and fastidious hall, and then in the large room that had one side made of glass. She looked around her and noted all the low furniture and the pale Afghanistan carpet and the objects scattered economically about, and the flowers that Mrs Runca had arranged. ‘Have coffee,’ said Bianca, going quickly off to make some, and the little dog, noting her swift movement and registering it as a form of play, gave a single bark and darted about himself, in a small circle. ‘Shh,’ whispered Miss Winton. ‘Really,’ she protested, following Bianca to the kitchen, ‘don’t bother about coffee.’ ‘No, no,’ said Bianca, pretending not to understand, thinking that there was plenty of time for herself and Miss Winton to have coffee together, sitting in the kitchen, where Mrs Runca had commanded coffee was to be drunk. Miss Winton could hear a light hammering and guessed it was Mr Morgan at work on the water-pipes. She could imagine him coming out of the Runcas’ bathroom and stopping quite still as soon as he saw her. He would stand there in his brown overall, large and bulky, peering at her through his spectacles, chewing, probably, a piece of his moustache. His job was to attend to the needs of the tenants when the needs were not complicated, but whenever Miss Winton telephoned down to his basement and asked for his assistance he would sigh loudly into the telephone and say that he mightn’t manage to attend to the matter for a day or two. He would come, eventually, late at night but still in his brown overall, his eyes watering, his breath rich with alcohol. He would look at whatever the trouble was and make a swift diagnosis, advising that experts should be summoned the following morning. He didn’t much like her, Miss Winton thought; no doubt he considered her a poor creature, unmarried at sixty-four, thin and weak-looking, with little sign that her physical appearance had been attractive in girlhood.

‘It’s a lovely place,’ said Miss Winton to Bianca. ‘But I think perhaps we should go now. Please don’t bother with coffee; and thank you most awfully.’

‘No, no,’ said Bianca, and while she was saying it Mr Morgan entered the kitchen in his brown overall.

One day in 1952 Miss Winton had mislaid her bicycle. It had disappeared without trace from the passage in the basement where Mr Morgan had said she might keep it. ‘I have not seen it,’ he had said slowly and deliberately at that time. ‘I know of no cycle.’ Miss Winton had reminded him that the bicycle had always had a place in the passage, since he had said she might keep it there. But Mr Morgan, thirteen years younger then, had replied that he could recall none of that. ‘Stolen,’ he had said. ‘I dare say stolen. I should say the coke men carted it away. I cannot always be watching the place, y’know. I have me work, madam.’ She had asked him to inquire of the coke men if they had in error removed her bicycle; she had spoken politely and with a smile, but Mr Morgan had repeatedly shaken his head, pointing out that he could not go suggesting that the coke men had made off with a bicycle, saying that the coke men would have the law on him. ‘The wife has a cycle,’ Mr Morgan had said. ‘A Rudge. I could obtain it for you, madam. Fifty shillings?’ Miss Winton had smiled again and had walked away, having refused this offer and given thanks for it.

‘Was you wanting something, madam?’ asked Mr Morgan now, his lower lip pulling a strand of his moustache into his mouth. ‘This is the Runcas’ flat up here.’

Miss Winton tried to smile at him. She thought that whatever she said he would be sarcastic in a disguised way. He would hide his sarcasm beneath the words he chose, implying it only with the inflection of his voice. Miss Winton said:

‘Bianca kindly invited me to see the penthouse.’

‘It is a different type of place from yours and mine,’ replied Mr Morgan, looking about him. ‘I was attending to a tap in the bathroom. Working, Miss Winton.’

‘It is to be photographed today,’ said Bianca. ‘Mr and Mrs Runca will return early from their businesses.’

‘Was you up here doing the flowers, madam?’

He had called her madam during all the years they had known one another, pointing up the fact that she had no right to the title.

‘A cup of coffee, Mr Morgan?’ said Bianca, and Miss Winton hoped he would refuse.

‘With two spoons of sugar in it,’ said Mr Morgan, nodding his head and adding: ‘D’you know what the Irish take in their coffee?’ He began to laugh rumbustiously, ignoring Miss Winton and appearing to share a joke with Bianca. ‘A tot of the hard stuff,’ said Mr Morgan. ‘Whisky.’

Bianca laughed too. She left the kitchen, and Miss Winton’s dog ran after her. Mr Morgan blew at the surface of his coffee while Miss Winton, wondering what to say to him, stirred hers.

‘It’s certainly a beautiful flat,’ said Miss Winton.

‘It would be too large for you, madam. I mean to say, just you and the dog in a place like this. You’d lose one another.’

‘Oh, yes, of course. No, I meant –’

‘I’ll speak to the authorities if you like. I’ll speak on your behalf, as a tenant often asks me to do. Put a word in, y’know. I could put a word in if you like, madam.’

Miss Winton frowned, wondering what Mr Morgan was talking about. She smiled uncertainly at him. He said:

‘I have a bit of influence, knowing the tenants and that. I got the left-hand ground flat for Mr Webster by moving the Aitchesons up to the third. I got Mrs Bloom out of the back one on the first –’

‘Mr Morgan, you’ve misunderstood me. I wouldn’t at all like to move up here.’

Mr Morgan looked at Miss Winton, sucking coffee off his moustache. His eyes were focused on hers. He said:

‘You don’t have to say nothing outright, madam. I understand a hint.’

Bianca returned with a bottle of whisky. She handed it to Mr Morgan, saying that he had better add it to the coffee since she didn’t know how much to put in.

‘Oh, a good drop,’ said Mr Morgan, splashing the liquor on to his warm coffee. He approached Miss Winton with the neck of the bottle poised towards her cup. He’ll be offended, she thought; and because of that she did not, as she wished to, refuse his offering. ‘The Irish are heavy drinkers,’ said Mr Morgan. ‘Cheers.’ He drank the mixture and proclaimed it good. ‘D’you like that, Miss Winton?’ he asked, and Miss Winton tasted it and discovered to her surprise that the beverage was pleasant. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do.’

Mr Morgan held out his cup for more coffee. ‘Just a small drop,’ he said, and he filled the cup up with whisky. Again he inclined the neck of the bottle towards Miss Winton, who smiled and said she hadn’t finished. He held the bottle in the same position, watching her drinking her coffee. She protested when Bianca poured her more, but she could sense that Bianca was enjoying this giving of hospitality, and for that reason she accepted, knowing that Mr Morgan would pour in more whisky. She felt comfortably warm from the whisky that was already in her body, and she experienced the desire to be agreeable – although she was aware, too, that she would not care for it if the Runcas unexpectedly returned.

‘Fair enough,’ said Mr Morgan, topping up Bianca’s cup and adding a further quantity to his own. He said:

‘Miss Winton is thinking of shifting up here, her being the oldest tenant in the building. She’s been stuck downstairs for fifteen years.’

Bianca shook her head, saying to Miss Winton: ‘What means that?’

‘I’m quite happy,’ said Miss Winton, ‘where I am.’ She spoke softly, with a smile on her face, intent upon being agreeable. Mr Morgan was sitting on the edge of the kitchen table. Bianca had turned on the wireless. Mr Morgan said:

‘I come to the flats on March the 21st, 1951. Miss Winton here was already in residence. Riding about on a cycle.’

‘I was six years old,’ said Bianca.

‘D’you remember that day, Miss Winton? March the 21st?’

Miss Winton shook her head. She sat down on a chair made of an ersatz material. She said:

‘It’s a long time ago.’

‘I remember the time you lost your cycle, Miss Winton. She come down to me in the basement,’ said Mr Morgan to Bianca, ‘and told me to tick off the coke deliverers for thieving her bicycle. I never seen no cycle, as I said to Miss Winton. D’you understand, missy?’ Bianca smiled, nodding swiftly. She hummed the tune that was coming from the wireless. ‘Do you like that Irish drink?’ said Mr Morgan. ‘Shall we have some more?’

‘I must be going,’ said Miss Winton. ‘It’s been terribly kind of you.’

‘Are you going, madam?’ said Mr Morgan, and there was in his tone a hint of the belligerency that Miss Winton knew his nature was imbued with. In her mind he spoke more harshly to her, saying she was a woman who had never lived. He was saying that she might have been a nun the way she existed, not knowing anything about the world around her; she had never known a man’s love, Mr Morgan was saying; she had never borne a child.

‘Oh, don’t go,’ said Bianca. ‘Please, I’ll make you a cold cocktail, like Mr Runca showed me how. Cinzano with gin in it, and lemon and ice.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Miss Winton.

Mr Morgan sighed, implying with the intake of his breath that her protest was not unexpected. There were other women in the block of flats, Miss Winton imagined, who would have a chat with Mr Morgan now and again, who would pass the time of day with him, asking him for racing tips and suggesting that he should let them know when he heard that a flat they coveted was going to be empty. Mr Morgan was probably a man whom people tipped quite lavishly for the performance of services or favours. Miss Winton could imagine people – people like the Runcas maybe – saying to their friends: ‘We greased the caretaker’s palm. We gave him five pounds.’ She thought she’d never be able to do that.

Bianca went away to fetch the ingredients for the drink, and again the dog went with her.

Miss Winton stood still, determined that Mr Morgan should not consider that she did not possess the nerve to receive from the Runcas’ Italian maid a midday cocktail. Mr Morgan said:

‘You and me has known one another a number of years.’

‘Yes, we have.’

‘We know what we think of a flat like this, and the type of person. Don’t we, Miss Winton?’

‘To tell the truth, I don’t really know the Runcas.’

‘I’ll admit it to you: the whisky has loosened my tongue, Miss Winton. You understand what I mean?’

Miss Winton smiled at Mr Morgan. There was sweat, she noticed, on the sides of his face. He said with vehemence: ‘Ridiculous, the place being photographed. What do they want to do that for, tell me?’

‘Magazines take an interest. It’s a contemporary thing. Mrs Neck was saying that this flat is well-known.’

‘You can’t trust Mrs Neck. I think it’s a terrible place. I wouldn’t be comfortable in a place like this.’

‘Well–’

‘You could report me for saying a thing like that. You could do that, Miss Winton. You could tell them I was intoxicated at twelve o’clock in the day, drinking a tenant’s liquor and abusing the tenant behind his back. D’you see what I mean, madam?’

‘I wouldn’t report you, Mr Morgan. It’s no business of mine.’

‘I’d like to see you up here, madam, getting rid of all this trash and putting in a decent bit of furniture. How’s about that?’

‘Please, Mr Morgan, I’m perfectly happy –’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Mr Morgan.

Bianca returned with glasses and bottles. Mr Morgan said:

‘I was telling Miss Winton here that she could report me to the authorities for misconduct, but she said she never would. We’ve known one another a longish time. We was never drinking together though.’

Bianca handed Miss Winton a glass that felt cold in Miss Winton’s hand. She feared now what Mr Morgan was going to say. He said:

‘I intoxicate easily.’ Mr Morgan laughed, displaying darkened teeth. He swayed back and forth, looking at Miss Winton. ‘I’ll put in a word for you,’ he said, ‘no bother at all.’

She was thinking that she would finish the drink she’d been given and then go away and prepare lunch. She would buy some little present to give Bianca, and she would come up to the Runcas’ flat one morning and hand it to her, thanking her for her hospitality and her thoughtfulness.

While Miss Winton was thinking, that, Mr Morgan was thinking that he intended to drink at least two more of the drinks that the girl was offering, and Bianca was thinking that it was the first friendly morning she had spent in this flat since her arrival three weeks before. ‘I must go to the WC,’ said Mr Morgan, and he left the kitchen, saying he would be back. ‘It’s most kind of you,’ said Miss Winton when he had gone. ‘I do hope it’s all right.’ It had occurred to her that Bianca’s giving people the Runcas’ whisky and gin was rather different from her giving people a cup of coffee, but when she looked at Bianca she saw that she was innocently smiling. She felt light-headed, and smiled herself. She rose from her chair and thanked Bianca again and said that she must be going now. Her dog came to her, wishing to go also. ‘Don’t you like the drink?’ said Bianca, and Miss Winton finished it. She placed the glass on the metal draining-board and as she did so a crash occurred in the Runcas’ large sitting-room. ‘Heavens!’ said Miss Winton, and Bianca raised a hand to her mouth and kept it there. When they entered the room they saw Mr Morgan standing in the centre of it, looking at the floor.

‘Heavens!’ said Miss Winton, and Bianca widened her eyes and still did not take her hand away from her mouth. On the floor lay the flowers that Mrs Runca had earlier arranged. The huge vase was smashed into many pieces. Water was soaking into the Afghanistan carpet.

‘I was looking at it,’ explained Mr Morgan. ‘I was touching a flower with my fingers. The whole thing gave way.’

‘Mrs Runca’s flowers,’ said Bianca. ‘Oh, Mother of God!’

‘Mr Morgan,’ said Miss Winton.

‘Don’t look at me, ma’am. Don’t blame me for an instant. Them flowers was inadequately balanced. Ridiculous.’

Bianca, on her hands and knees, was picking up the broken stalks. She might have been more upset, Miss Winton thought, and she was glad that she was not. Bianca explained that Mrs Runca had stayed away from her boutique specially to arrange the flowers. ‘They’ll give me the sack,’ she said, and instead of weeping she gave a small giggle.

The gravity of the situation struck Miss Winton forcibly. Hearing Bianca’s giggle, Mr Morgan laughed also, and went to the kitchen, where Miss Winton heard him pouring himself some more of the Runcas’ gin. Miss Winton realized then that neither Bianca nor Mr Morgan had any sense of responsibility. Bianca was young and did not know any better; Mr Morgan was partly drunk. The Runcas would return with people from a magazine and they would find that their property had been damaged, that a vase had been broken and that a large damp patch in the centre of their Afghanistan carpet would not look good in the photographs. ‘Let’s have another cocktail,’ said Bianca, throwing down the flowers she had collected and giggling again. ‘Oh, no,’ cried Miss Winton. ‘Please, Bianca. We must think what’s best to do.’ But Bianca was already in the kitchen, and Miss Winton could hear Mr Morgan’s rumbustious laugh.

‘I tell you what,’ said Mr Morgan, coming towards her with a glass in his hand. ‘We’ll say the dog done it. We’ll say the dog jumped at the flowers trying to grip hold of them.’

Miss Winton regarded him with surprise. ‘My dog?’ she said. ‘My dog was nowhere near the flowers.’ Her voice was sharp, the first time it had been so that morning.

Mr Morgan sat down in an armchair, and Miss Winton, about to protest about that also, realized in time that she had, of course, no right to protest at all.

‘We could say,’ said Mr Morgan, ‘that the dog went into a hysterical fit and attacked the flowers. How’s about that?’

‘But that’s not true. It’s not the truth.’

‘I was thinking of me job, madam. And of the young missy’s.’

‘It was an accident,’ said Miss Winton, ‘as you have said, Mr Morgan.’

‘They’ll say what was I doing touching the flowers? They’ll say to the young missy what was happening, was you giving a party? I’ll have to explain the whole thing to the wife.’

‘Your wife?’

‘What was I doing in the Runcas’ flat with the young one? The wife will see through anything.’

‘You were here to mend a water-pipe, Mr Morgan.’

‘What’s the matter with the water-pipes?’

‘Oh really, Mr Morgan. You were repairing a pipe when I came into the flat.’

‘There was nothing the matter with the pipes, ma’am. Nor never has been, which is just the point. The young missy telephones down saying the pipes is making a noise. She’s anxious for company. She likes to engage in a chat.’

‘I shall arrange what flowers we can salvage,’ said Miss Winton, ‘just as neatly as they were arranged before. And we can explain to the Runcas that you came to the flat to mend a pipe and in passing brushed against Mrs Runca’s flowers. The only difficulty is the carpet. The best way to get that damp stain out would be to lift up the carpet and put an electric fire in front of it.’

‘Take it easy,’ said Mr Morgan. ‘Have a drink, Miss Winton.’

‘We must repair the damage –’

‘Listen, madam,’ said Mr Morgan, leaning forward, ‘you and I know what we think of a joint like this. Tricked out like they’ve got it –’

‘It’s a question of personal taste –’

‘Tell them the dog done the damage, Miss Winton, and I’ll see you right. A word in the ear of the authorities and them Runcas will be out on the street in a jiffy. Upsetting the neighbours with noise, bringing the flats into disrepute. I’d say it in court, Miss Winton: I seen naked women going in and out of the penthouse.’

Bianca returned, and Miss Winton repeated to her what she had said already to Mr Morgan about the drying of the carpet. Between them, they moved chairs and tables and lifted the carpet from the floor, draping it across two chairs and placing an electric fire in front of it. Mr Morgan moved to a distant sofa and watched them.

‘I used not to be bad with flowers,’ said Miss Winton to Bianca. ‘Are there other vases?’ They went together to the kitchen to see what there was. ‘Would you like another cocktail?’ said Bianca, but Miss Winton said she thought everyone had had enough to drink. ‘I like these drinks,’ said Bianca, sipping one. ‘So cool.’

‘You must explain,’ said Miss Winton, ‘that Mr Morgan had to come in order to repair the gurgling pipe and that he brushed against the flowers on the way across the room. You must tell the truth: that you had invited me to have a look at the beautiful flat. I’m sure they won’t be angry when they know it was an accident.’

‘What means gurgling?’ said Bianca.

‘Hey,’ shouted Mr Morgan from the other room.

‘I think Mr Morgan should go now,’ said Miss Winton. ‘I wonder if you’d say so, Bianca? He’s a very touchy man.’ She imagined Mr Runca looking sternly into her face and saying he could not believe his eyes: that she, an elderly spinster, still within her wits, had played a part in the disastrous proceedings in his flat. She had allowed the caretaker to become drunk, she had egged on a young foreign girl. ‘Have you no responsibility?’ shouted Mr Runca at Miss Winton in her imagination. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘Hey,’ shouted Mr Morgan. ‘That carpet’s burning.’

Miss Winton and Bianca sniffed the air and smelt at once the tang of singed wool. They returned at speed to the other room and saw that the carpet was smoking and that Mr Morgan was still on the sofa, watching it. ‘How’s about that?’ said Mr Morgan.

‘The fire was too close,’ said Bianca, looking at Miss Winton, who frowned and felt afraid. She didn’t remember putting the fire so close to the carpet, and then she thought that she was probably as intoxicated as Mr Morgan and didn’t really know what she was doing.

‘Scrape off the burnt bit,’ advised Mr Morgan, ‘and tell them the dog ate it.’

