Marnie

by Winston Graham

  ‘And when you left school?’

  ‘My uncle – my mother’s brother – he’s at sea too, an engineer – he paid for me to go on to another school, St Andrew’s Technical College, where I learned shorthand and typing and bookkeeping and accountancy.’

  I looked at him again. He had dipped his lights, and the light from another car reflected off the road on to his thin angry face.

  ‘I suppose this really is true, is it?’

  ‘You can check it if you want.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will. I was only reminding you to keep your imagination under control.’

  I was wild at that. ‘Have you never done anything wrong, never broken any law? It’s different for you, of course, with always as much money as you needed—’

  ‘Get on with your story.’

  I struggled for a minute trying to swallow my breathing. ‘When I left I got a job in Plymouth. But I was hardly settled before Lucy Nye was taken ill so I gave it up to – to nurse her. I nursed her for eighteen months, until she died. When she died I found she’d left me the house we were living in and – and two hundred pounds in cash. I spent some of the cash on – on elocution lessons and some more on accountancy, and then I got a job with Deloitte, Plender & Griffiths in Bristol. While I was there I first saw horses – horses as I know them now, not old broken-down things pulling vans but long-legged thoroughbreds, jumpers and – and—’

  ‘All right, I’ve got that. You saw horses.’

  ‘And I fell in love with them. Does that mean anything to you? . . . After a bit the house in Devonport sold for a thousand pounds. It was all mine. I reckoned I could live for two years or more, live like a lady, on what I’d got and what I’d saved, buy a horse, ride it. I bought Forio and—’

  ‘Forio?’

  ‘My horse at the Garrods. So I gave up my job and lived like that. I lived like a lady as cheap as I could, but all day free. I wonder if freedom like that means anything to you. I used to ride nearly every day – then sometimes I’d get a temporary job round Christmas time to get a bit of extra money. But I just spent my capital most of the time. Then last year, about November, it was all gone . . . So I came to London and looked for work. I got a job at Kendalls but looked out for something better.’

  ‘And you found Rutland’s.’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘That was quite a bit better, wasn’t it, with a clear profit apart from wages of some twelve hundred pounds.’

  I burst into tears. ‘I’m s-sorry, Mark, it was a sudden temptation. I hated to do it but it was a sudden thought of being able to afford perhaps two more years like those I had had before I came t-to London. I shouldn’t ever have taken a cashier’s job, I-I suppose. It was handling so much money at – at one time. Oh, Mark, I’m so very sorry . . .’

  The tears were turned on, of course. But if it had been possible for me to cry naturally I really could have cried – for disappointment, and for being found out, and because I was so scared of what was going to happen.

  We were through Faringdon by now and on the main Swindon–Oxford road. I dabbed at my eyes with a handkerchief that was too small. But he didn’t offer me his.

  After a time he said: ‘And Mr Taylor? Where does he come in?’

  ‘Mr Taylor?’

  ‘Is he a little more of your imagination or does he exist?’

  ‘Oh, no. There . . . was nobody. She had never – I’ve never been married.’

  ‘You’ve been somebody’s mistress?’

  ‘No . . . Good Heavens no! Why should you think I had?’

  ‘I don’t think anything. I’m asking. Why did you call yourself Mrs Taylor?’

  I paused to blow my nose. Why the hell did I call myself Mrs Taylor? But I hadn’t really. I had just made Mary Taylor a married woman three years ago when I thought her up.

  ‘Mr Taylor was an old friend of my father’s. He’s been dead for years but the name came to my mind.’

  ‘Why did it have to come to your mind at all? Why did you open an account in Cardiff in that name three years ago?’

  I had been expecting that one. ‘Mrs Nye has – has a nephew. He’s abroad most of the time but he’s not much good. I was afraid of – if he knew Lucy Nye had left me all that money he’d want a share.’

  ‘Are you sure he isn’t working with you in this?’

  ‘Nobody’s working with me! You speak as if it was all cut and dried, planned weeks ago, in cold blood!’