They unplugged the fire and laid the carpet flat on the floor again. Much of the damp had disappeared, but the burnt patch, though small, was eyecatching. Miss Winton felt a weakness in her stomach, as though a quantity of jelly were turning rhythmically over and over. The situation now seemed beyond explanation, and she saw herself asking the Runcas to sit down quietly, side by side with the people from the magazine, and she heard herself trying to tell the truth, going into every detail and pleading that Bianca should not be punished. ‘Blame me,’ she was saying, ‘if someone must be blamed, for I have nothing to lose.’

‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Mr Morgan, ‘why don’t we telephone for Mrs Neck? She done a carpet for her hearth, forty different wools she told me, that she shaped with a little instrument. Ring up Mrs Neck, missy, and say there’s a drink for her if she’ll oblige Mr Morgan with ten minutes of her time.’

‘Do no such thing,’ cried Miss Winton. ‘There’s been enough drinking, Mr Morgan, as well you know. The trouble started with drink, when you lurched against the flowers. There’s no point in Mrs Neck adding to the confusion.’

Mr Morgan listened to Miss Winton and then rose from the sofa. He said:

‘You have lived in these flats longer than I have, madam. We all know that. But I will not stand here and be insulted by you, just because I am a working man. The day you come after your cycle –’

‘I must go away,’ cried Bianca in distress. ‘I cannot be found with a burnt carpet and the flowers like that.’

‘Listen,’ said Mr Morgan, coming close to Miss Winton. ‘I have a respect for you. I’m surprised to hear myself insulted from your lips.’

‘Mr Morgan –’

‘You was insulting me, madam.’

‘I was not insulting you. Don’t go, Bianca. I’ll stay here and explain everything to the Runcas. I think, Mr Morgan, it would be best if you went off to your lunch now.’

‘How can I?’ shouted Mr Morgan very loudly and rudely, sticking his chin out at Miss Winton. ‘How the damn hell d’you think I can go down to the wife in the condition I’m in? She’d eat the face off me.’

‘Please, Mr Morgan.’

‘You and your dog: I have respect for the pair of you. You and me is on the same side of the fence. D’you understand?’

Miss Winton shook her head.

‘What d’you think of the Runcas, ma’am?’

‘I’ve said, Mr Morgan: I’ve never met the Runcas.’

‘What d’you think of the joint they’ve got here?’

‘I think it’s most impressive.’

‘It’s laughable. The whole caboodle is laughable. Did you ever see the like?’ Mr Morgan pointed at objects in the room. ‘They’re two tramps,’ he shouted, his face purple with rage at the thought of the Runcas. ‘They’re jumped-up tramps.’

Miss Winton opened her mouth in order to speak soothingly. Mr Morgan said:

‘I could put a match to the place and to the Runcas too, with their bloody attitudes. I’m only a simple caretaker, madam, but I’d see their bodies in flames.’ He kicked a chair, his boot thudding loudly against pale wood. ‘I hate that class of person, they’re as crooked as a corkscrew.’

‘You’re mistaken, Mr Morgan.’

‘I’m bloody not mistaken,’ shouted Mr Morgan. ‘They’re full of hate for a man like me. They’d say I was a beast.’

Miss Winton, shocked and perturbed, was also filled with amazement. She couldn’t understand why Mr Morgan had said that he and she belonged on the same side of the fence, since for the past fifteen years she had noted the scorn in his eyes.

‘We have a thing in common,’ said Mr Morgan. ‘We have no respect whatever for the jumped-up tramps who occupy this property. I’d like to see you in here, madam, with your bits and pieces. The Runcas can go where they belong.’ Mr Morgan spat into the chair which he had struck with his boot.

‘Oh, no,’ cried Miss Winton, and Mr Morgan laughed. He walked about the room, clearing his throat and spitting carelessly. Eventually he strolled away, into the kitchen. The dog barked, sensing Miss Winton’s distress. Bianca began to sob and from the kitchen came the whistling of Mr Morgan, a noise he emitted in order to cover the sound of gin being poured into his glass. Miss Winton knew what had happened: she had read of men who could not resist alcohol and who were maddened by its presence in their bloodstream. She considered that Mr Morgan had gone mad in the Runcas’ flat; he was speaking like an insane person, saying he had respect for her dog.

‘I am frightened of him,’ said Bianca.

‘No,’ said Miss Winton. ‘He’s a harmless man, though I wish he’d go away. We can clean up a bit. We can make an effort.’

Mr Morgan returned and took no notice of them. He sat on the sofa while they set to, clearing up the pieces of broken vase and the flowers. They placed a chair over the burnt area of carpet so that the Runcas would not notice it as soon as they entered the room. Miss Winton arranged the flowers in a vase and placed it where the other one had been placed by Mrs Runca. She surveyed the room and noticed that, apart from the presence of Mr Morgan, it wasn’t so bad. Perhaps, she thought, the explanation could be unfolded gradually. She saw no reason why the room shouldn’t be photographed as it was now, with the nicely arranged flowers and the chair over the burnt patch of carpeting. The damp area, greater in size, was still a little noticeable, but she imagined that in a photograph it mightn’t show up too badly.

‘You have let me get into this condition,’ said Mr Morgan in an aggressive way. ‘It was your place to say that the Runcas’ whisky shouldn’t be touched, nor their gin neither. You’re a fellow-tenant, Miss Winton. The girl and I are servants, madam. We was doing what came naturally.’

‘I’ll take the responsibility,’ said Miss Winton.

‘Say the dog done it,’ urged Mr Morgan again. ‘The other will go against the girl and myself.’

‘I’ll tell the truth,’ said Miss Winton. ‘The Runcas will understand. They’re not monsters that they won’t forgive an accident. Mrs Runca –’

‘That thin bitch,’ shouted Mr Morgan, and added more quietly: ‘Runca’s illegitimate.’

‘Mr Morgan –’

‘Tell them the bloody dog done it. Tell them the dog ran about like a mad thing. How d’you know they’re not monsters? How d’you know they’ll understand, may I ask? “The three of us was boozing in the kitchen,” are you going to say? “Mr Morgan took more than his share of the intoxicant. All hell broke loose.” Are you going to say that, Miss Winton?’

‘The truth is better than lies.’

‘What’s the matter with saying the dog done it?’

‘You would be far better off out of this flat, Mr Morgan. No good will come of your raving on like that.’

‘You have always respected me, madam. You have never been familiar.’

‘Well –’

‘I might strike them dead. They might enter that door and I might hit them with a hammer.’

Miss Winton began to protest, but Mr Morgan waved a hand at her. He sniffed and said: ‘A caretaker sees a lot, I’ll tell you that. Fellows bringing women in, hypocrisy all over the place. There’s those that slips me a coin, madam, and those that doesn’t bother, and I’m not to know which is the worse. Some of them’s miserable and some’s boozing all night, having sex and laughing their heads off. The Runcas isn’t human in any way whatsoever. The Runcas is saying I was a beast that might offend their eyes.’ Mr Morgan ceased to speak, and glared angrily at Miss Winton.

‘Come now,’ she said.

‘A dirty caretaker, they’ve said, who’s not fit to be alive–’

‘They’ve never said any such thing, Mr Morgan. I’m sure of it.’

‘They should have moved away from the flats if they hated the caretaker. They’re a psychological case.’

There was a silence in the room, while Miss Winton trembled and tried not to show it, aware that Mr Morgan had reached a condition in which he was capable of all he mentioned.

‘What I need,’ he said after a time, speaking more calmly from the sofa on which he was relaxing, ‘is a cold bath.’

‘Mr Morgan,’ said Miss Winton. She thought that he was at last about to go away, down to his basement and his angry wife, in order to immerse his large body in cold water. ‘Mr Morgan, I’m sorry that you should think badly of me –’

‘I’ll have a quick one,’ said Mr Morgan, walking towards the Runcas’ bathroom. ‘Who’ll know the difference?’

‘No,’ cried Miss Winton. ‘No, please, Mr Morgan.’

But with his glass in his hand Mr Morgan entered the bathroom and locked the door.

When the photographers arrived at half past two to prepare their apparatus Mr Morgan was still in the bathroom. Miss Winton waited with Bianca, reassuring her from time to time, repeating that she would not leave until she herself had explained to the Runcas what had happened. The photographers worked silently, moving none of the furniture because they had been told that the furniture was on no account to be displaced.

For an hour and twenty minutes Mr Morgan had been in the bathroom. It was clear to Miss Winton that he had thrown the vase of flowers to the ground deliberately and in anger, and that he had placed the fire closer to the carpet. In his crazy and spiteful condition Miss Winton imagined that he was capable of anything: of drowning himself in the bath maybe, so that the Runcas’ penthouse might sordidly feature in the newspapers. Bianca had been concerned about his continued presence in the bathroom, but Miss Winton had explained that Mr Morgan was simply being unpleasant since he was made like that. ‘It is quite disgraceful,’ she said, well aware that Mr Morgan realized she was the kind of woman who would not report him to the authorities, and was taking advantage of her nature while involving her in his own. She felt that the Runcas were the victims of circumstance, and thought that she might use that very expression when she made her explanation to them. She would speak slowly and quietly, breaking it to them in the end that Mr Morgan was still in the bathroom and had probably fallen asleep. ‘It is not his fault,’ she heard herself saying. ‘We must try to understand.’ And she felt that the Runcas would nod their heads in agreement and would know what to do next.

‘Will they sack me?’ said Bianca, and Miss Winton shook her head, repeating again that nothing that had happened had been Bianca’s fault.

At three o’clock the Runcas arrived. They came together, having met in the hallway downstairs. ‘The flowers came, did they?’ Mr Runca had inquired of his wife in the lift, and she had replied that the flowers had safely been delivered and that she had arranged them to her satisfaction. ‘Good,’ said Mr Runca, and reported to his wife some facts about the morning he had spent.

When they entered their penthouse apartment the Runcas noted the presence of the photographers and the photographers’ apparatus. They saw as well that an elderly woman with a dog was there, standing beside Bianca, that a chair had been moved, that the Afghanistan carpet was stained, and that some flowers had been loosely thrust into a vase. Mr Runca wondered about the latter because his wife had just informed him that she herself had arranged the flowers; Mrs Runca thought that something peculiar was going on. The elderly woman stepped forward to greet them, announcing that her name was Miss Winton, and at that moment a man in a brown overall whom the Runcas recognized as a Mr Morgan, caretaker and odd-job man, entered the room from the direction of the bathroom. He strode towards them and coughed.

‘You had trouble with the pipes,’ said Mr Morgan. He spoke urgently and it seemed to Mr and Mrs Runca that the elderly woman with the dog was affected by his speaking. Her mouth was actually open, as though she had been about to speak herself. Hearing Mr Morgan’s voice, she closed it.

‘What has happened here?’ said Mrs Runca, moving forward from her husband’s side. ‘Has there been an accident?’

‘I was called up to the flat,’ said Mr Morgan, ‘on account of noise in the pipes. Clogged pipes was on the point of bursting, a trouble I’ve been dealing with since eleven-thirty. You’ll discover the bath is full of water. Release it, sir, at five o’clock tonight, and then I think you’ll find everything OK. Your drain-away was out of order.’

Mrs Runca removed her gaze from Mr Morgan’s face and passed it on to the face of Miss Winton and then on to the bowed head of Bianca. Her husband examined the silent photographers, sensing something in the atmosphere. He said to himself that he did not yet know the full story: what, for instance, was this woman with a dog doing there? A bell rang, and Bianca moved automatically from Miss Winton’s side to answer the door. She admitted the woman from the magazine, the woman who was in charge of everything and was to write the article.

‘Miss Winton,’ said Mr Morgan, indicating Miss Winton, ‘Occupies a flat lower down in the building.’ Mr Morgan blew his nose. ‘Miss Winton wished,’ he said, ‘to see the penthouse, and knowing that I was coming here she came up too and got into conversation with the maid on the doorstep. The dog dashed in, in a hysterical fit, knocking down a bowl of flowers and upsetting an electric fire on the carpet. Did you notice this?’ said Mr Morgan, striding forward to display the burnt patch. ‘The girl had the fire on,’ added Mr Morgan, ‘because she felt the cold, coming from a warmer clime.’

Miss Winton heard the words of Mr Morgan and said nothing. He had stood in the bathroom, she reckoned, for an hour and twenty minutes, planning to say that the girl had put on the fire because, being Italian, she had suddenly felt the cold.

‘Well?’ said Mr Runca, looking at Miss Winton.

She saw his eyes, dark and intent, anxious to draw a response from her, wishing to watch the opening and closing of her lips while his ears listened to the words that relayed the explanation.

‘I regret the inconvenience,’ she said. ‘I’ll pay for the damage.’

‘Damage?’ cried Mrs Runca, moving forward and pushing the chair further away from the burnt area of carpet. ‘Damage?’ she said again, looking at the flowers in the vase.

‘So a dog had a fit in here,’ said Mr Runca.

The woman from the magazine looked from Mr Morgan to Bianca and then to Miss Winton. She surveyed the faces of Mr and Mrs Runca and glanced last of all at the passive countenances of her photographers. It seemed, she reflected, that an incident had occurred; it seemed that a dog had gone berserk. ‘Well now,’ she said briskly. ‘Surely it’s not as bad as all that? If we put that chair back who’ll notice the carpet? And the flowers look most becoming.’

‘The flowers are a total mess,’ said Mrs Runca. ‘An animal might have arranged them.’

Mr Morgan was discreetly silent, and Miss Winton’s face turned scarlet.

‘We had better put the whole thing off,’ said Mr Runca meditatively. ‘It’ll take a day or two to put everything back to rights. We are sorry,’ he said, addressing himself to the woman from the magazine. ‘But no doubt you see that no pictures can be taken?’

The woman, swearing most violently within her mind, smiled at Mr Runca and said it was obvious, of course. Mr Morgan said:

‘I’m sorry, sir, about this.’ He stood there, serious and unemotional, as though he had never suggested that Mrs Neck might be invited up to the Runcas’ penthouse apartment, as though hatred and drink had not rendered him insane. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Mr Morgan. ‘I should not have permitted a dog to enter your quarters, sir. I was unaware of the dog until it was too late.’

Listening to Mr Morgan laboriously telling his lies, Miss Winton was visited by the thought that there was something else she could do. For fifteen years she had lived lonesomely in the building, her shyness causing her to keep herself to herself. She possessed enough money to exist quite comfortably; she didn’t do much as the days went by.

‘Excuse me,’ said Miss Winton, not at all knowing how she was going to proceed. She felt her face becoming red again, and she felt the eyes of everyone on her. She wanted to explain at length, to go on talking in a manner that was quite unusual for her, weaving together the threads of an argument. It seemed to Miss Winton that she would have to remind the Runcas of the life of Mr Morgan, how he daily climbed from his deep basement, attired invariably in his long brown overall. ‘He has a right to his resentment,’ was what she might say; ‘he has a right to demand more of the tenants of these flats. His palm is greased, he is handed a cup of tea in exchange for a racing tip; the tenants keep him sweet.’ He had come to consider that some of the tenants were absurd, or stupid, and that others were hypocritical. For Miss Winton he had reserved his scorn, for the Runcas a share of his hatred. Miss Winton had accepted the scorn, and understood why it was there; they must seek to understand the other. ‘The ball is in your court,’ said Miss Winton in her imagination, addressing the Runcas and pleased that she had thought of a breezy expression that they would at once appreciate.

‘What about Wednesday next?’ said Mr Runca to the woman from the magazine. ‘All this should be sorted out by then, I imagine.’

‘Wednesday would be lovely,’ said the woman.

Miss Winton wanted to let Mr Morgan see that he was wrong about these people. She wanted to have it proved here and now that the Runcas were human and would understand an accident, that they, like anyone else, were capable of respecting a touchy caretaker. She wished to speak the truth, to lead the truth into the open and let it act for itself between Mr Morgan and the Runcas.

‘We’ll make a note of everything,’ Mrs Runca said to her, ‘and let you have the list of the damage and the cost of it.’

‘I’d like to talk to you,’ said Miss Winton. ‘I’d like to explain if I may.’

‘Explain?’ said Mrs Runca. ‘Explain?’

‘Could we perhaps sit down? I’d like you to understand. I’ve been in these flats for fifteen years. Mr Morgan came a year later. Perhaps I can help. It’s difficult for me to explain to you.’ Miss Winton paused, in some confusion.

‘Is she ill?’ inquired the steely voice of Mrs Runca, and Miss Winton was aware of the woman’s metallic hair, and fingernails that matched it, and the four shrewd eyes of a man and a woman who were successful in all their transactions. ‘I might hit them with a hammer,’ said the voice of Mr Morgan in Miss Winton’s memory. ‘I might strike them dead.’

‘We must try to understand,’ cried Miss Winton, her face burning with embarrassment. ‘A man like Mr Morgan and people like you and an old spinster like myself. We must relax and attempt to understand.’ Miss Winton wondered if the words that she forced from her were making sense; she was aware that she was not being eloquent. ‘Don’t you see?’ cried Miss Winton with the businesslike stare of the Runcas fixed harshly upon her.

‘What’s this?’ demanded Mrs Runca. ‘What’s all this about understanding? Understanding what?’

‘Yes,’ said her husband.

‘Mr Morgan comes up from his basement every day of his life. The tenants grease his palm. He sees the tenants in his own way. He has a right to do that; he has a right to his touchiness –’

Mr Morgan coughed explosively, interrupting the flow of words. ‘What are you talking about?’ cried Mrs Runca. ‘It’s enough that damage has been done without all this.’

‘I’m trying to begin at the beginning.’ Ahead of her Miss Winton sensed a great mound of words and complication before she could lay bare the final truth: that Mr Morgan regarded the Runcas as people who had been in some way devoured. She knew that she would have to progress slowly, until they began to guess what she was trying to put to them. Accepting that they had failed the caretaker, as she had failed him too, they would understand the reason for his small revenge. They would nod their heads guiltily while she related how Mr Morgan, unhinged by alcohol, had spat at their furniture and had afterwards pretended to be drowned.

‘We belong to different worlds,’ said Miss Winton, wishing the ground would open beneath her, ‘you and I and Mr Morgan. Mr Morgan sees your penthouse flat in a different way. What I am trying to say is that you are not just people to whom only lies can be told.’

‘We have a lot to do,’ said Mrs Runca, lighting a cigarette. She was smiling slightly, seeming amused.

‘The bill for damage must be paid,’ added Mr Runca firmly. ‘You understand, Miss Winter? There can be no shelving of that responsibility.’

‘I don’t do much,’ cried Miss Winton, moving beyond embarrassment now. ‘I sit with my dog. I go to the shops. I watch the television. I don’t do much, but I am trying to do something now. I am trying to promote understanding.’

The photographers began to dismantle their apparatus. Mr Runca spoke in a whisper to the woman from the magazine, making some final arrangement for the following Wednesday. He turned to Miss Winton and said more loudly: ‘Perhaps you had better return to your apartment, Miss Winter. Who knows, that little dog may have another fit.’

‘He didn’t have a fit,’ cried Miss Winton. ‘He never had a fit in the whole of his life.’

There was a silence in the room then, before Mr Runca said:

‘You’ve forgotten, Miss Winter, that your little dog had a bout of

hysteria and caused a lot of trouble. Come now, Miss Winter.’

‘My name is not Miss Winter. Why do you call me a name that isn’t correct?’

Mr Runca threw his eyes upwards, implying that Miss Winton was getting completely out of hand and would next be denying her very existence. ‘She’s the Queen Mother,’ whispered Mrs Runca to one of the photographers, and the photographer sniggered lightly. Miss Winton said:

‘My dog did not have a fit. I am trying to tell you, but no one bothers to listen. I am trying to go back to the beginning, to the day that Mr Morgan first became caretaker of these flats –’

‘Now, madam,’ said Mr Morgan, stepping forward.

‘I am going to tell the truth,’ cried Miss Winton shrilly. Her dog began to bark, and she felt, closer to her now, the presence of Mr Morgan. ‘Shall we be going, madam?’ said Mr Morgan, and she was aware that she was being moved towards the door. ‘No,’ she cried while the movement continued. ‘No,’ whispered Miss Winton again, but already she was on the landing and Mr Morgan was saying that there was no point whatsoever in attempting to tell people like the Runcas the truth. ‘That type of person,’ said Mr Morgan, descending the stairs with Miss Winton, his hand beneath her left elbow as though she required aid, ‘that type of person wouldn’t know the meaning of the word.’

I have failed, said Miss Winton to herself; I have failed to do something that might have been good in its small way. She found herself at the door of her flat, feeling tired, and heard Mr Morgan saying: ‘Will you be all right, madam?’ She reflected that he was speaking to her as though she were the one who had been mad, soothing her in his scorn. Mr Morgan began to laugh. ‘Runca slipped me a quid,’ he said. ‘Our own Runca.’ He laughed again, and Miss Winton felt wearier. She would write a cheque for the amount of the damage, and that would be that. She would often in the future pass Mr Morgan on the stairs and there would be a confused memory between them. The Runcas would tell their friends, saying there was a peculiar woman in one of the flats. ‘Did you see their faces,’ said Mr Morgan, ‘when I mentioned about the dog in a fit?’ He threw his head back, displaying all his teeth. ‘It was that amusing,’ said Mr Morgan. ‘I nearly smiled.’ He went away, and Miss Winton stood by the door of her flat, listening to his footsteps on the stairs. She heard him on the next floor, summoning the lift that would carry him smoothly to the basement, where he would tell his wife about Miss Winton’s dog having a fit in the Runcas’ penthouse, and how Miss Winton had made a ridiculous fuss that no one had bothered to listen to.

In at the Birth

Once upon a time there lived in a remote London suburb an elderly lady called Miss Efoss. Miss Efoss was a spry person, and for as long as she could control the issue she was determined to remain so. She attended the cinema and the theatre with regularity; she read at length; and she preferred the company of men and women forty years her junior. Once a year Miss Efoss still visited Athens and always on such visits she wondered why she had never settled in Greece: now, she felt, it was rather too late to make a change; in any case, she enjoyed London.

In her lifetime, nothing had passed Miss Efoss by. She had loved and been loved. She had once, even, given birth to a child. For a year or two she had known the ups and downs of early family life, although the actual legality of marriage had somehow been overlooked. Miss Efoss’s baby died during a sharp attack of pneumonia; and shortly afterwards the child’s father packed a suitcase one night. He said goodbye quite kindly to Miss Efoss, but she never saw him again.

In retrospect, Miss Efoss considered that she had run the gamut of human emotions. She settled down to the lively superficiality of the everyday existence she had mapped for herself. She was quite content with it. And she hardly noticed it when the Dutts entered her life.

It was Mr Dutt who telephoned. He said: ‘Ah, Miss Efoss, I wonder if you can help us. We have heard that occasionally you babysit. We have scoured the neighbourhood for a reliable babysitter. Would you be interested, Miss Efoss, in giving us a try?’

‘But who are you?’ said Miss Efoss. ‘I don’t even know you. What is your name to begin with?’

‘Dutt,’ said Mr Dutt. ‘We live only a couple of hundred yards from you. I think you would find it convenient.’

‘Well–’

‘Miss Efoss, come and see us. Come and have a drink. If you like the look of us perhaps we can arrange something. If not, we shan’t be in the least offended.’

‘That is very kind of you, Mr Dutt. If you give me your address and a time I’ll certainly call. In fact, I shall be delighted to do so.’

‘Good, good.’ And Mr Dutt gave Miss Efoss the details, which she noted in her diary.

Mr and Mrs Dutt looked alike. They were small and thin with faces like greyhounds. ‘We have had such difficulty in finding someone suitable to sit for us,’ Mrs Dutt said. ‘All these young girls, Miss Efoss, scarcely inspire confidence.’

‘We are a nervous pair, Miss Efoss,’ Mr Dutt said, laughing gently as he handed her a glass of sherry. ‘We are a nervous pair and that’s the truth of it.’

‘There is only Mickey, you see,’ explained his wife. ‘I suppose we worry a bit. Though we try not to spoil him.’

Miss Efoss nodded. ‘An only child is sometimes a problem.’

The Dutts agreed, staring intently at Miss Efoss, as though recognizing in her some profound quality.

‘We have, as you see, the television,’ Mr Dutt remarked. ‘You would not be lonely here of an evening. The radio as well. Both are simple to operate and are excellent performers.’

‘And Mickey has never woken up,’ said Mrs Dutt. ‘Our system is to leave our telephone behind. Thus you may easily contact us.’

‘Ha, ha, ha.’ Mr Dutt was laughing. His tiny face was screwed into an unusual shape, the skin drawn tightly over his gleaming cheekbones.

‘What an amusing thing to say, Beryl! My wife is fond of a joke, Miss Efoss.’

Unaware that a joke had been made, Miss Efoss smiled.

‘It would be odd if we did not leave our telephone behind,’ Mr Dutt went on. ‘We leave the telephone number behind, Beryl. The telephone number of the house where we are dining. You would be surprised, Miss Efoss, to receive guests who carried with them their telephone receiver. Eh?’

‘It would certainly be unusual.’

‘ “We have brought our own telephone, since we do not care to use another.” Or: “We have brought our telephone in case anyone telephones us while we are here.” Miss Efoss, will you tell me something?’

‘If I can, Mr Dutt.’

‘Miss Efoss, have you ever looked up the word joke in the Encyclopaedia Britannica?’

‘I don’t think I have.’

‘You would find it rewarding. We have the full Encyclopaedia here, you know. It is always at your service.’

‘How kind of you.’

‘I will not tell you now what the Encyclopaedia says on the subject. I will leave you to while away a minute or two with it. I do not think you’ll find it a wasted effort.’

‘I’m sure I won’t.’

‘My husband is a great devotee of the Encyclopaedia,’ Mrs Dutt said. ‘He spends much of his time with it.’

‘It is not always pleasure,’ Mr Dutt said. ‘The accumulation of information on many subjects is part of my work.’

‘Your work, Mr Dutt?’

‘Like many, nowadays, Miss Efoss, my husband works for his living.’

‘You have some interesting job, Mr Dutt?’

‘Interesting, eh? Yes, I suppose it is interesting. More than that I cannot reveal. That is so, eh, Beryl?’

‘My husband is on the secret list. He is forbidden to speak casually about his work. Alas, even to someone to whom we trust our child. It’s a paradox, isn’t it?’

‘I quite understand. Naturally, Mr Dutt’s work is no affair of mine.’

‘To speak lightly about it would mean marching orders for me,’ Mr Dutt said. ‘No offence, I hope?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Sometimes people take offence. We have had some unhappy occasions, eh, Beryl?’

‘People do not always understand what it means to be on the secret list, Miss Efoss. So little is taken seriously nowadays.’

Mr Dutt hovered over Miss Efoss with his sherry decanter. He filled her glass and his wife’s. He said:

‘Well, Miss Efoss, what do you think of us? Can you accept the occasional evening in this room, watching our television and listening for the cry of our child?’

‘Naturally, Miss Efoss, there would always be supper,’ Mrs Dutt said.

‘With sherry before and brandy to finish with,’ Mr Dutt added.

‘You are very generous. I can quite easily have something before I arrive.’

‘No, no, no. It is out of the question. My wife is a good cook. And I can be relied upon to keep the decanters brimming.’

‘You have made it all so pleasant I am left with no option. I should be delighted to help you out when I can manage it.’

Miss Efoss finished her sherry and rose. The Dutts rose also, smiling benignly at their satisfactory visitor.

‘Well then,’ Mr Dutt said in the hall, ‘would Tuesday evening be a time you could arrange, Miss Efoss? We are bidden to dine with friends near by.’

‘Tuesday? Yes, I think Tuesday is all right. About seven?’

Mrs Dutt held out her hand. ‘Seven would be admirable. Till then, Miss Efoss.’

On Tuesday Mr Dutt opened the door to Miss Efoss and led her to the sitting-room. His wife, he explained, was still dressing. Making conversation as he poured Miss Efoss a drink, he said:

‘I married my wife when she was on the point of entering a convent, Miss Efoss. What d’you think of that?’

‘Well,’ Miss Efoss said, settling herself comfortably before the cosy-stove, ‘it is hard to know what to say, Mr Dutt. I am surprised, I suppose.’

‘Most people are surprised. I often wonder if I did the right thing. Beryl would have made a fine nun. What d’you think?’

‘I’m sure you both knew what you were doing at the time. It is equally certain that Mrs Dutt would have been a fine nun.’

‘She had chosen a particularly severe order. That’s just like Beryl, isn’t it?’

‘I hardly know Mrs Dutt. But if it is like her to have made that choice, I can well believe it.’

‘You see my wife as a serious person, Miss Efoss? Is that what you mean?’

‘In the short time I have known her, yes I think I do. Yet you also say she relishes a joke.’

‘A joke, Miss Efoss?’

‘So you remarked the other evening. In relation to a slip in her speech.’

‘Ah yes. How right you are. You must forgive me if my memory is often faulty. My work is wearing.’

Mrs Dutt, gaily attired, entered the room. ‘Here, Miss Efoss,’ she said, proffering a piece of paper, ‘is the telephone number of the house we are going to. If Mickey makes a sound please ring us up. L will immediately return.’

‘Oh, but I’m sure that’s not necessary. It would be a pity to spoil your evening so. I could at least attempt to comfort him.’

‘I would prefer the other arrangement. Mickey does not take easily to strangers. His room is at the top of the house, but please do not enter it. Were he to wake suddenly and catch sight of you he might be extremely frightened. He is quite a nervous child. At the slightest untoward sound do not hesitate to telephone.’

‘As you wish it, Mrs Dutt. I only suggested –’

‘Experience has taught me, Miss Efoss, what is best. I have laid you a tray in the kitchen. Everything is cold, but quite nice, I think.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Then we will be away. We should be back by eleven fifteen.’

‘Do have a good evening.’

The Dutts said they intended to have a good evening, whispered for a moment together in the hall and were on their way. Miss Efoss looked critically about her.

The room was of an ordinary kind. Utrillo prints on plain grey walls. Yellowish curtains, yellowish chair-covers, a few pieces of simple furniture on a thick grey carpet. It was warm, the sherry was good and Miss Efoss was comfortable. It was pleasant, she reflected, to have a change of scene without the obligation of conversation. In a few moments, she carried her supper tray from the kitchen to the fire. As good as his word, Mr Dutt had left some brandy. Miss Efoss began to think the Dutts were quite a find.

She had dropped off to sleep when they returned. Fortunately, she heard them in the hall and had time to compose herself.

‘All well?’ Mrs Dutt asked.

‘Not a sound.’

‘Well, I’d better change him right away. Thank you so much, Miss Efoss.’

‘Thank you. I have spent a very pleasant evening.’

‘I’ll drive you back,’ Mr Dutt offered. ‘The car is still warm.’

In the car Mr Dutt said: ‘A child is a great comfort. Mickey is a real joy for us. And company for Beryl. The days hangs heavy when one is alone all day.’

‘Yes, a child is a comfort.’

‘Perhaps you think we are too careful and fussing about Mickey?’

‘Oh no, it’s better than erring in the other direction.’

‘It is only because we are so grateful.’

‘Of course.’

‘We have much to be thankful for.’

‘I’m sure you deserve it all.’

Mr Dutt had become quite maudlin by the time he delivered Miss Efoss at her flat. She wondered if he was drunk. He pressed her hand warmly and announced that he looked forward to their next meeting. ‘Any time,’ Miss Efoss said as she stepped from the car. ‘Just ring me up. I am often free.’

After that, Miss Efoss babysat for the Dutts many times. They became more and more friendly towards her. They left her little bowls of chocolates and drew her attention to articles in magazines that they believed might be of interest to her. Mr Dutt suggested further words she might care to look up in the Encyclopaedia and Mrs Dutt wrote out several of her recipes.

One night, just as she was leaving, Miss Efoss said: ‘You know, I think it might be a good idea for me to meet Mickey some time. Perhaps I could come in the daytime once. Then I would no longer be a stranger and could comfort him if he woke.’

‘But he doesn’t wake, Miss Efoss. He has never woken, has he? You have never had to telephone us.’

‘No. That is true. But now that I have got to know you, I would like to know him as well.’

The Dutts took the compliment, smiling at one another and at Miss Efoss. Mr Dutt said: ‘It is kind of you to speak like this, Miss Efoss. But Mickey is rather scared of strangers. Just at present at any rate, if you do not mind.’

‘Of course not, Mr Dutt.’

‘I fear he is a nervous child,’ Mrs Dutt said. ‘Our present arrangement is carefully devised.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Miss Efoss said.

‘No need. No need. Let us all have a final brandy,’ Mr Dutt said cheerfully.

But Miss Efoss was sorry, for she feared she had said something out of place. And then for a week or so she was worried whenever she thought of the Dutts. She felt they were mistaken in their attitude about their child; and she felt equally unable to advise them. It was not her place to speak any further on the subject, yet she was sure that to keep the child away from people just because he was nervous of them was wrong. It sounded as though there was a root to the trouble somewhere, and it sounded as though the Dutts had not attempted to discover it. She continued to babysit for them about once every ten days and she held her peace. Then, quite unexpectedly, something happened that puzzled Miss Efoss very much indeed.

It happened at a party given by some friends of hers. She was talking about nothing in particular to an elderly man called Summerfield. She had known him for some years but whenever they met, as on this occasion, they found themselves with little to say beyond the initial courteous greetings. Thinking that a more direct approach might yield something of interest, Miss Efoss, after the familiar lengthy silence, said: ‘How are you coping with the advancing years, Mr Summerfield? I feel I can ask you, since it is a coping I have to take in my own stride.’

‘Well, well, I think I am doing well enough. My life is simple since my wife died, but there is little I complain of.’

‘Loneliness is a thing that sometimes strikes at us. I find one must regard it as the toothache or similar ailment, and seek a cure.’

‘Ah yes. I’m often a trifle alone.’

‘I babysit, you know. Have you ever thought of it? Do not shy off because you are a man. A responsible person is all that is required.’

‘I haven’t thought of babysitting. Not ever, I think. Though I like babies and always have done.’

‘I used to do quite a lot. Now I have only the Dutts, but I go there very often. I enjoy my evenings. I like to see the TV now and again and other people’s houses are interesting.’

‘I know the Dutts,’ said Mr Summerfield. ‘You mean the Dutts in Raeburn Road? A small, weedy couple?’

‘They live in Raeburn Road, certainly. They are small too, but you are unkind to call them weedy.’

‘I don’t particularly mean it unkindly. I have known Dutt a long time. One takes liberties, I suppose, in describing people.’

‘Mr Dutt is an interesting person. He holds some responsible position of intriguing secrecy.’

‘Dutt? 25 Raeburn Road? The man is a chartered accountant.’

‘I feel sure you are mistaken –’

‘I cannot be mistaken. The man was once my colleague. In a very junior capacity.’

‘Oh, well… then I must be mistaken.’

‘What surprises me is that you say you babysit for the Dutts. I think you must be mistaken about that too.’

‘Oh no, I am completely certain about that. It is for that reason that I know them at all.’

‘I cannot help being surprised. Because, Miss Efoss – and of this I am certain – the Dutts have no children.’

Miss Efoss had heard of the fantasy world with which people, as they grow old, surround themselves. Yet she could not have entirely invented the Dutts in this way because Mr Summerfield had readily agreed about their existence. Was it, then, for some other reason that she visited them? Did she, as soon as she entered their house, become so confused in her mind that she afterwards forgot the real purpose of her presence? Had they hired her in some other capacity altogether? A capacity she was so ashamed of that she had invented, even for herself, the euphemism of babysitting? Had she, she wondered, become some kind of servant to these people – imagining the warm comfortable room, the sherry, the chocolates, the brandy?

‘We should be back by eleven, Miss Efoss. Here is the telephone number.’ Mrs Dutt smiled at her and a moment later the front door banged gently behind her.

It is all quite real, Miss Efoss thought. There is the sherry. There is the television set. In the kitchen on a tray I shall find my supper. It is all quite real: it is old Mr Summerfield who is wandering in his mind. It was only when she had finished her supper that she had the idea of establishing her role beyond question. All she had to do was to go upstairs and peep at the child. She knew how to be quiet: there was no danger of waking him.

The first room she entered was full of suitcases and cardboard boxes. In the second she heard breathing and knew she was right. She snapped on the light and looked around her. It was brightly painted, with a wallpaper with elves on it. There was a rocking horse and a great pile of coloured bricks. In one of the far corners there was a large cot. It was very large and very high and it contained the sleeping figure of a very old man.

When the Dutts returned Miss Efoss said nothing. She was frightened and she didn’t quite know why she was frightened. She was glad when she was back in her flat. The next day she telephoned her niece in Devon and asked if she might come down and stay for a bit.

Miss Efoss spoke to nobody about the Dutts. She gathered her strength in the country and returned to London at the end of a fortnight feeling refreshed and rational. She wrote a note to the Dutts saying she had decided to babysit no more. She gave no reason, but she said she hoped they would understand. Then, as best she could, she tried to forget all about them.