  ‘And wasn’t it?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘It was all so impulsive and child-like that you changed your name to Taylor when you came to London nine months ago? That is if you haven’t been Mrs Taylor for three years.’

  ‘I didn’t change it for that. I changed it because I thought it would be like a fresh start! I didn’t want Mrs Nye’s nephew looking me up while I was in London! I – I thought I’d stick to the new name, make it something better than the old!’

  ‘Well, you’re not really trying to tell me that this theft just happened on the spur of the moment are you? Susan Clabon away on her holidays; a cheque made out deliberately for two hundred and twenty pounds more than we needed to draw; a supply of our own paper cut correctly to size and brought into the office that morning. What do you call cold blood?’

  ‘No, but it was only the last few days that I really thought of it! Then when the chance came I just hadn’t the strength of will to resist. I hadn’t Mark, really. I know I’m weak. I should never have done it but . . . You see, it was the week before, when Susan was away, that I realized it would be possible, but even then I never seriously thought . . . It wasn’t really till Wednesday. And then I couldn’t rest, couldn’t sleep because of it.’

  Another shower came and he put on the screen-wipers. Through the Japanese fans they made on the screen you could see the suburbs of Oxford squeezing up round the car.

  ‘Have you stolen before?’

  I hesitated. ‘Twice in Plymouth when I was ten – and got beaten for it.’

  ‘Not that sort of thing,’ he said impatiently. ‘Since then.’

  I thought it was risky to be too pure. ‘Yes . . . once in Bristol.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘About three years ago. I was in a shop and . . .’

  ‘How much did you take?’

  ‘Oh, only a scarf. It wasn’t worth much.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘About two pounds . . .’

  ‘And since then?’

  ‘Not since then.’

  In Oxford the rain had cleared the streets, and only buses and cars splashed through them. Out in the country again we drove past a signpost I couldn’t read.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  He said: ‘What proof have you of what you’ve told me?

  ‘Proof? Nothing on me.’

  ‘What can you get?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Is there someone from Plymouth who knows you?’

  ‘Well, I . . .’

  ‘Well, is there?’

  ‘. . . Yes, I suppose so; but if you aren’t going to hand me over to the police I’d rather—’

  ‘I didn’t say I wasn’t.’

  ‘I can find my birth certificate – a – a bookkeeping and accountancy certificate – a character from the North Road School . . . I haven’t kept much.’

  ‘Where are those?’

  ‘I could get them.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Well, various places . . . I expect I could get a letter from the South Western Electricity Board saying I worked for them. That was my first job. And Deloitte, Plender & Griffiths would say the same – though I was only with them six months . . . I think I’ve still got the receipt for Forio when I bought him . . . It’s – it’s hard to think of things. What do you want me to prove?’

  ‘Prove? I want you to prove that you—’ He stopped. He sounded choked – with irritation or something. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘That I’m not just a c
ommon sneak-thief?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘But I am . . . What else can you call me after this?’

  ‘Never mind. I’m not sitting as a judge on you; I’m only trying to understand.’

  I sighed shakily. ‘I think perhaps that’s impossible. When I’d done it, stolen that money, I could hardly believe it or understand it myself.’

  ‘I didn’t notice you rushing back.’

  ‘No . . . And I shouldn’t have done.’

  ‘Well, that’s honest anyway.’

  ‘For one thing I should have been too afraid.’

  We didn’t say anything more for a while.

  ‘It isn’t always so easy to know the truth about yourself,’ I said. ‘Or is it with you? You’ve lived a different, easier life.’

  He said nothing.

  I said: ‘Maybe you don’t have two thoughts at the same time. I often have two thoughts – one belongs to the person I’m trying to be now, the other belongs to the kid from Devonport. And she’s still a back-street urchin. I mean, you don’t suddenly grow out of knowing what it’s like to be hungry and knocked around and treated like dirt. You don’t honestly. I mean, you may think you have, but then when you find yourself holding a thousand pounds in pound notes, well, you suddenly discover you want to bolt down the next dark alley. It’s all mixed up with that. I can’t explain to you, Mark.’

  ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘that’s the most convincing answer you’ve given me tonight.’

  We had passed through Thame and seemed to be making for Aylesbury. I knew in the last minute or two I’d gained a bit – I wasn’t any longer lying flat with him kneeling on my chest – I’d made the first move for wriggling out from under him. But it was chancy work – I had to move fast, but not too fast.

  ‘The reasons for what I did – they were more mixed up even than that, even than you think.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘You’d better.’

  ‘Oh . . . there were other things besides the need for money behind it. There was the need to get away.’

  ‘To get away?’

  ‘From you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I hesitated then, wondering if he was really taking it.

  ‘Well, don’t you see . . . Or don’t you? We were getting – friendly.’

  ‘Was that any reason why you should run away?’

  ‘Yes. Or I thought so. Maybe I began to take it a bit too seriously. I expect it was fine for you but it began not to be fun for me, and I thought it was time I opted out.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, don’t you see?’

  ‘I’d like to hear.’

  ‘Look, Mark, I can’t help it, I felt that way. And I thought, what crazy chance is there of anything worth while coming of it?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I thought, he’s pretty well out of the top drawer. I’m not out of any drawer at all. I’m just something sucked up in the vacuum cleaner. Well, so well, what was going to happen? Nothing that I could see that wasn’t going to be a nasty mess for me.’

  ‘So you thought? . . .’

  ‘So I thought I’ll get out, and get out in a way that will finish it good and proper: so I did. The back-street urchin made a pretty fine haul, didn’t she? Only she never thought – I never thought you’d find me again – so quickly – like magic . . . I don’t want to start again – hand me over to the police and have done!’

  He took his hand off the wheel and I thought he was going to touch me. But he didn’t.

  After a minute he said: ‘Don’t worry, you’re not in jail yet.’

  As we got to Aylesbury there was more traffic again because it was closing time.

  He said: ‘I suppose I’ve got to start calling you Margaret instead of Mary.’

  ‘I’ve always been called Marnie.’

  ‘Marnie . . . Marnie . . . Marnie; all right.’

  ‘Where are you taking me? Won’t you tell me that?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To my home. You’ll have to spend the night there now. It’s too late to do anything else with you.’

  ‘I – what will your housekeeper say?’

  ‘What should she say?’

  I wondered now if I had been going too fast. ‘She won’t think it odd?’

  ‘Are you worried about your reputation?’

  ‘What’s going to happen in the morning?’

  ‘You’re going back to John Rutland and Co.’

  I sat up. ‘What? Oh, don’t joke about it.’

  ‘I’m not joking.’

  ‘But how can I?’

  ‘You’re going back as if nothing had happened – for a few weeks anyhow. If you want to give in your notice then you can do; but I’m having no unnecessary scandal.’

  I put my fingers on his arm. ‘Don’t you understand, Mark? You must have been there yesterday. Everyone will know. Even if you don’t turn me over to the police Mr Ward or one of the others will!’

  He said: ‘When you didn’t turn up on Friday we tried to get in touch with your flat but there was no reply. So I decided, as Miss Clabon was away and as Dawn Witherbie was busy on the retail side, I’d finish the wage packets myself. I did about half a dozen before I noticed that there wouldn’t be enough money to finish off the wages. Then I checked up how much you had drawn out on Thursday and how much there should have been in cash from the retail side. So it didn’t take me long to open one of the envelopes you had done and find what was inside.’

  ‘Well, then, you see—’

  ‘Oh, yes, I saw. I saw perfectly well.’

  I sat and watched him.

  He switched on the screen-wipers again.

  ‘I thought all round it. I checked up one or two of the pay slips and they were perfectly correct. Odd you should have gone to that trouble when it wasn’t going to matter.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘The careful worker coming out, I suppose. All that was missing was the money. So I went across to the bank and drew out another thousand pounds in notes. Then I came back and started reopening your envelopes and typing new ones.’