A year passed and then, one grey cold Sunday afternoon, Miss Efoss saw the Dutts in a local park. They were sitting on a bench, huddled close together and seeming miserable. For a reason that she was afterwards unable to fathom Miss Efoss approached them.

‘Good afternoon.’

The Dutts looked up at her, their thin, pale faces unsmiling and unhappy.

‘Hullo, Miss Efoss,’ Mr Dutt said. ‘We haven’t seen you for a long time, have we? How are you this nasty weather?’

‘Quite well, thank you. And you? And Mrs Dutt?’

Mr Dutt rose and drew Miss Efoss a few yards away from his wife. ‘Beryl has taken it badly,’ he said. ‘Mickey died. Beryl has not been herself since. You understand how it is?’

‘Oh, I am sorry.’

‘I try to cheer her up, but I’m afraid my efforts are all in vain. I have taken it hard myself too. Which doesn’t make anything any easier.’

‘I don’t know what to say, Mr Dutt. It’s a great sadness for both of you.’

Mr Dutt took Miss Efoss’s arm and led her back to the seat. ‘I have told Miss Efoss,’ he said to his wife. Mrs Dutt nodded.

‘I’m very sorry,’ Miss Efoss said again.

The Dutts looked at her, their sad, intent eyes filled with a pathetic desire for comfort. There was something almost hypnotic about them.

‘I must go,’ Miss Efoss said. ‘Goodbye.’

‘They have all died, Miss Efoss,’ Mr Dutt said. ‘One by one they have all died.’

Miss Efoss paused in her retreat. She could think of nothing to say except that she was sorry.

‘We are childless again,’ Mr Dutt went on. ‘It is almost unbearable to be childless again. We are so fond of them and here we are, not knowing what to do on a Sunday afternoon because we are a childless couple. The human frame, Miss Efoss, is not built to carry such misfortunes.’

‘It is callous of me to say so, Mr Dutt, but the human frame is pretty resilient. It does not seem so at times like this I know, but you will find it is so in retrospect.’

‘You are a wise woman, Miss Efoss, but, as you say, it is hard to accept wisdom at a moment like this. We have lost so many over the years. They are given to us and then abruptly they are taken away. It is difficult to understand God’s infinite cruelty.’

‘Goodbye, Mr Dutt. Goodbye, Mrs Dutt.’

They did not reply, and Miss Efoss walked quickly away.

Miss Efoss began to feel older. She walked with a stick; she found the cinema tired her eyes; she read less and discovered that she was bored by the effort of sustaining long conversations. She accepted each change quite philosophically, pleased that she could do so. She found, too, that there were compensations; she enjoyed, more and more, thinking about the past. Quite vividly, she relived the parts she wished to relive. Unlike life itself, it was pleasant to be able to pick and choose.

Again by accident, she met Mr Dutt. She was having tea one afternoon in a quiet, old-fashioned teashop, not at all the kind of place she would have associated with Mr Dutt. Yet there he was, standing in front of her. ‘Hullo, Miss Efoss,’ he said.

‘Why, Mr Dutt. How are you? How is your wife? It is some time since we met.’

Mr Dutt sat down. He ordered some tea and then he leaned forward and stared at Miss Efoss. She wondered what he was thinking about: he had the air of someone who, through politeness, makes the most of a moment but whose mind is busily occupied elsewhere. As he looked at her, his face suddenly cleared. He smiled, and when he spoke he seemed to be entirely present.

‘I have great news, Miss Efoss. We are both so happy about it. Miss Efoss, Beryl is expecting a child.’

Miss Efoss blinked a little. She spread some jam on her toast and said:

‘Oh, I’m so glad. How delightful for you both! Mrs Dutt will be pleased. When is it – when is it due?’

‘Quite soon. Quite soon.’ Mr Dutt beamed. ‘Naturally Beryl is beside herself with joy. She is busy preparing all day.’

‘There is a lot to see to on these occasions.’

‘Indeed there is. Beryl is knitting like a mad thing. It seems as though she can’t do enough.’

‘It is the biggest event in a woman’s life, Mr Dutt.’

‘And often in a man’s, Miss Efoss.’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘We have quite recovered our good spirits.’

‘I’m glad of that. You were so sadly low when last I saw you.’

‘You gave us some wise words. You were more comfort than you think, you know.’

‘Oh, I was inadequate. I always am with sorrow.’

‘No, no. Beryl said so afterwards. It was a happy chance to have met you so.’

‘Thank you, Mr Dutt.’

‘It’s not easy always to accept adversity. You helped us on our way. We shall always be grateful.’

‘It is kind of you to say so.’

‘The longing for a child is a strange force. To attend to its needs, to give it comfort and love – I suppose there is that in all of us. There is a streak of simple generosity that we do not easily understand.’

‘The older I become, Mr Dutt, the more I realize that one understands very little. I believe one is meant not to understand. The best things are complex and mysterious. And must remain so.’

‘How right you are! It is often what I say to Beryl. I shall be glad to report that you confirm my thinking.’

‘On my part it is instinct rather than thinking.’

‘The line between the two is less acute than many would have us believe.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

‘Miss Efoss, may I do one thing for you?’

‘What is that?’

‘It is a small thing but would give me pleasure. May I pay for your tea? Beryl will be pleased if you allow me to.’

Miss Efoss laughed. ‘Yes, Mr Dutt, you may pay for my tea.’ And it was as she spoke this simple sentence that it dawned upon Miss Efoss just what it was she had to do.

Miss Efoss began to sell her belongings. She sold them in many directions, keeping back only a few which she wished to give away. It took her a long time, for there was much to see to. She wrote down long lists of details, finding this method the best for arranging things in her mind. She was sorry to see the familiar objects go, yet she knew that to be sentimental about them was absurd. It was for other people now to develop a sentiment for them; and she knew that the fresh associations they would in time take on would be, in the long run, as false as hers.

Her flat became bare and cheerless. In the end there was nothing left except the property of the landlord. She wrote to him, terminating her tenancy.

The Dutts were watching the television when Miss Efoss arrived. Mr Dutt turned down the sound and went to open the door. He smiled without speaking and brought her into the sitting-room.

‘Welcome, Miss Efoss,’ Mrs Dutt said. ‘We’ve been expecting you.’

Miss Efoss carried a small suitcase. She said: ‘Your baby, Mrs Dutt, When is your baby due? I do hope I am in time.’

‘Perfect, Miss Efoss, perfect,’ said Mr Dutt. ‘Beryl’s child is due this very night.’

The pictures flashed silently, eerily, on the television screen. A man dressed as a pirate was stroking the head of a parrot.

Miss Efoss did not sit down. ‘I am rather tired,’ she said. ‘Do you mind if I go straight upstairs?’

‘Dear Miss Efoss, please do.’ Mrs Dutt smiled at her. ‘You know your way, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Miss Efoss said. ‘I know my way.’

The Introspections of J. P. Powers

J. P. Powers, big, forty-three, his face a mass of moustache, said: ‘You must depress the clutch, Miss Hobish. It is impossible to change from one gear to another without you depress the clutch.’

J. P. Powers was aware of his grammatical lapse. It is impossible to change from one gear to another unless you depress the clutch. It is impossible to change from one gear to another without depressing the clutch. Either variant would have done: both were within his idiom. Without you depress was foreign to him, the way the Irish talk. Despite the Celtic ring of his name, Justin Parke Powers was not Irish.

Miss Hobish drove the Austin in a jagged manner down Cave Crescent and into Mortimer Road. Ahead lay Putney Hill and an awkward right turn, across both streams of traffic. Powers prepared himself for the moment, feet ready for the dual controls, fingers poised to jab the starter when the engine stalled.

‘Slowing down signal,’ said J. P. Powers. Then: ‘Change to second, hand signal, indicator. Always the old hand signal: never rely on the indicator, Miss Hobish.’

Miss Hobish edged the car forward, aiming at a bus.

‘Wait for a gap, Miss Hobish. All that traffic has the right of way.’

He had said without you depress just for the novelty sound of it, because he had become so used to the usual patter of words, because his tongue grew tired of forming them.

‘Now, Miss Hobish.’ He seized the steering wheel and swung it, giving the engine a spurt of petrol.

The Austin bore to the left at the traffic lights, along Upper Richmond Road, and later turned right, into the quiet roads of Barnes Common. Powers relaxed then, telling her to take it calmly. Miss Hobish was always happy on Barnes Common.

He lit a cigarette and lowered the window so that the smoke would be carried away. He sat in silence, watching the road. Occasionally he glanced at Miss Hobish and occasionally at parts of himself. He saw his fingernails splayed on his two thick knees. He was not a particularly clean man, and this was a fact he now thought about. He visualized his grey-brown underclothes and the tacky yellow on the underarms of his shirts. Once his wife had commented on this yellow, saying he was a dirty man, running baths for him and pushing deodorants at him. She did all this no longer, only sighing when by chance she came upon his socks, stiff like little planks, in the big cardboard carton she used as a laundry basket. A complaint had come in one summer from a fastidious man called Hopker. Roche had had him in and told him about it, with the typing girl still in the room. ‘Wash out your armpits, old son. Get Lifebuoy and Odo-ro-no or Mum.’ Roche was a little fellow; it was easy for Roche, there wasn’t an ounce of sweat in him. Powers was fifteen stone: rolls of fat and muscle, grinding out the perspiration, secreting it in fleshy caches. To keep himself sweet he’d have to take a shower every two hours.

During his daily periods of boredom J. P. Powers was given to thought. It was thought of a depressing quality, being concerned with his uselessness. Fifty years ago there were no driving instructors in the world: what would he have done fifty years ago, how would he have made a living? The truth was he brought no skill to the job, he had no interest in it. How could one be interested in so unnecessary an occupation as teaching people to drive motor-cars? People could walk, they had legs. People could avail themselves of public transport. He gave no real service; better to be a booking clerk for British Railways. Not that people weren’t grateful to him. They waved to him afterwards, implying that he had helped them on their way. But J. P. Powers was thinking of himself; there was nothing expert in what he did, anyone could teach the gears and the knack.

‘Well, that was nice,’ said Miss Hobish. ‘I do enjoy it, Mr Powers. Now, will you take a cup of tea with me?’

Miss Hobish had been learning to drive for five years. It was an outing for her: Miss Hobish was seventy-three.

There was a job that was waiting for J. P. Powers, preserved for him by Ransome, with whom he had served in the Royal Air Force. ‘Any time you’re ready, J. P.,’ was how Ransome put it. Ransome with an amber pint in his paw, down at the Saracen’s Head on a Sunday morning. Ransome was sorry for him, remembering how he had driven a Spitfire during the war, thinking of him being driven by inept drivers now. Ransome felt he owed him something, some vague debt incurred in 1945. ‘Your day’s your own,’ said Ransome. ‘We supply the car.’ The task was to sell baby requisites from door to door: gripe water and talcum powder, disinfectant and baby oil: Ransome was expanding: he’d just bought up a concern that manufactured nappies; he was taking a look at the plastic toy business. ‘Let me ask you a question,’ said Ransome. ‘Doesn’t it send you up the wall hawking these learner drivers about?’ Ransome had a nice little patch keeping warm for Powers out Kingston way. ‘Look at the commission,’ said Ransome. ‘You won’t find commissions like that in your front garden.’

Justin Parke Powers, a man unclean and not entirely satisfied with himself, said yes to Miss Hobish; said yes, he would take the cup of tea, and held the car door open for her and followed her into her small house. Miss Hobish paid for her lessons in advance, by the quarter, but each lesson lasted only twenty minutes instead of the full hour: Miss Hobish at seventy-three could not sustain more.

Darker than the strands that crossed his scalp, softer than the bristle of moustache, was the mat of hair beneath the arms of J. P. Powers. ‘A growth that traps, a growth that sours’, said Roche, referring to the twin clumps and Powers’ perspiration. The hair overflowed from the armpits like stuffing from a mattress – yet his chest was naked as a girl’s. Smooth and white; a suggestion of breasts; pitted, if you cared to look, with blackheads. Earlier in his life J. P. Powers had been concerned about it: a big man like him with so unmanly an expanse. He had turned his back on the company in changing rooms, whistling to cover the gesture.

In the bath on Sunday mornings he washed this body with passing diligence, watching the milky scum form on the water, lathering himself with Lifebuoy as Roche had counselled. As he bathed he could hear the cry of the radio in the kitchen and the quarrelling sounds of his two small daughters. It was a Sunday ritual, accepted by his wife who took no part in it; ritual that the geyser should snarl and the water flow, that scum should form, radio play, daughters quarrel; ritual that at midday precisely J. P. Powers should emerge from the bathroom temporarily cleansed, should leave his rented house by the back door and board a bus to the Saracen’s Arms. It was ritual too that he should later return with four pints of beer in his barrel stomach and eat a lunch that had been kept for him in a low oven.

When he got going he couldn’t stop himself. The images of himself, of his daily work and of his body, rose often and unbidden before him. They bloomed in Mortimer Road and Cave Crescent, among the similar houses, detached or partly so. They hovered, then, over conversation and instruction; they were there in the Austin, like fog. He saw houses and roads being built and wished he had the courage to join a labour gang. He saw his big hands on the steering wheel and considered afresh their function.

On Tuesday September the 21st, Justin Parke Powers gave Miss Hobish her next driving lesson, her two hundred and forty-first. He sat beside her, feet and hands alerted.

‘We’ve had no summer, Mr Powers.’ She sighed, settling herself. ‘One, two, three, four, up and back for reverse. Are we ready, Mr Powers?’

She drove raggedly from Cave Crescent to Amervale Avenue.

‘Hand signals,’ said Powers, and Miss Hobish extended a scrawny arm and waved it arbitrarily about.

He fancied the typing girl in Roche’s office. When the weather was cold she wore knitted jumpers that shaped her breasts. They quivered as she typed, but there was nothing he could do about them now. Probably she’d giggled with Roche afterwards, about what fastidious Hopker had said, about Roche so bold as to recommend Odo-ro-no or Mum.

‘You’re forgetting those hand signals,’ said Powers.

‘So difficult,’ murmured Miss Hobish.

‘Come and have a drink,’ a woman had said to him once, at the end of a lesson; and his heart had fluttered in his naked chest, for he had heard from the other men of such approaches made. Nothing had come of it though, because with the drink in his hand he had laughed and been himself, had told her a few jokes and moved around the room so that he was positioned to give her an exploratory slap on the bottom. All this the woman had not welcomed, and had requested a different tutor for future lessons.

‘Slow down for the crossing,’ Powers said.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Miss Hobish, turning to look at him, jerking the Austin onwards, missing a woman with a pram.

‘Turn right. We’ll go up Mortimer Road. Hand signal, indicator. Draw out to the centre of the road.’

Excited, Miss Hobish allowed the car to stall.

‘More gas, more gas,’ cried J. P. Powers, apologizing to the traffic.

‘Tell me about the RAF,’ said Miss Hobish in Mortimer Road. ‘I love to hear your tales.’

‘We must concentrate on our driving, Miss Hobish.’

‘Shall we have a cup of coffee afterwards and shall you tell me then?’

‘Yes, Miss Hobish; a coffee would be nice.’

He closed his eyes and within seconds Miss Hobish had driven the Austin into the back of a stationary van.

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Miss Hobish.

Powers got out and examined the damage. Both wings and the radiator grill had suffered considerably. The bumper had folded like a length of cardboard.

‘I’d better drive,’ said Powers. ‘The steering may be wonky.’

He drove in silence, reflecting upon what the incident would cost in terms of himself. Then he wondered idly, as he often did, what it would be like to be a solicitor or a bank manager. He couldn’t fit himself into either role; he couldn’t hear himself advising on the purchase of a house, or lending money, or retailing the details of the divorce laws. It seemed a truth that his tasks were destined to be expendable; only in war had he established himself.

‘Coffee now?’ Miss Hobish asked with meekness.

He looked at the front of the car again. Both headlights were smashed.

‘I’m going to give you a cheque,’ said Miss Hobish. She handed him coffee, and biscuits with icing on them. ‘For that damage to your motor. I suppose it would be two hundred pounds?’

‘Two hundred,’ said Powers, falling in with the plan. ‘J. P. the initials are.’

‘Now we’ll forget about it?’ She was anxious, and he nodded, tucking the cheque away and thinking about it.

Ransome would be at the Saracen’s Head at lunchtime. He’d park the Austin round at the back where Ransome wouldn’t see it and wouldn’t guess anything. Two hundred: he could make it last a long time, nice to have it by him, nice to be able to draw on it now and again.

‘Lovely biscuits, Miss Hobish.’

‘So forgiving, Mr Powers! I thought you mightn’t speak to me, your beautiful motor broken up.’

‘Not at all –’

‘Have another of those biscuits, I know you like them. I get them at Sainsbury’s.’

He dunked the biscuit in his coffee and sucked off the coloured icing. It was a comfortable room. The armchair he sat in was large and soft. Once he had fallen asleep in it. Once Miss Hobish, recognizing his fatigue, had invited him to take off his shoes.

‘Goodbye, Miss Hobish.’

‘More coffee? Biscuits?’

‘I fear I must make my way, Miss Hobish.’

‘Goodbye then, Mr Powers.’ They shook hands as they always did.

It was the boredom, he thought; it was that that prevented him from being the easy extrovert he was born to be. The boredom of repeating, the boredom of talking in simple terms. Hand signals and gear changes: the boredom gave him time to think, it made him think. Powers did not employ these words in his survey of his trouble, but that was the meaning he arrived at. Thoughts ran around in his brain like hares. He didn’t know how to catch them.

‘I couldn’t be happier,’ said Ransome.

Powers examined the beer in his tankard. He nodded, smiling to display enthusiasm.

‘Do you know,’ queried Ransome, ‘what I’m going to do next?’

In three months’ time Powers knew he’d be beginning to think Ransome a swine. Ransome had the makings of another Roche; probably he was worse.

‘I’m going to fire Jack Clay,’ said Ransome.

It was one thing knowing the man in the Saracen’s Head, talking over a beer about their days in the RAF; it was rather different having him in charge of one’s daily life. I’m going to fire J. P. Powers. He could hear the man saying it, in this very bar, to some youthful figure who might make a better hand of distributing the requisites.

‘I’m going to fire Jack Clay and put J. P. Powers in his car. What d’you think of that, a big Consul?’

‘Fine,’ said J. P. Powers. ‘Fine, fine, a Consul’s lovely.’

‘I’ve got a concern making rubber sheets and hot-water bottles shaped like a bunny rabbit. I’d like to have the lot, you know; carry-cots, everything, a full service. I’ve got a fellow in Hoxton working on a wee-control.’

The old, tired thoughts began all over again. He couldn’t see himself clearly; he couldn’t see how his pattern was cut or what he was meant to do, or had ever been meant to do. He began to worry and he hated himself for it; because he didn’t want to worry, because the thoughts were forced upon him.

‘A pregnant woman,’ Ransome was going on, ‘will buy anything. Apples off a tree, old boy. Two days out and by God, you’ll know you never had it so good.’

Powers nodded.

‘Two pints,’ Ransome said to the barmaid.

If he worked on the public transport he’d be a cog in a big machine, getting people to work in the morning, taking them home at night. Otherwise they’d have to walk. He’d seen them during a transport strike, walking from Regent Street to Wimbledon. You couldn’t do that more than once a week.

‘Will I be all right?’

‘Old boy?’

‘Will I fit the bill?’

‘Haven’t I said so? Haven’t I been plaguing you to come in for years? I mean what I say, old boy.’

It occurred to him that Ransome, far from being kind, was deliberately being cruel. Ransome was pointing the moral. They had walked out of the RAF together on the same day. They had gone their separate ways, he to teach learner drivers, Ransome to set up in business. And now Ransome was going to employ him. For years, all those Sunday mornings in the pub, Ransome’s persuasive talk had been designed to needle him. He had been Ransome’s superior in the RAF.

‘Drink to it.’

He raised his tankard to meet Ransome’s.

‘Get a nice new suit,’ suggested Ransome, smiling. ‘Spick and span, with a polish on the shoes. They’ll love you, old boy.’

He sat in the Austin, thinking about the last three hours. The pints of beer had darkened the hue of his face. He could feel them in his stomach, thick and comforting – a moat against Roche who was talking in his mind. He saw his flat mouth open and close, and the words lay between them, above Roche’s tidy desk, eaves droppings for the typing girl. So that was that: Powers must nod and understand, and go away and never return, must be forgotten by Roche, and by the typist whose breasts he had so much desired. Already he was a man of another trade, a good-hearted man who talked to the pregnant woman about what was to come, taking an interest and selling a requisite.

The sun was hot on his face as he sat in the Austin. His skin relaxed, that part of him happy in the heat. He closed his eyes and gave himself up to the tiny moment. The sun touched his hands on the steering wheel and warmed them too. Beer in his stomach, sun on his skin: he had felt such cosseting before. He had lain in bed, stretched and at peace, warmly covered. The warmth of his wife had welcomed him and given him another version of simple sensuality. Blearily, an awareness stirred in J. P. Powers. He did not think in so many words that the excuse for his life lay in moments like these: only in what he received, since he contributed nothing. He did not think it because it was absurd when it was put like that, clarified and clinical. The feeling hammered at his brain but no tendril stretched out to fashion it into thought. A cloud obscured the shaft of sunlight and the feeling evaporated, giving way to an afternoon depression. He switched on the ignition and drove the Austin for the last time, past Cave Crescent and Mortimer Road, out on to Putney Hill and into the stream of traffic.

The Day We Got Drunk on Cake

Garbed in a crushed tweed suit, fingering the ragged end of a tie that might have already done a year’s service about his waist, Swann de Lisle uttered a convivial obscenity in the four hundred cubic feet of air they euphemistically called my office. I had not seen him for some years: he is the kind of person who is often, for no reason one can deduce, out of the country. In passing, one may assume that his lengthy absences are due in some way to the element of disaster that features so commandingly in his make-up.

I should have known when I saw him standing there that I must instantly be on my guard. In my prevailing condition of emotional delicacy I could not hope to cope with whatever entertainment Swann had in mind for me. For, to give him his due, Swann never came empty-handed. Swann was a great one for getting the best out of life; and he offered one, invariably, a generous part of his well-laid plans. This time, he explained, he was offering me an attractive afternoon. In turn, I explained that I did not feel like an attractive afternoon, that I was too busy to gild the hours in the manner he was suggesting. But Swann was sitting down, well entrenched; and in the end he talked me into it.

I wrote a note and put it on my typewriter: Tuesday p.m. Am under surgeon’s knife. Then I made a telephone call.

‘Lucy?’

‘Hullo, Mike.’

‘How are you?’

‘Very well, Mike. How are you?’

‘Very well, too. Just thought I’d ring –’

‘Thank you, Mike.’

‘We must meet again soon.’

‘Yes, we must.’

‘I’d invite you to lunch only an old and valued friend has just transpired.’

‘That’s nice for you.’

‘Well, yes.’

‘Thanks for ringing, Mike.’

‘Goodbye, Lucy.’

‘Goodbye, Mike.’

Swann was drawing designs on the varnish of my desk with a straightened-out paper-clip.

‘That wasn’t your wife,’ he said.

‘Wife? Far from it.’

‘You haven’t married or anything?’

‘No.’

‘Good. I’ve got a couple in a hostelry. They tell me they know you.’ We sauntered out into the September sun to meet them.

I have always wanted to invent pert shorthand typists with good figures and pretty lips whose heads may easily be turned by the crisp jingle of money, jolly girls who have done the stint at Pitman’s and do not believe in anticipating marriage. It might quite easily have been such companions with whom we found ourselves wasting away that afternoon. As it happened, it was Margo and Jo, a smart pair who drew pictures for the glossy magazines.

‘When I was eleven,’ Jo told me, ‘I wrote this children’s book and drew all the pictures. Somebody published it, and that of course made me unpopular with everyone.’

‘You must have been hugely clever.’

‘No, honestly. It was terribly bad, as you can imagine. Just chance that it got published.’

‘Words,’ said Margo, ‘mean a lot to Jo. She has a real sense.’

‘She’s bonkers,’ said Swann.

‘For God’s sake, Swann,’ said Margo.

Jo and Swann moved together. Swann was bored and he began to tell Jo a joke. Margo said, specifically to me: ‘Jo is the most talented person I’ve ever met.’ I nodded, not caring one way or the other. The bar was full of uniformed men: dark grey suits, waistcoats, white shirts, striped ties of some club or school.

‘Have a drink, Margo?’

Margo said that was a good idea and I squeezed through to the wet counter and floated a ten-shilling note on a pool of beer. When I returned to her Margo said:

‘Tell me straight, what do you think of Nigel?’

Nigel? Playing for time I sipped my beer, wondering why I drank the stuff since I disliked it so much. I said:

‘Oh, I like Nigel.’

‘Do you really?’

‘Well, he’s all right. I mean –’

‘Sometimes, Mike, I think Nigel is the most awful bore.’

I remembered. Nigel was plump and talkative. Nigel would tell you anything you might ever wish to know. When Nigel got going there was, in truth, no stopping Nigel. Nigel was Margo’s husband.

I drank some more beer. It was cold and tasteless. I said nothing.

‘Nigel and I had a barney last night.’

‘Oh God!’

Margo told me about the barney. I listened dejectedly. Then I bought some more drink, and this time I changed mine to whisky. Someone had once told me that Jo had a husband too. Both marriages were considered to be heading for the rocks.

Suddenly Margo stopped about Nigel. She leered at me and said something I didn’t catch. From the next few sentences, I realized she was telling me I’d make a good husband.

‘I suppose I would,’ I said.

‘I’m not in love with you or anything,’ Margo said, swaying.

‘Of course not.’

After the pub we went off to have some lunch. All the way in the taxi I thought about Lucy.

We went to an Italian place in Soho that was too expensive and not particularly good. Swann told us the history of his life and ate only series of cassatas. I found a telephone on the stairs and rang up Lucy.

‘Hullo, Lucy. What are you doing?’

‘What d’you mean, what am I doing? I’m standing here talking to you on the telephone.’

‘I’m getting drunk with people in Soho.’

‘Well, that’s nice for you.’

‘Is it? Wish you were here.’

Lucy would be bored by this. ‘I’ve been reading Adam Bede,’ she said.

‘A good story.’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you had lunch?’

‘I couldn’t find anything. I had some chocolate.’

‘I telephoned to see how you were.’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘I wanted to hear your voice.’

‘Oh come off it. It’s just a voice.’

‘Shall I tell you about it?’

‘I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t know why.’

‘Shall we meet some time?’

‘I’m sure we shall.’

‘I’ll ring you when I’m sober.’

‘Do that. I must get back to Adam Bede.’

‘Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye.’

I replaced the receiver and stood there looking down the steep stairs. Then I descended them.

‘What on earth shall we do now?’ Swann said. ‘It’s four o’clock.’

‘I want to talk to Mike,’ Margo announced. ‘Nobody’s to listen.’

I sat beside her and she began to speak in a limping whisper. ‘I want your advice about Nigel, Mike.’

‘Honestly, I scarcely know him.’

‘Doesn’t matter. Look, I think there’s something the matter with Nigel.’

I asked her to be specific. Instead she turned her assertion into a question. ‘Mike, do you think there’s something wrong with Nigel?’

‘Well –’

‘Be frank now.’

‘I tell you, I don’t know him. For all I know he may have an artificial stomach.’

‘Nigel hasn’t an artificial stomach, actually.’

‘Good.’

‘I don’t know why you should think that about him. He doesn’t even have trouble with his stomach.’

‘Well, then, what’s the matter with the man?’

‘I think he’s probably mental.’

‘Well, for God’s sake get him attended to, Margo.’

‘You think I should?’

‘Certainly I do. Unless you like his being mental.’

Margo giggled. She said:

‘He’s taken to doing such odd things. I mean, I don’t know where this is going to stop.’

‘Odd things like what?’

‘Like bringing home elderly women. He comes in with these women, explaining that he has been attending some meeting with them and has brought them back for coffee. It’s quite alarming – Nigel with four or five old ladies trailing behind him. They stay for ages. I’ve no idea where he gets them from. I think he imagines he’s being kind.’

‘What does Nigel say?’

‘He says they haven’t finished their meeting. They just sit around writing little notes. Nobody says anything.’

‘I think it’s all very interesting. I’m sure there’s some quite simple explanation. I don’t think you’ve really investigated the matter, Margo.’

‘Let’s leave this place,’ Swann said.

We went to another place, called the Blue Goat. It was one of those clubs where you can drink in the afternoon without having to watch striptease. Margo tried to go on about Nigel, but I said firmly that I didn’t want to hear anything more about Nigel. I talked to Jo.

‘Jo,’ I said, ‘do you know a girl called Lucy Anstruth?’

‘Small, plump, balding a little?’

‘No. Lucy is a very beautiful person.’

‘Not the same girl.’

‘Tall, fair, very blue eyes. Moves like a cat.’

‘Don’t know her.’

‘She says unexpected things. She’s half Swedish or something.’

‘Mike, would you guess I was half Welsh?’

‘No. I want to ask you about Lucy –’

‘But I don’t know her.’

‘I don’t know what to do about Lucy.’

‘You sound like Margo. Margo doesn’t know what to do about Nigel. Nobody knows what to do about anyone else. God! May I have some more vodka?’

‘Yes. As I say –’

‘I want a triple vodka.’

I ordered the vodka. Beside us, Swann and Margo were sitting in preoccupied silence; they weren’t even listening to what we were saying. Margo caught my eye and opened her mouth to speak. I turned my back and handed Jo her drink.

‘Something’s the matter with Margo’s husband,’ Jo said. ‘Poor Margo’s terribly worried.’

‘Yes, I know all about it. Margo has been telling me.’

‘I like Nigel, you know.’

‘Perhaps you can help him straighten himself out. We were talking about something else. I was telling you –’

‘Seems Nigel brings women home.’

‘Yes I know, Jo.’

‘Bit rough on Margo.’

Margo heard this. She shouted: ‘What’s rough on Margo?’ and then the conversation became general. I went away to telephone Lucy.

‘Lucy?’

‘Hullo. Is that Mike?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hullo, Mike.’

‘Hullo, Lucy.’

‘How are you?’

‘I’m feeling funny. But Lucy?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m not trying to be funny. I’m not being amusing.’

‘Where are you?’

‘In the Blue Goat.’

‘Wherever’s that?’

‘It’s lined with leopard skin. Jo and Margo and Swann are here too.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Just other people.’

‘Nice of you to ring, Mike.’

‘Margo’s husband Nigel brings women home. I wondered perhaps if you had a word of advice I could give her. She’s worried about the women. They come in groups.’

‘Oh, Mike, I don’t know about things like that. I wouldn’t know what to do. Honestly.’

‘Sorry, Lucy; I just thought you might.’

‘The doorbell’s ringing. Goodbye, Mike. If I were you I’d go home.’

Swann said he wanted tea. We left the Blue Goat and walked in dazzling sunshine towards Floris.

Margo began again about Nigel.

Swann said he knew a man who would do Nigel a world of good. He couldn’t remember the treatment this man offered, but he said it was highly thought of.

I went away to telephone Lucy.

‘Lucy?’

A man’s voice answered. I said: ‘May I speak to Lucy? Is that the right number?’

The man didn’t reply and in a moment Lucy came on. ‘Is that Mike again?’

‘Hullo, Lucy. How are you?’

‘I’m fine, Mike.’

‘Good.’

‘Mike, you telephoned me at four fifteen. Do you know what time it is now?’

‘What time is it now?’

‘Four thirty-five.’

‘Am I being a nuisance, is that it?’

‘No, no. Just, is there anything I can do for you? I mean, do you want something and feel unable to express yourself?’

‘I’m bored. I’m with these people. Lucy.’

‘Yes?’

‘Who’s that in your flat?’

‘A friend called Frank. You don’t know him.’

‘What’s he doing there?’

‘What d’you mean, what’s he doing?’

‘Well –’

‘Look, I’ll ask him. Frank, what are you doing?’

‘What’s he say?’

‘He says he’s making a cup of tea.’

‘I’m having tea too. In Floris. I wish you were here.’

‘Goodbye, Mike.’

‘Don’t go, Lucy.’

‘Goodbye, Mike.’

‘Goodbye, Lucy.’

When I got back to the others I found them laughing in an uproarious manner. Swann said the cake they were eating was making them drunk. ‘Smell it,’ he said. It smelt of rum. I tasted some: it tasted of rum too. We all ate a lot of the cake, laughing at the thought of getting drunk on cake. We ordered some more, and told the waitress it was delicious. When the enthusiasm had melted a bit Swann said:

‘Mike, we want your advice about Margo’s husband.’

‘I’ve told Margo –’

‘No, Mike – seriously now. You know about these things.’

‘Why do you think I know about these things? I do not know about these things.’

‘All right, Mike, I’ll tell you. Margo’s husband Nigel keeps turning up with groups of old females. Margo’s worried in case the thing develops a bit – you know, tramps, grocers, one-legged soldiers. What d’you think she should do?’

‘I don’t know what Margo should do. Margo, I don’t know what you should do. Except perhaps ask Nigel what he’s up to. In the meantime, have some more cake.’

‘Now there’s an idea,’ Swann shouted excitedly. ‘Margo love, why don’t you ask old Nigel what he’s up to?’

Jo hacked affectionately at my face with her great spiked fingers. I guessed it was an expression of admiration rather than attack because she smiled as she did so.

‘But all Nigel says,’ Margo said, ‘is that they haven’t finished their meeting.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Swann, ‘but you don’t press him. You don’t say: “What meeting?” You don’t indicate that you are in the dark as to the nub of their business. Nigel may well imagine that you accept the whole state of affairs without question and expect little else of married life. When you were at the Gents,’ Swann said to me, ‘Margo confessed she was worried.’

‘She had previously confessed as much to me. I wasn’t at the Gents. I was making a telephone call.’

‘Shall I do that?’ Margo said. ‘Shall I ring up Nigel and ask him to explain everything?’

We all nodded. Margo rose, hesitated, and sat down again. She said she couldn’t. She explained she was too shy to telephone her husband in this way. She turned to me.

‘Mike, would you do it?’

‘Me?’

‘Mike, would you telephone?’

‘Are you asking me to telephone your husband and inquire about his relationship with some elderly women who are entirely unknown to me?’

‘Mike, for my sake.’

‘Think of the explanations it would involve me in. Think of the confusion. Nigel imagining I was the husband of one of these women. Nigel imagining I was the police. Nigel asking me question after question. For goodness’ sake, how do you think I would get some kind of answer out of him?’

Swann said: ‘All you have to do is to say: “Is that Nigel? Now look here, Nigel, what’s all this I hear about these women who come to your house at all hours of the day and night?” Say you represent the Ministry of Pensions.’

‘I can’t address the man as Nigel and then say I’m from the Ministry of Pensions.’

‘Mike, Margo’s husband’s name is Nigel. He’ll be expecting you to address him as Nigel. If you don’t address him as Nigel, he’ll simply tell you to go to hell. He’ll say you’ve got a wrong number.’

‘So I say: “Hullo, Nigel, this is the Ministry of Pensions.” The man’ll think I’m crazy.’

Margo said: ‘Mike, you just do it your own way. Take no notice of Swann. Swann’s been eating too much cake. Come on, you know where the telephone is.’ She gave me a piece of paper with a number on it.

‘Oh God,’ I said; and unable to bear it any longer I borrowed fourpence and marched off to the telephone.

‘Hullo?’ said the voice at the other end.

‘Hullo. Can I speak to Lucy? Please.’

‘Hullo,’ Lucy said.

‘Hullo, Lucy.’

‘Well?’ said Lucy.

‘It’s Mike.’

‘I know it’s Mike.’

‘They wanted me to telephone this man I was telling you about, but I can’t go telephoning people in this way –’

‘Why don’t you go home to bed?’

‘Because I wouldn’t sleep. Remember the man with the elderly women? Well, they wanted me to telephone him and ask him what he’s up to. Lucy, I can’t do that, can I?’

‘No, quite honestly I don’t believe you can.’

They told me to pose as the Ministry of Pensions.’

‘Goodbye, Mike.’

‘Just a – Lucy?’

‘Yes?’

‘Isn’t that man still there?’

‘Which man is this?’

‘The man in your flat.’

‘Frank. He’s still here.’

‘Who is he, Lucy?’

‘He’s called Frank.’

‘Yes, but what does he do?’

‘I don’t know what he does. Frank, what do you do? For a living? He says he’s a – what, Frank? A freight agent, Mike.’

‘A freight agent.’

‘Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye, Lucy.’

When I arrived back at the tea-table everyone was very gay. Nobody asked me what Nigel had said. Swann paid the bill and said he was anxious to show us a display of Eastern horrors somewhere in Euston and would afterwards take us to a party. In the taxi Margo said:

‘What did Nigel say?’

‘He was out.’

‘Was there no reply?’

‘A woman answered. She said I was interrupting the meeting. I said “What meeting?” but she wanted to know who I was before she would answer that. I said I was the Ministry of Pensions and she said “Oh my God”, and rang off.’