  I stared hard at him in the dark to see if he was just trying to be plain funny.

  ‘Of course if Ward had been there I couldn’t very well have put it over; but there was no one else to interfere. When it came to eleven o’clock I called Miss Smith over and got her to distribute those I’d done. Those I hadn’t done had to wait. I sent word round that Miss Clabon was away and Mrs Taylor had been taken ill. I finished the last by half past twelve. Apparently I only made two mistakes in my haste, and those I had to put right yesterday.’

  We were nearly in Berkhamsted. My mind was working like a jet now, but it kept flying around one solid fact that just didn’t fit with the rest at all.

  ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘Ward always said you were too good to be true.’

  ‘He was right.’

  ‘Yes. And I was wrong. I’d hate to hear Ward say “I told you so!”’

  I waited. He was being funny. He seemed to have finished.

  ‘It can’t be just that.’

  ‘Near enough.’

  ‘You wouldn’t go to that trouble just for that. You wouldn’t, Mark. No one would.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s a good enough explanation?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I had my own ideas.’

  ‘What were they?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  When he got to his house Mrs Leonard had gone home. There was a note and some cold supper in the dining-room. He got some more cutlery out of a cupboard and we had tongue and salad and a bottle of beer. I was nearly out for food, and I tried not to eat like a wolf in front of him. I was still on a knife-edge, I knew. I still had one foot in jail. But it was on its way out. I could see that. Because he was still sweet on me. That was really what it added up to. It was a miracle of luck. But
it was still a knife-edge.

  And it was different here from being in the car. Then we’d been in semi-darkness, side by side, nothing but voices. Here we sat opposite each other, over a table, like the dinner in Cambridge. I was seen as well as heard, so I’d got to look just right all the time as well as sound it. I’d snatched a look at myself in the mirror in the hall and been able to powder the tears off my face, to comb my hair. But it wouldn’t do to look too tidy, too composed. I was surprised how flushed my face was. But it didn’t look bad.

  He was white like a sheet, looked very tired. And his dark eyes kept staring into me as if they would skewer into my soul.

  He said: ‘How much money is there in that case?’

  ‘Six hundred pounds.’

  ‘The rest?’

  ‘In a bank in Swindon, and a post office account in Sheffield. And the Lost Property Office at Nottingham.’

  ‘You were spreading your risk.’

  ‘I couldn’t pay too much into one place.’

  ‘You thought of everything, didn’t you.’

  I fumbled with a piece of bread. ‘Apparently not; you found me.’

  ‘I found you.’

  ‘How?’

  Perhaps that wasn’t too clever. I saw his face tighten again.

  ‘I’ll keep that under my hat for the time being. Just to make sure you won’t run away again.’

  ‘Mark, I can’t go back tomorrow as if nothing had happened! Really I can’t. Somebody must have suspected something.’

  ‘They can’t suspect much if there’s no money missing.’

  ‘Where was Terry? Did you tell him?’

  ‘I told nobody. Anyway he was interviewing clients all morning.’

  ‘. . . How will I get the rest of the money – from Swindon and Sheffield, I mean – and it would take me all day tomorrow.’

  ‘Come back first. When you go to these places I’m coming with you. In the meantime I can pay six hundred into the firm’s account out of my personal account to make up the balance. That will keep the books all right if Ward or one of the Holbrooks should ask during the week. But the chances are very much that they won’t anyway.’

  A good deal of the bite had gone out of his voice. He’d sounded so angry at me at the beginning but now he was cooling off. In a way we might have been working together for something. If I didn’t make another bloomer like that ‘How?’ you never knew your luck. This wasn’t a threat any more, it was negotiation. But what was it a negotiation about? Even when you’re sweet on someone you’re not all Christian forgiveness. What did he want? Well, he wanted me; that was it, wasn’t it? My skin crawled.