We were hours early for the party, but nobody seemed to mind. I helped a woman in slacks to pour bottles of wine into a crock. Swann, Margo and Jo played with a tape-recorder, and after a time the woman’s husband arrived and we all went out to eat.

About eight, people began to arrive. The place filled with tobacco smoke, music and fumes; and the party began to swing along at a merry enough pace. A girl in ringlets talked to me earnestly about love. I think she must have been feeling much the same as I was, but I didn’t fancy her as a soul-mate, not even a temporary one. She said: ‘It seems to me that everyone has a quality that can get the better of love. Is stronger, you see. Like pride. Or honesty. Or moral – even intellectual, even emotional – integrity. Take two people in love. The only thing that can really upset things is this personal quality in one of them. Other people don’t come into it at all. Except in a roundabout way – as instruments of jealousy, for instance. Don’t you agree?’

I wasn’t sure about anything, but I said yes.

‘Another thing about love,’ the girl with the ringlets said, ‘is its extraordinary infection. Has it ever occurred to you that when you’re in love with someone you’re really wanting to be loved yourself? Because that, of course, is the natural law. I mean, it would be odd if every time one person loved another person the first person wasn’t loved in return. There’s only a very tiny percentage of that kind of thing.’

An aggressive young man, overhearing these remarks, began to laugh. He went on laughing, looking at the girl in ringlets and looking at me.

I went away and filled my glass from the crock, and asked a pretty middle-aged woman what she did. Her answer was coy; I smiled and passed on. Margo caught my arm and dragged me off to a corner. ‘Mike, you’ll ring Nigel again?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ I said. ‘Honestly, I don’t think I can interfere.’

‘Oh but, dear, you promised.’

‘Promised? I didn’t promise anything.’

‘Oh Mike.’

‘Really, the whole affair – oh all right.’

‘Now, Mike?’

‘All right. Now.’

‘Lucy?’

‘Is that Mike?’

‘Who else?’

‘Who indeed? Where are you now?’

‘I’m at a party.’

‘A good party?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. Why don’t you come along?’

‘I can’t, Mike. I’m doing things.’

‘With the bloody freight agent, I suppose.’

‘The what agent?’

‘Freight. Your friend the freight agent. Frank.’

‘He’s not a freight agent. He’s in publishing.’

‘What’d he say he was a freight agent for?’

A lengthy explanation followed. Calling himself a freight agent was a sample of Frank’s humour. I thought about this as I made my way back to Margo.

‘What’d he say, Mike?’

‘A woman said Nigel wasn’t in.’

‘Is that all?’

‘I said the house was being watched. I said the local authorities weren’t at all happy.’

‘What’d she say?’

‘She began to moan, so I said “I mean it,” and rang off.’

‘Thank you, Mike.’

‘That’s all right. Any time.’

Swann joined us and Margo said: ‘Mike’s been on to Nigel again. Mike’s being wonderful.’

Swann patted me on the back and said: ‘Any joy?’

Margo started to tell him. I went away.

Jo was pretending to listen to a couple of men who were between them retailing a complicated story. She said to me in a low voice: ‘Don’t worry about Margo. I’ll see she comes through the other side.’

I stared at her, wondering why she should imagine I was worried about Margo. ‘I’m sure you will, Jo,’ I said.

‘Trust Jo,’ she whispered.

I said I considered her a trustworthy person. I began to elaborate on the thought. One of the men said: ‘D’you mind, old boy?’

I shrugged and pushed a path back to the telephone. I dialled three times to be certain, but on each occasion there was no reply.

A ragged form of dancing was now taking place. Pausing by the crock, I found myself once again in the company of the girl with the ringlets. She smiled at me and in a boring way I said: ‘Do you know a girl called Lucy Anstruth?’

The girl with the ringlets shook her head. ‘Should I?’

‘I suppose not,’ I said. The girl examined me closely and passed on.

I went upstairs and discovered a quiet room with a bed in it. A lamp on a dressing-table gave out a weak light. The bed, which looked comfortable, was almost in darkness. 1 stretched out on it, welcoming the gloom. In a few moments I dropped off to sleep. When I awoke the luminous dial of my watch indicated that I had been asleep for two hours. Two girls were tidying their faces at the dressing-table. They drew head-scarves with horses on them from their handbags and placed them about their heads. They spoke in a whisper and left the room. I lay there considering the events of the day and wondering how I was going to feel about them at breakfast. How one feels at breakfast about the preceding day has always seemed to be important to me.

A man with a glass in his hand entered the room and placed himself before the mirror on the dressing-table. He combed his hair and tightened his tie. Then he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around his right forefinger. He inserted this into each ear, twisting his forefinger back and forth. He remarked to himself on the outcome of this operation, examining his handkerchief. I closed my eyes; when I opened them he was gone. I lit a cigarette and set off to the telephone again.

‘What is it?’ a voice said. It was the publishing man. I asked to speak to Lucy.

‘Hullo, Lucy.’

‘Oh, Mike, really –’

‘Lucy, that man’s there again.’

‘I know, Mike.’

‘It’s two o’clock in the morning.’

‘Two o’clock in the morning. I’m sorry, Mike.’ Her voice was so gentle that I said:

‘Stop trying not to hurt me.’

‘I think I’d better ring off.’

‘I’ll ring off, damn it.’

I stood by the telephone, considering, and feeling sick. I felt something between my fingers and looked down at the piece of paper with Nigel’s telephone number on it. I lifted the receiver and dialled it.

I waited almost a minute and then a woman’s voice said: ‘Yes? Who is that please?’

I think I said: ‘I want to know what’s going on.’

The woman said quickly: ‘Who is that speaking? You haf the wrong number.’

‘I do not,’ I retaliated briskly. ‘Please bring Nigel to the phone.’

‘Nigel is in the Chair. You are interrupting our meeting with this demand. There is much on the agenda. I cannot attend to you, sir.’

‘This is the Ministry of Pensions,’ I said, and I heard the woman breathing laboriously. Then she cut me off.

I walked back through the party and looked for the front door. I was thinking that everything had been more or less resolved. Margo’s grievance had had its airing; she felt the better for it, and all anyone had to do now was to ask Nigel what he was up to and press the point until a satisfactory answer was achieved. As for me, time would heal and time would cure. I knew it, and it was the worst thing of all. I didn’t want to be cured. I wanted the madness of my love for Lucy to go on lurching at me from dreams; to mock me from half-empty glasses; to leap at me unexpectedly. In time Lucy’s face would fade to a pin-point; in time I would see her on the street and greet her with casualness, and sit with her over coffee, quietly discussing the flow beneath the bridges since last we met. Today – not even that, for already it was tomorrow – would slide away like all the other days. Not a red-letter day. Not the day of my desperate bidding. Not the day on which the love of my life was snaffled away from me. I opened the front door and looked out into the night. It was cold and uncomforting. I liked it like that. I hated the moment, yet I loved it because in it I still loved Lucy. Deliberately I swung the door and shut away the darkness and drizzle. As I went back to the party the sadness of all the forgetting stung me. Even already, I thought, time is at work; time is ticking her away; time is destroying her, killing all there was between us. And with time on my side I would look back on the day without bitterness and without emotion. I would remember it only as a flash on the brittle surface of nothing, as a day that was rather funny, as the day we got drunk on cake.

Miss Smith

One day Miss Smith asked James what a baby horse was called and James couldn’t remember. He blinked and shook his head. He knew, he explained, but he just couldn’t remember. Miss Smith said:

‘Well, well, James Machen doesn’t know what a baby horse is called.’

She said it loudly so that everyone in the classroom heard. James became very confused. He blinked and said:

‘Pony, Miss Smith?’

‘Pony! James Machen says a baby horse is a pony! Hands up everyone who knows what a baby horse is.’

All the right arms in the room, except James’s and Miss Smith’s, shot upwards. Miss Smith smiled at James.

‘Everyone knows,’ she said. ‘Everyone knows what a baby horse is called except James.’

James thought: I’ll run away. I’ll join the tinkers and live in a tent.

‘What’s a baby horse called?’ Miss Smith asked the class and the class shouted:

‘Foal, Miss Smith.’

‘A foal, James,’ Miss Smith repeated. ‘A baby horse is a foal, James dear.’

‘I knew, Miss Smith. I knew but –’

Miss Smith laughed and the class laughed, and afterwards nobody would play with James because he was so silly to think that a baby horse was a pony.

James was an optimist about Miss Smith. He thought it might be different when the class went on the summer picnic or sat tightly together at the Christmas party, eating cake and biscuits and having their mugs filled from big enamel jugs. But it never was different. James got left behind when everyone was racing across the fields at the picnic and Miss Smith had to wait impatiently, telling the class that James would have to have his legs stretched. And at the party she heaped his plate with seed-cake because she imagined, so she said, that he was the kind of child who enjoyed such fare.

Once James found himself alone with Miss Smith in the classroom. She was sitting at her desk correcting some homework. James was staring in front of him, admiring a fountain pen that the day before his mother had bought for him. It was a small fountain pen, coloured purple and black and white. James believed it to be elegant.

It was very quiet in the classroom. Soundlessly Miss Smith’s red pencil ticked and crossed and underlined. Without looking up, she said: ‘Why don’t you go out and play?’

‘Yes, Miss Smith,’ said James. He walked to the door, clipping his pen into his pocket. As he turned the handle he heard Miss Smith utter a sound of irritation. He turned and saw that the point of her pencil had broken. ‘Miss Smith, you may borrow my pen. You can fill it with red ink. It’s quite a good pen.’

James crossed the room and held out his pen. Miss Smith unscrewed the cap and prodded at the paper with the nib. ‘What a funny pen, James!’ she said. ‘Look, it can’t write.’

‘There’s no ink in it,’ James explained. ‘You’ve got to fill it with red ink, Miss Smith.’

But Miss Smith smiled and handed the pen back. ‘What a silly boy you are to waste your money on such a poor pen!’

‘But I didn’t –’

‘Come along now, James, aren’t you going to lend me your pencil-sharpener?’

‘I haven’t got a pencil-sharpener, Miss Smith.’

‘No pencil-sharpener? Oh James, James, you haven’t got anything, have you?’

When Miss Smith married she stopped teaching, and James imagined he had escaped her for ever. But the town they lived in was a small one and they often met in the street or in a shop. And Miss Smith, who at first found marriage rather boring, visited the school quite regularly. ‘How’s James?’ she would say, smiling alarmingly at him. ‘How’s my droopy old James?’

When Miss Smith had been married for about a year she gave birth to a son, which occupied her a bit. He was a fine child, eight pounds six ounces, with a good long head and blue eyes. Miss Smith was delighted with him, and her husband, a solicitor, complimented her sweetly and bought cigars and drinks for all his friends. In time, mother and son were seen daily taking the air: Miss Smith on her trim little legs and the baby in his frilly pram. James, meeting the two, said: ‘Miss Smith, may I see the baby?’ But Miss Smith laughed and said that she was not Miss Smith any more. She wheeled the pram rapidly away, as though the child within it might be affected by the proximity of the other.

‘What a dreadful little boy that James Machen is,’ Miss Smith reported to her husband. ‘I feel so sorry for the parents.’

‘Do I know him? What does the child look like?’

‘Small, dear, like a weasel wearing glasses. He quite gives me the creeps.’

Almost without knowing it, James developed a compulsion about Miss Smith. At first it was quite a simple compulsion: just that James had to talk to God about Miss Smith every night before he went to sleep, and try to find out from God what it was about him that Miss Smith so despised. Every night he lay in bed and had his conversation, and if once he forgot it James knew that the next time he met Miss Smith she would probably say something that might make him drop down dead.

After about a month of conversation with God James discovered he had found the solution. It was so simple that he marvelled he had never thought of it before. He began to get up very early in the morning and pick bunches of flowers. He would carry them down the street to Miss Smith’s house and place them on a window-sill. He was careful not to be seen, by Miss Smith or by anyone else. He knew that if anyone saw him the plan couldn’t work. When he had picked all the flowers in his own garden he started to pick them from other people’s gardens. He became rather clever at moving silently through the gardens, picking flowers for Miss Smith.

Unfortunately, though, on the day that James carried his thirty-first bunch of blooms to the house of Miss Smith he was observed. He saw the curtains move as he reached up to lay the flowers on the window-sill. A moment later Miss Smith, in her dressing-gown, had caught him by the shoulder and pulled him into the house.

‘James Machen! It would be James Machen, wouldn’t it? Flowers from the creature, if you please! What are you up to, you dozy James?’

James said nothing. He looked at Miss Smith’s dressing-gown and thought it was particularly pretty: blue and woolly, with an edging of silk.

‘You’ve been trying to get us into trouble,’ cried Miss Smith. ‘You’ve been stealing flowers all over the town and putting them at our house. You’re an underhand child, James.’

James stared at her and then ran away.

After that, James thought of Miss Smith almost all the time. He thought of her face when she had caught him with the flowers, and how she had afterwards told his father and nearly everyone else in the town. He thought of how his father had had to say he was sorry to Miss Smith, and how his mother and father had quarrelled about the affair. He counted up all the things Miss Smith had ever said to him, and all the things she had ever done to him, like giving him seed-cake at the Christmas party. He hadn’t meant to harm Miss Smith as she said he had. Giving people flowers wasn’t unkind; it was to show them you liked them and wanted them to like you.

‘When somebody hurts you,’ James said to the man who came to cut the grass, ‘what do you do about it?’

‘Well,’ said the man, ‘I suppose you hurt them back.’

‘Supposing you can’t,’ James argued.

‘Oh, but you always can. It’s easy to hurt people.’

‘It’s not, really,’ James said.

‘Look,’ said the man, ‘all I’ve got to do is to reach out and give you a clip on the ear. That’d hurt you.’

‘But I couldn’t do that to you because you’re too big. How d’you hurt someone who’s bigger than you?’

‘It’s easier to hurt people who are weaker. People who are weaker are always the ones who get hurt.’

‘Can’t you hurt someone who is stronger?’

The grass-cutter thought for a time. ‘You have to be cunning to do that. You’ve got to find the weak spot. Everyone has a weak spot.’

‘Have you got a weak spot?’

‘I suppose so,’

‘Could I hurt you on your weak spot?’

‘You don’t want to hurt me, James.’

‘No, but just could I?’

‘Yes, I suppose you could.’

‘Well then?’

‘My little daughter’s smaller than you. If you hurt her, you see, you’d be hurting me. It’d be the same, you see.’

‘I see,’ said James.

All was not well with Miss Smith. Life, which had been so happy when her baby was born, seemed now to be directed against her. Perhaps it was that the child was becoming difficult, going through a teething phase that was pleasant for no one; or perhaps it was that Miss Smith recognized in him some trait she disliked and knew that she would be obliged to watch it develop, powerless to intervene. Whatever the reason, she felt depressed. She often thought of her teaching days, of the big square schoolroom with the children’s models on the shelves and the pictures of kings on the walls. Nostalgically, she recalled the feel of frosty air on her face as she rode her bicycle through the town, her mind already practising the first lesson of the day. She had loved those winter days: the children stamping their feet in the playground, the stove groaning and crackling, so red and so fierce that it had to be penned off for safety’s sake. It had been good to feel tired, good to bicycle home, shopping a bit on the way, home to tea and the wireless and an evening of reading by the fire. It wasn’t that she regretted anything; it was just that now and again, for a day or two, she felt she would like to return to the past.

‘My dear,’ Miss Smith’s husband said, ‘you really will have to be more careful.’

‘But I am. Truly I am. I’m just as careful as anyone can be.’

‘Of course you are. But it’s a difficult age. Perhaps, you know, you need a holiday.’

‘But I’ve had difficult ages to deal with for years –’

‘Now now, my dear, it’s not quite the same, teaching a class of kids.’

‘But it shouldn’t be as difficult. I don’t know –’

‘You’re tired. Tied to a child all day long, every day of the week, it’s no joke. We’ll take an early holiday.’

Miss Smith did feel tired, but she knew that it wasn’t tiredness that was really the trouble. Her baby was almost three, and for two years she knew she had been making mistakes with him. Yet somehow she felt that they weren’t her mistakes: it was as though some other person occasionally possessed her: a negligent, worthless kind of person who was cruel, almost criminal, in her carelessness. Once she had discovered the child crawling on the pavement beside his pram: she had forgotten apparently to attach his harness to the pram hooks. Once there had been beads in his pram, hundreds of them, small and red and made of glass. A woman had drawn her attention to the danger, regarding curiously the supplier of so unsuitable a plaything. ‘In his nose he was putting one, dear. And may have swallowed a dozen already. It could kill a mite, you know.’ The beads were hers, but how the child had got them she could not fathom. Earlier, when he had been only a couple of months, she had come into his nursery to find an excited cat scratching at the clothes of his cot; and on another occasion she had found him eating a turnip. She wondered if she might be suffering from some kind of serious absent-mindedness, or blackouts. Her doctor told her, uncomfortingly, that she was a little run down.

‘I’m a bad mother,’ said Miss Smith to herself; and she cried as she looked at her child, warm and pretty in his sleep.

But her carelessness continued and people remarked that it was funny in a teacher. Her husband was upset and unhappy, and finally suggested that they should employ someone to look after the child. ‘Someone else?’ said Miss Smith. ‘Someone else? Am I then incapable? Am I so wretched and stupid that I cannot look after my own child? You speak to me as though I were half crazy.’ She felt confused and sick and miserable. The marriage teetered beneath the tension, and there was no question of further children.

Then there were two months without incident. Miss Smith began to feel better; she was getting the hang of things; once again she was in control of her daily life. Her child grew and flourished. He trotted nimbly beside her, he spoke his own language, he was wayward and irresponsible, and to Miss Smith and her husband he was intelligent and full of charm. Every day Miss Smith saved up the sayings and doings of this child and duly reported them to her husband. ‘He is quite intrepid,’ Miss Smith said, and she told her husband how the child would tumble about the room, trying to stand on his head. ‘He has an aptitude for athletics,’ her husband remarked. They laughed that they, so unathletic in their ways, should have produced so physically lively an offspring.

‘And how has our little monster been today?’ Miss Smith’s husband asked, entering the house one evening at his usual time.

Miss Smith smiled, happy after a good, quiet day. ‘Like gold,’ she said.

Her husband smiled too, glad that the child had not been a nuisance to her and glad that his son, for his own sake, was capable of adequate behaviour. ‘I’ll just take a peep at him,’ he announced, and he ambled off to the nursery.

He sighed with relief as he climbed the stairs, thankful that all was once again well in the house. He was still sighing when he opened the nursery door and smelt gas. It hissed insidiously from the unlit fire. The room was sweet with it. The child, sleeping, sucked it into his lungs.

The child’s face was blue. They carried him from the room, both of them helpless and inadequate in the situation. And then they waited, without speaking, while his life was recovered, until the moment when the doctor, white-coated and stern, explained that it had been a nearer thing than he would wish again to handle.

‘This is too serious,’ Miss Smith’s husband said. ‘We cannot continue like this. Something must be done.’

‘I cannot understand –’

‘It happens too often. The strain is too much for me, dear.’

‘I cannot understand it.’

Every precaution had been taken with the gas-fire in the nursery. The knob that controlled the gas pressure was a key and the key was removable. Certainly, the control point was within the child’s reach but one turned it on or off, slipped the key out of its socket and placed it on the mantelpiece. That was the simple rule.

‘You forgot to take out the key,’ Miss Smith’s husband said. In his mind an idea took on a shape that frightened him. He shied away, watching it advance, knowing that he possessed neither the emotional nor mental equipment to fight it.

‘No, no, no,’ Miss Smith said. ‘I never forget it. I turned the fire off and put the key on the mantelpiece. I remember distinctly.’

He stared at her, drilling his eyes into hers, hopelessly seeking the truth. When he spoke his voice was dry and weary.

‘The facts speak for themselves. You cannot suggest there’s another solution?’

‘But it’s absurd. It means he got out of his cot, turned the key, returned to bed and went to sleep.’

‘Or that you turned off the fire and idly turned it on again.’

‘I couldn’t have; how could I?’

Miss Smith’s husband didn’t know. His imagination, like a pair of calipers, grasped the ugly thought and held it before him. The facts were on its side, he could not ignore them: his wife was deranged in her mind. Consciously or otherwise she was trying to kill their child.

‘The window,’ Miss Smith said. ‘It was open when I left it. It always is, for air. Yet you found it closed.’

‘The child certainly could not have done that. I cannot see what you are suggesting.’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know what I am suggesting. Except that I don’t understand.’

‘He’s too much for you, dear, and that’s all there is to it. You must have help.’

‘We can’t afford it.’

‘Be that as it may, we must. We have the child to think of, if not ourselves.’

‘But one child! One child cannot be too much for anyone. Look, I’ll be extra careful in future. After all, it is the first thing like this that has happened for ages.’

‘I’m sorry, dear. We must advertise for a woman.’

‘Please –’

‘Darling, I’m sorry. It’s no use talking. We have talked enough and it has got us nowhere. This is something to be sensible about.’

‘Please let’s try again.’

‘And in the meanwhile? In the meanwhile our child’s life must be casually risked day in, day out?’

‘No, no.’

Miss Smith pleaded, but her husband said nothing further. He pulled hard on his pipe, biting it between his jaws, unhappy and confused in his mind.

Miss Smith’s husband did indeed advertise for a woman to see to the needs of their child, but it was, in fact, unnecessary in the long run to employ one. Because on his third birthday, late in the afternoon, the child disappeared. Miss Smith had put him in the garden. It was a perfectly safe garden: he played there often. Yet when she called him for his tea he did not come; and when she looked for the reason she found that he was not there. The small gate that led to the fields at the back of the house was open. She had not opened it; she rarely used it. Distractedly, she thought he must have managed to release the catch himself. ‘That is quite impossible,’ her husband said. ‘It’s too high and too stiff.’ He looked at her oddly, confirmed in his mind that she wished to be rid of her child. Together they tramped the fields with the police, but although they covered a great area and were out for most of the night they were unsuccessful.

When the search continued in the light of the morning it was a search without hope, and the hopelessness in time turned into the fear of what discovery would reveal. ‘We must accept the facts,’ Miss Smith’s husband said, but she alone continued to hope. She dragged her legs over the wide countryside, seeking a miracle but finding neither trace nor word of her child’s wanderings.

A small boy, so quiet she scarcely noticed him, stopped her once by a sawmill. He spoke some shy salutation, and when she blinked her eyes at his face she saw that he was James Machen. She passed him by, thinking only that she envied him his life, that for him to live and her child to die was proof indeed of a mocking Providence. She prayed to this Providence, promising a score of resolutions if only all would be well.

But nothing was well, and Miss Smith brooded on the thought that her husband had not voiced. I released the gate myself. For some reason I have not wanted this child. God knows I loved him, and surely it wasn’t too weak a love? Is it that I’ve loved so many other children that I have none left that is real enough for my own? Pathetic, baseless theories flooded into Miss Smith’s mind. Her thoughts floundered and collapsed into wretched chaos.

‘Miss Smith,’ James said, ‘would you like to see your baby?’

He stood at her kitchen door, and Miss Smith, hearing the words, was incapable immediately of grasping their meaning. The sun, reflected in the kitchen, was mirrored again in the child’s glasses. He smiled at her, more confidently than she remembered, revealing a silvery wire stretched across his teeth.

‘What did you say?’ Miss Smith asked.

‘I said, would you like to see your baby?’

Miss Smith had not slept for a long time. She was afraid to sleep because of the nightmares. Her hair hung lank about her shoulders, her eyes were dead and seemed to have fallen back deeper into her skull. She stood listening to this child, nodding her head up and down, very slowly, in a mechanical way. Her left hand moved gently back and forth on the smooth surface of her kitchen table.

‘My baby?’ Miss Smith said. ‘My baby?’

‘You have lost your baby,’ James reminded her.

Miss Smith nodded a little faster.

‘I will show you,’ James said.

He caught her hand and led her from the house, through the garden and through the gate into the fields. Hand in hand they walked through the grass, over the canal bridge and across the warm, ripe meadows.

‘I will pick you flowers,’ James said and he ran to gather poppies and cow-parsley and blue, beautiful cornflowers.

‘You give people flowers,’ James said, ‘because you like them and you want them to like you.’

She carried the flowers and James skipped and danced beside her, hurrying her along. She heard him laughing; she looked at him and saw his small weasel face twisted into a merriment that frightened her.

The sun was fierce on Miss Smith’s neck and shoulders. Sweat gathered on her forehead and ran down her cheeks. She felt it on her body, tightening her clothes to her back and thighs. Only the child’s hand was cool, and beneath her fingers she assessed its strength, wondering about its history. Again the child laughed.

On the heavy air his laughter rose and fell; it quivered through his body and twitched lightly in his hand. It came as a giggle, then a breathless spasm; it rose like a storm from him; it rippled to gentleness; and it pounded again like the firing of guns in her ear. It would not stop. She knew it would not stop. As they walked together on this summer’s day the laughter would continue until they arrived at the horror, until the horror was complete.

The Hotel of the Idle Moon

The woman called Mrs Dankers placed a rose-tipped cigarette between her lips and lit it from the lighter on the dashboard. The brief spurt of light revealed a long, handsome face with a sharpness about it that might often have been reminiscent of the edge of a chisel. In the darkness a double funnel of smoke streamed from her nostrils, and she gave a tiny gasp of satisfaction. On a grass verge two hundred miles north of London the car was stationary except for the gentle rocking imposed by the wind. Above the persistent lashing of the rain the radio played a popular tune of the thirties, quietly and without emotion. It was two minutes to midnight.

‘Well?’

The car door banged and Dankers was again beside her. He smelt of rain; it dripped from him on to her warm knees.

‘Well?’ Mrs Dankers repeated.

He started the engine. The car crept on to the narrow highway, its wipers slashing at the rain, its powerful headlights drawing the streaming foliage startlingly near. He cleared the windscreen with his arm. ‘It’ll do,’ he murmured. He drove on slowly, and the sound of the engine was lost in a medley of wind and rain and the murmur of music and the swish of the wipers.

‘It’ll do?’ said Mrs Dankers. ‘Is it the right house?’

He twisted the car this way and that along the lane. The lights caught an image of pillars and gates, closed in upon them and lost them as the car swung up the avenue.

‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘It’s the right house.’

Within that house, an old man lying stiffly in bed heard the jangle of the bell at the hall door and frowned over this unaccustomed sound. At first he imagined that the noise had been caused by the wind, but then the bell rang again, sharply and in a peremptory manner. The old man, called Cronin, the only servant in the house, rose from his bed and dragged a coat on to his body, over his pyjamas. He descended the stairs, sighing to himself.

The pair outside saw a light go on in the hall, and then they heard the tread of Cronin’s feet and the sound of a bar being pulled back on the door. Dankers threw a cigarette away and prepared an expression for his face. His wife shivered in the rain.

‘It’s so late,’ the old man in pyjamas said when the travellers had told him their tale. ‘I must wake the Marstons for guidance, sir. I can’t do this on my own responsibility.’

‘It’s wet and cold as well,’ Dankers murmured, smiling at the man through his widely spread moustache. ‘No night to be abroad, really. You must understand our predicament.’

‘No night to be standing on a step,’ added Mrs Dankers. ‘At least may we come in?’

They entered the house and were led to a large drawing-room. ‘Please wait,’ the man invited. ‘The fire is not entirely out. I’ll question the Marstons as you warm yourselves.’

The Dankerses did not speak. They stood where the man had left them, staring about the room. Their manner one to the other had an edge of hostility to it, as though they were as suspicious in this relationship as they were of the world beyond it.

‘I am Sir Giles Marston,’ said another old man. ‘You’ve sustained some travelling difficulty?’

‘Our car has let us down – due, I suppose, to some penetration of the weather. We left it by your gates. Sir Giles, we’re at your mercy. Dankers the name is. The lady is my good wife.’ Dankers stretched his arm towards his host in a manner that might have suggested to an onlooker that he, and not Sir Giles, was the welcomer.

‘Our need is simple,’ said Mrs Dankers. ‘A roof over our heads.’

‘Some outhouse maybe,’ Dankers hazarded, overplaying his part. He laughed. ‘Anywhere we can curl up for an hour or two. We cannot be choosers.’

‘I’d prefer a chair,’ his wife interceded sharply. ‘A chair and a rug would suit me nicely.’

‘I’m sure we can do better than that. Prepare two beds, Cronin; and light our guests a fire in their room.’

Sir Giles Marston moved into the centre of the room and in the greater light the Dankerses saw a small, hunched man, with a face like leather that has been stretched for a lifetime and is suddenly slackened; as lined as a map.

‘Oh, really,’ Dankers protested in his soft voice, ‘you mustn’t go to such trouble. It’s imposition enough to rouse you like this.’

‘We’ll need sheets,’ Cronin said. ‘Sheets and bedding: God knows where I shall find them, sir.’

‘Brandy,’ Sir Giles suggested. ‘Am I right, Mrs Dankers, in thinking that strong refreshment would partly answer the situation?’

Cronin left the room, speaking to himself. Sir Giles poured the brandy. ‘I’m ninety years of age,’ he told his guests, ‘But yet aware that inhospitality is a sin to be ashamed of. I bid you good-night.’

‘Who are they?’ Lady Marston asked in the morning, having heard the tale from her husband.

‘My dear, they are simply people. They bear some unpleasant name. More than that I do not really wish to know.’

‘It’s a sunny day by the look of it. Your guests will have breakfasted and gone by now. I’m sorry in a way, for I would welcome fresh faces and a different point of view. We live too quiet a life, Giles. We are too much thrown in upon each other. It’s hardly a healthy manner in which to prepare for our dying.’

Sir Giles, who was engaged in the drawing up of his trousers, smiled. ‘Had you seen these two, my dear, you would not have said they are the kind to make our going any easier. The man has a moustache of great proportions, the woman you would describe as smart.’

‘You’re intolerant, love. And so high-handed that you didn’t even discover the reason for this visit.’

‘They came because they could move in neither direction. Trouble with their motor-car.’

‘They’ve probably left with all our little bits and pieces. You’re a sitting bird for a confidence trick. Oh, Giles, Giles!’

Sir Giles departed, and in the breakfast-room below discovered the pair called Dankers still at table.

‘Your man has been most generous,’ Dankers said. ‘He’s fed us like trenchermen: porridge, coffee, bacon and eggs. Two for me, one for my good wife. And toast and marmalade. And this delicious butter.’

‘Are you trying to say that an essential commodity was lacking? If so, I fear you must be more precise. In this house we are now past subtlety.’

‘You’ve made a fool of yourself,’ Mrs Dankers said to her husband. ‘Who wishes to know what two strangers have recently digested?’

‘Pardon, pardon,’ murmured Dankers. ‘Sir Giles, forgive a rough diamond!’

‘Certainly. If you have finished, please don’t delay on my account. Doubtless you are anxious to be on your way.’

‘My husband will attend to the car. Probably it’s necessary to send for help to a garage. In the meantime I’ll keep you company if I may.’

Dankers left the room, passing on the threshold an elderly lady whom he did not address, wishing to appear uncertain in his mind as to her identity.

‘This is the woman who came in the night,’ Sir Giles said to his wife. ‘Her husband is seeing to their motor-car so that they may shortly be on their way. Mrs Dankers, my wife, Lady Marston.’

‘We’re more than grateful, Lady Marston. It looked as though we were in for a nasty night.’

‘I hope Cronin made you comfortable. I fear I slept through everything. “My dear, we have two guests,” my husband said to me this morning. You may imagine my surprise.’

Cronin entered and placed plates of food before Sir Giles and Lady Marston.

Conversationally, Mrs Dankers said: ‘You have a fine place here.’

‘It’s cold and big,’ Sir Giles replied.

The Marstons set about their breakfast, and Mrs Dankers, unable to think of something to say, sat in silence. The smoke from her cigarette was an irritation to her hosts, but they did not remark on it, since they accepted its presence as part of the woman herself. When he returned Dankers sat beside his wife again. He poured some coffee and said: ‘I am no mechanic, Sir Giles. I would like to use your phone to summon help.’

‘We are not on the telephone.’

‘Not?’ murmured Dankers in simulated surprise, for he knew the fact already. ‘How far in that case is the nearest village? And does it boast a garage?’

‘Three miles. As to the presence of a garage, I have had no cause to establish that point. But I imagine there is a telephone.’

‘Giles, introduce me please. Is this man Mrs Dankers’ husband?’

‘He claims it. Mr Dankers, my wife, Lady Marston.’

‘How d’you do?’ Dankers said, rising to shake the offered hand. ‘I’m afraid we’re in a pickle.’

‘You should walk it in an hour,’ Sir Giles reminded him.

‘There’s no way of forwarding a message?’

‘No.’

‘The postman?’

‘He hardly ever comes. And then brings only a circular or two.’

‘Perhaps your man?’

‘Cronin’s days as Hermes are over. You must see that surely for yourself?’

‘In that case there’s nothing for it but a tramp.’

This conclusion of Dankers’ was received in silence.

‘Walk, Mr Dankers,’ Lady Marston said eventually, and added to her husband’s dismay, ‘and return for lunch. Afterwards you can leave us at your leisure.’

‘How kind of you,’ the Dankerses said together. They smiled in unison too. They rose and left the room.

Cronin watched and listened to everything. ‘Prepare two beds,’ his master had said, and from that same moment Cronin had been on his guard. He had given them breakfast in the morning, and had hoped that once they had consumed it they would be on their way. He took them to be commercial travellers, since they had the air of people who were used to moving about and spending nights in places. ‘You have a fine place here,’ Mrs Dankers had said to the Marstons, and Cronin had narrowed his eyes, wondering why she had said it, wondering why she was sitting there, smoking a cigarette while the Marstons breakfasted. He had examined their motor-car and had thought it somehow typical of the people. They were people, thought Cronin, who would know what to do with all the knobs and gadgets on the motor-car’s dashboard; they would take to that dashboard like ducks to water.

For forty-eight years Cronin had lived in the house, serving the Marstons. Once, there had been other servants, and in his time he had watched over them and over the house itself. Now he contented himself with watching over the Marstons. ‘Some outhouse maybe,’ Dankers had said, and Cronin had thought that Dankers was not a man who knew much about outhouses. He saw Dankers and Mrs Dankers sitting together in a café connected with a cinema, a place such as he had himself visited twenty-odd years ago and had not cared for. He heard Dankers asking the woman what she would take to eat, adding that he himself would have a mixed grill with chips, and a pot of strong tea, and sliced bread and butter. Cronin observed these people closely and memorized much of what they said.

‘Clearly,’ Dankers remarked at lunch, ‘we’re not in training. Or perhaps it was the fascination of your magnificent orchard.’

‘Are you saying you didn’t walk to the village?’ Sir Giles inquired, a trifle impatiently.

‘Forgive these city folk,’ cried Dankers loudly. ‘Quite frankly, we got no distance at all.’

‘What are you to do then? Shall you try again this afternoon? There are, of course, various houses on the route. One of them may have a telephone.’

‘Your orchard has greatly excited us. I’ve never seen such trees.’

‘They’re the finest in England.’

‘A pity,’ said Mrs Dankers, nibbling at fish on a fork, ‘to see it in such rack and ruin.’

Dankers blew upwards into his moustache and ended the activity with a smile. ‘It is worth some money, that orchard,’ he said.

Sir Giles eyed him coolly. ‘Yes, sir; it is worth some money. But time is passing and we are wasting it in conversation. You must see to the affair of your motor-car.’

The storm had brought the apples down. They lay in their thousands in the long grass, damp and glistening, like immense, unusual jewels in the afternoon sun. The Dankerses examined them closely, strolling through the orchard, noting the various trees and assessing their yield. For the purpose they had fetched Wellington boots from their car and had covered themselves in waterproof coats of an opaque plastic material. They did not speak, but occasionally, coming across a tree that pleased them, they nodded.

‘A lot could be done, you know,’ Dankers explained at dinner. ‘It is a great orchard and in a mere matter of weeks it could be set on the road to profit and glory.’

‘It has had its glory,’ replied Sir Giles, ‘and probably its profit too. Now it must accept its fate. I cannot keep it up.’

‘Oh, it’s a shame! A terrible shame to see it as it is. Why, you could make a fortune, Sir Giles.’

‘You didn’t get to the village?’ Lady Marston asked.

‘We could not pass the orchard!’

‘Which means,’ Sir Giles said, ‘that you’ll be with us for another night.’

‘Could you bear it?’ Mrs Dankers smiled a thin smile. ‘Could you bear to have us all over again?’

‘Of course, of course,’ said Lady Marston. ‘Perhaps tomorrow you’ll feel a little stronger. I understand your lethargy. It’s natural after an unpleasant experience.’

‘They have been through neither flood nor fire,’ her husband reminded her. ‘And the village will be no nearer tomorrow.’

‘Perhaps,’ Dankers began gently, ‘the postman will call in the morning –’

‘We have no living relatives,’ Sir Giles cut in, ‘and most of our friends are gone. The circulars come once a month or so.’

‘The groceries then?’

‘I have inquired of Cronin about the groceries. They came yesterday. They will come again next week.’

‘The daily milk is left at the foot of the avenue. Cronin walks to fetch it. You could leave a message there,’ Lady Marston suggested. ‘It is the arrangement we have for emergencies, such as summoning the doctor.’

‘The doctor? But surely by the time he got here –?’

‘In greater emergency one of the three of us would walk to the nearest house. We do not,’ Sir Giles added, ‘find it so difficult to pass one leg before the other. Senior though we may be.’

‘Perhaps the milk is an idea,’ Lady Marston said.

‘Oh no, we could never put anyone to so much trouble. It would be too absurd. No, tomorrow we shall have found our feet.’

But tomorrow when it came was a different kind of day, because with something that disagreed with him in his stomach Sir Giles died in the night. His heart was taxed by sharp little spasms of pain and in the end they were too much for it.

‘We’re going to see to you for a bit,’ Mrs Dankers said after the funeral. ‘We’ll pop you in your room, dear, and Cronin shall attend to all your needs. You can’t be left to suffer your loss alone; you’ve been so kind to us.’

Lady Marston moved her head up and down. The funeral had been rather much for her. Mrs Dankers led her by the arm to her room.

‘Well,’ said Dankers, speaking to Cronin with whom he was left, ‘so that’s that.’

‘I was his servant for forty-eight years, sir.’

‘Indeed, indeed. And you have Lady Marston, to whom you may devote your whole attention. Meals in her room, Cronin, and pause now and then for the occasional chat. The old lady’ll be lonely.’

‘I’ll be lonely myself, sir.’

‘Indeed. Then all the more reason to be good company. And you, more than I, understand the business of being elderly. You know by instinct what to say, how best to seem soothing.’

‘Your car is repaired, sir? At least it moved today. You’ll be on your way? Shall I pack some sandwiches?’

‘Come, come, Cronin, how could we leave two lonely people so easily in the lurch? Chance has sent us to your side in this hour of need: we’ll stay to do what we can. Besides, there are Sir Giles’s wishes.’

What’s this? thought Cronin, examining the eyes of the man who had come in the night and had stayed to see his master buried. They were eyes he would not care to possess himself, for fear of what went with them. He said:

‘His wishes, sir?’

‘That his orchard should again be put in use. The trees repaired and pruned. The fruit sold for its true value. An old man’s dying wish won’t go unheeded.’

‘But, sir, there’s so much work in it. The trees run into many hundreds –’

‘Quite right, Cronin. That’s observant of you. Many men are needed to straighten the confusion and waste. There’s much to do.’

‘Sir Giles wished this, sir?’ said Cronin, playing a part, knowing that Sir Giles could never have passed on to Dankers his dying wish. ‘It’s unlike him, sir, to think about his orchard. He watched it failing.’

‘He wished it, Cronin. He wished it, and a great deal else. You who have seen some changes in your time are in for a couple more. And now, my lad, a glass of that good brandy would not go down amiss. At a time like this one must try to keep one’s spirits up.’

Dankers sat by the fire in the drawing-room, sipping his brandy and writing industriously in a notebook. He was shortly joined by his wife, to whom he handed from time to time a leaf from this book so that she might share his plans. When midnight had passed they rose and walked through the house, measuring the rooms with a practised eye and noting their details on paper. They examined the kitchens and outhouses, and in the moonlight they walked the length of the gardens. Cronin watched them, peeping at them in all their activity.

‘There’s a pretty little room next to Cronin’s that is so much sunnier,’ Mrs Dankers said. ‘Cosier and warmer, dear. We’ll have your things moved there, I think. This one is dreary with memories. And you and Cronin will be company for one another.’

Lady Marston nodded, then changing her mind said: ‘I like this room. It’s big and beautiful and with a view. I’ve become used to it.’

‘Now, now, my dear, we mustn’t be morbid, must we? And we don’t always quite know what’s best. It’s good to be happy, dear, and you’ll be happier there.’

‘I’ll be happier, Mrs Dankers? Happier away from all my odds and ends, and Giles’s too?’

‘My dear, we’ll move them with you. Come, now, look on the bright side. There’s the future too, as well as the past.’

Cronin came, and the things were moved. Not quite everything though, because the bed and the wardrobe and the heavy dressing-table would not fit into the new setting.

In the orchard half a dozen men set about creating order out of chaos. The trees were trimmed and then treated, paths restored, broken walls rebuilt. The sheds were cleared and filled with fruit-boxes in readiness for next year’s harvest.

‘There’s a wickedness here,’ Cronin reported to Lady Marston. ‘There’s a cook in the kitchen, and a man who waits on them. My only task, they tell me, is to carry your food and keep your room in order.’

‘And to see to yourself, Cronin, to take it easy and to watch your rheumatics. Fetch a pack of cards.’

Cronin recalled the house as it once had been, a place that was lively with weekend guests and was regularly wallpapered. Then there had come the years of decline and the drifting towards decay, and now there was a liveliness of a different order; while the days passed by, the liveliness established itself like a season. Mrs Dankers bustled from room to room, in tune with the altered world. Dankers said: ‘It’s good to see you seeming so sprightly, Cronin. The weather suits you, eh? And now that we’ve made these few little changes life is easier, I think.’ Cronin replied that it was certainly true that he had less to do. ‘So you should have less to do,’ said Dankers. ‘Face the facts: you cannot hope to undertake a young chap’s work.’ He smiled, to release the remark of its barb.

Cronin was worried about the passive attitude of Lady Marston. She had gone like a lamb to the small room, which now served as her sitting-room and bedroom combined. She had not stirred from the top of the house since the day of the move; she knew nothing save what he told her of all that was happening.

‘The builders are here,’ he had said; but quite often, midway through a game of cards, she would pause with her head a little to one side, listening to the distant sound of hammering. ‘It is the noise of the builders,’ he would remind her; and she would place a card on the table and say: ‘I did not know that Sir Giles had ordered the builders.’ In the mornings she was well aware of things, but as the day passed on she spoke more often of Sir Giles; of Sir Giles’s plans for the orchard and the house. Cronin feared that, day by day, Lady Marston was sinking into her dotage; the morning hours of her clarity were shrinking even as he thought about it.

One afternoon, walking to the foot of the avenue to stretch his legs, Cronin found a small, elegantly painted board secured to one of the pillars. It faced the road, inviting those who passed to read the words it bore. He read them himself and expostulated angrily, muttering the words, repeating them as he made his way back to the house.

‘M’lady, this cannot happen. They’ve turned your house into an hotel.’

Lady Marston looked at Cronin, whom she had known for so many years, who had seen with her and her husband a thousand details of change and reconstruction. He was upset now, she could see it. His white, sparse hair seemed uncombed, which was unusual for Cronin. There was a blush of temper on his cheeks; and in his eyes a wildness one did not associate with so well-trained a servant.

‘What is it, Cronin?’

‘There’s a notice at the gate announcing “The Hotel of the Idle Moon”.’

‘Well?’

‘The Dankerses –’

‘Ah, the Dankerses. You talk so much about the Dankerses, Cronin. Yet as I remember them they are surely not worth it. Sir Giles said the man had repeated to him every mouthful of his breakfast. In the end he had to make short shrift of the pair.’

‘No, no –’

‘Yes, Cronin: they tried his patience. He gave them their marching orders, reminding them that the night was fine and the moon was full. There was a coolness between us, for I believed he had gone too far.’

‘No, no. You must remember: the Dankerses are still here. They’ve tidied up the orchard and now have turned your house into an hotel.’

Lady Marston made her impatient little shaking of the head. ‘Of course, of course. Cronin, I apologize. You must find me very trying.’

‘It has no meaning: The Hotel of the Idle Moon. Yet I fear, m’lady, it may in time mean much to us.’

Lady Marston laughed quite gaily. ‘Few things have meaning, Cronin. It is rather much to expect a meaning for everything.’

They played three games of cards, and the matter was not again referred to. But in the night Lady Marston came to Cronin’s bedside and shook him by the shoulder. ‘I’m upset,’ she said, ‘by what you tell me. This isn’t right at all. Cronin, listen carefully: tomorrow you must inform Sir Giles. Tell him of our fears. Beg him to reconsider. I’m far too old to act. I must leave it all to you.’

The house was busy then with visitors, and cars up and down the avenue. It thrived as the orchard thrived; it had a comfortable and sumptuous feel, and Cronin thought again of the past.

‘Ah, Cronin,’ Mrs Dankers said, pausing on the back stairs one day. ‘Tell me, how is poor Lady Marston? She does not come down at all, and we’re so on the go here that it’s hard to find time to make the journey to the top of the house.’

‘Lady Marston is well, madam.’

‘She’s welcome in the lounges. Always welcome. Would you be good enough to tell her, Cronin?’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘But keep an eye on her, like a good man. I would not like her upsetting the guests. You understand?’

‘Yes, madam. I understand. I don’t think Lady Marston is likely to make use of the lounges.’

‘She would find the climb up and down too much, I dare say.’

‘Yes, madam. She would find it too much.’

Cronin made many plans. He thought that one day when Dankers was away he would approach the orchard with Sir Giles’s rifle and order the men to cut down the trees. That at least would bring one part of the sadness to an end. He saw the scene quite clearly: the trees toppling one against the other, their branches webbed as they hung in the air above the fresh stumps. But when he searched for the rifle he could not find it. He thought that he might wreak great damage in the house, burning carpets and opening up the upholstery. But for this he found neither opportunity nor the strength it demanded. Stropping his razor one morning, he hit upon the best plan of all: to creep into the Dankerses’ bedroom and cut their throats. It had once been his master’s bedroom and now it was theirs; which made revenge the sweeter. Every day for forty-eight years he had carried to the room a tray of tea-cups and a pot of Earl Grey tea. Now he would carry his sharpened razor; and for the rest of his life he would continue his shaving with it, relishing every scrape. The idea delighted him. Sir Giles would have wished to see the last of them, to see the last of all these people who strayed about the house and grounds, and to see the orchard settle down again to being the orchard he had left behind. And was not he, Cronin, the living agent of the dead Sir Giles? Was he not now companion to his wife? And did she not, in an occasional moment of failure, address him as she. had her husband? Yet when he shared his plans with Lady Marston she did not at all endorse them.

‘Take the will for the deed, Cronin. Leave these people be.’ ‘But they are guilty. They may have killed Sir Giles.’

‘They may have. And does it matter this way or that – to chop off a few dwindling years?’

Cronin saw no reason in her words. He pitied her, and hardened himself in his resolve.

‘I am sorry to speak to you like this, Cronin,’ Dankers said, ‘but I cannot, you know, have you wandering about the house in this manner. There have been complaints from the guests. You have your room, with Lady Marston to talk to; why not keep more to the region we have set aside for you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Of late, Cronin, you’ve become untidy in your appearance. You have a dishevelled look and often seem – well, frankly, Cronin, dirty. It’s not good for business. Not good at all.’

The moon shall not be idle, Cronin thought. The moon shall be agog to see. The moon shall clear the sky of clouds that the stars may ponder on the pillows full of blood.

‘Mr Dankers, sir, why is this place called the Idle Moon?’

Dankers laughed. ‘A foible of my good wife’s. She liked the sound of it. Quite telling, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The moon shall like the sound of her. A shriek in a severed throat, a howl of pain.

‘See to it, Cronin, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

So Cronin kept to his room, descending the back stairs only for his food and Lady Marston’s. The weeks passed, and more and more he sat entranced with the duty he had set himself. Sometimes, as though drunk with it, he found himself a little uncertain as to its exactitudes. That was when he felt tired; when he dropped off into a doze as he sat by his small window, staring at the sky and listening to the faraway hum from the house below.

Then one morning Cronin discovered that Lady Marston had died in her sleep. They carried her off, and he put away the pack of cards.

‘It’s a sad day for us all,’ Dankers said, and in the distance Cronin could hear Mrs Dankers giving some brisk order to a servant. He returned to his room and for a moment there was an oddness in his mind and he imagined that it was Sir Giles who had said that the day was sad. Then he remembered that Sir Giles was dead too and that he was the only one left.

In the months that followed he spoke to no one but himself, for he was concentrating on the details of his plan. They kept slipping away, and increasingly he had a struggle to keep them straight.

When the razor was there the faces on the pillows were vague and empty, and he could not remember whose he had planned they should be. There was the pattern of moonlight, and the red stain on the bed-clothes, but Cronin could not often now see what any of it meant. It made him tired, thinking the trouble out. And when, in the end, the shreds of his plan came floating back to him he smiled in some astonishment, seeing only how absurd it had been that late in his life he should have imagined himself a match for the world and its conquerors.

Nice Day at School

Eleanor lay awake, thinking in advance about the day. The face of Miss Whitehead came into her mind, the rather pointed nose, eyes set wide apart, a mouth that turned up at the corners and gave the impression that Miss Whitehead was constantly smiling, although it was a widely held view among the girls whom she taught that Miss Whitehead had little to smile over, having missed out. The face of Liz Jones came into Eleanor’s mind also, a pretty, wild face with eyes that were almost black, and black hair hanging prettily down on either side of it, and full lips. Liz Jones claimed to have gypsy blood in her, and another girl, Mavis Temple, had once remarked to Eleanor that she thought Liz Jones’s lips were negroid. ‘A touch of the tar brush,’ Mavis Temple had said. ‘A seaman done her mum.’ She’d said it three years ago, when the girls had all been eleven, in Miss Homber’s class. Everything had been different then.

In the early morning gloom Eleanor considered the difference, regretting, as always, that it had come about. It had been nice in Miss Homber’s class, the girls’ first year at Springfield Comprehensive: they’d all had a crush on Miss Homber because Miss Homber, who’d since become Mrs George Spaxton and a mother, had been truly beautiful and intelligent. Miss Homber told them it was important to wash all the parts of the body once per day, including you knew where. Four girls brought letters of complaint after that and Miss Homber read them out to the class, commenting on the grammar and the spelling errors and causing the girls to become less carefree about what they repeated to their mums. ‘Remember, you can give birth at thirteen,’ Miss Homber warned, and she added that if a boy ever said he was too embarrassed to go into a chemist’s for preventatives he could always get them in a slot machine that was situated in the Gents at the filling station on the Portsmouth Road, which was something her own boyfriend had told her.

It had been nice in those days because Eleanor didn’t believe that any boy would try stuff like that on when she was thirteen, and the girls of the first year all agreed that it sounded disgusting, a boy putting his thing up you. Even Liz Jones did, although she was constantly hanging about the boys of the estate and twice had had her knickers taken down in the middle of the estate playground. There were no boys at Springfield Comprehensive, which was just as well, Eleanor had always considered, because boys roughened up a school so.

But in spite of their physical absence boys had somehow penetrated, and increasingly, as Eleanor passed up through the school, references to them infiltrated all conversation. At thirteen, in Miss Croft’s class, Liz Jones confessed that a boy called Gareth Swayles had done her in the corner of the estate playground, at eleven o’clock one night. She’d been done standing up, she reported, leaning against the paling that surrounded the playground. She said it was fantastic.

Lying in bed, Eleanor remembered Liz Jones saying that and saying a few months later that a boy called Rogo Pollini was twice as good as Gareth Swayles, and later that a boy called Tich Ayling made Rogo Pollini seem totally laughable. Another girl, Susie Crumm, said that Rogo Pollini had told her that he’d never enjoyed it with Liz Jones because Liz Jones put him off with all her wriggling and pinching. Susie Crumm, at the time, had just been done by Rogo Pollini.

By the time they reached Class 2 it had become the fashion to have been done and most of the girls, even quiet Mavis Temple, had succumbed to it. Many had not cared for the experience and had not repeated it, but Liz Jones said that this was because they had got it from someone like Gareth Swayles, who was no better on the job than a dead horse. Eleanor hadn’t ever been done nor did she wish to be, by Gareth Swayles or anyone else. Some of the girls said it had hurt them: she knew it would hurt her. And she’d heard that even if Gareth Swayles, or whoever it was, went to the slot machine in the filling station it sometimes happened that the preventative came asunder, a disaster that would be followed by weeks of worry. That, she knew, would be her fate too.

‘Eleanor’s prissy,’ Liz Jones said every day now. ‘Eleanor’s prissy like poor prissy Whitehead.’ Liz Jones went on about it all the time, hating Eleanor because she still had everything in store for her. Liz Jones had made everyone else think that Eleanor would grow into a Miss Whitehead, who was terrified of men, so Liz Jones said. Miss Whitehead had hairs on her chin and her upper lip that she didn’t bother to do anything about. Quite often her breath wasn’t fresh, which was unpleasant if she was leaning over you, explaining something.

Eleanor, who lived on the estate with her parents, hated being identified with Miss Whitehead and yet she felt, especially when she lay awake in the early morning, that there was something in Liz Jones’s taunting. ‘Eleanor’s waiting for Mr Right,’ Liz Jones would say. ‘Whitehead waited forever.’ Miss Whitehead, Liz Jones said, never had a fellow for long because she wouldn’t give herself wholly and in this day and age a girl had to be sensible and natural over a matter like that. Everyone agreed that this was probably so, because there was no doubt about it that in her time Miss Whitehead had been pretty. ‘It happens to you,’ Liz Jones said, ‘left solitary like that: you grow hairs on your face; you get stomach trouble that makes your breath bad. Nervous frustration, see.’

Eleanor gazed across her small bedroom, moving her eyes from the pink of the wall to her school uniform, grey and purple, hanging over the back of a chair. In the room there was a teddy-bear she’d had since she was three, and a gramophone, and records by the New Seekers and the Pioneers and Diana Ross, and photographs of such performers. In her vague, uninterested manner her mother said she thought it awful that Eleanor should waste her money on these possessions, but Eleanor explained that everyone at Springfield Comprehensive did so and that she herself did not consider it a waste of money.

‘You up?’ Eleanor heard her mother calling now, and she replied that she was. She got out of bed and looked at herself in a looking-glass on her dressing-table. Her night-dress was white with small sprigs of violets on it. Her hair had an auburn tinge, her face was long and thin and was not afflicted with spots, as were a few of the faces of her companions at Springfield Comprehensive. Her prettiness was delicate, and she thought as she examined it now that Liz Jones was definitely right in her insinuations: it was a prettiness that could easily disappear overnight. Hairs would appear on her chin and her upper lip, a soft down at first, later becoming harsher. ‘Your sight, you know,’ an oculist would worriedly remark to her, and tell her she must wear glasses. Her teeth would lose their gleam. She’d have trouble with dandruff.