Marnie

by Winston Graham

  ‘D’you think I don’t know all that!’ I shouted, getting up. ‘Don’t you see what you’re doing – what you’ve flaming-well done! If I go to prison it’ll be your bleeding fault and no one else’s! You’ve ratted on me – like a dirty rat – like a dirty crawling rat – a dirty filthy crawling—’

  He got me by the shoulders and shook me. He shook me till my teeth clicked.

  ‘You’re terrified, you fool. I know that! So would I be. But can’t you use your head at all! This way, you stand a good chance of coming out of it with no harm whatever. If we act now, but only if we do, only if we spike their guns by following up what I’ve begun tonight, you may be absolutely free.’

  I tried to wrench myself away. I haven’t lived delicate and I know how to fight and I tried to get away. So while we ranted at each other we scrapped too.

  So when he’d got my arms behind my back I gave up and just stood there and he said: ‘D’you know I understand you better when you go back to being a street urchin . . .’

  ‘You filthy—,’ I said.

  He kissed me. I could have spat at him but I didn’t.

  ‘Listen again,’ he said. ‘I agree with Westerman that open confession is the safest way. But I know you won’t stand for that. And I don’t want it either. The way to get you free without stigma is by approaching these people privately. I’ll approach them to begin, not you. I’m certain— Are you listening?’

  ‘Westerman’ll go straight to his own kind tonight.’

  ‘No, he won’t. He won’t act even in a month – I know that. But we must. Aren’t you convinced?’

  ‘Why should I be? It’s just a dirty . . .’

  ‘Won’t you try to trust me?’

  ‘No!’

  In this fight we’d had, my dressing-gown had slipped off one shoulder, and my shoulder was bare because the strap of my nightdress had given way before.

  He put his hand on my shoulder and then to my disgust suddenly brushed the nylon down and put his hand right over my breast. He put his hand right round it. It was just as if he held something that belonged to him.

  ‘Let me go,’ I said.

  He let me go. I dragged my dressing-gown up to my throat. He looked at me with a sort of grief, as if the steeliness had gone out of him.

  At the door he stopped and turned the handle a couple of times, looking down at it. ‘Marnie, you said just now, would I have done the same if my liberty had been at stake? Well it is. Or if not my liberty, my happiness. I’m gambling with that just as much as I am with yours. You see, I can’t disentangle myself from you – even though I’ve tried.’

  I sat on the bed again. He said: ‘It’s my future as well. If you fail I fail. Try to remember that, can you?’

  When I didn’t answer he said: ‘Try hard. I don’t like fighting you. I still think of myself as on your side. I want to fight for you. In fact I will whether you want me to or not. We’re in this together.’

  I thought when he’d gone how crazy it all was that even while he betrayed me he still wanted me. He wanted me, Terry wanted me, the police wanted me, Mother wanted me, all in their several different ways. I’d nothing to give him back; not Terry, nor the police, nor maybe even Mother any longer. It was best to go.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  On my way to see Roman on Tuesday I called at Cook’s and asked them what was the easiest way to get from Torquay to the Continent? Well, the young man said, how did I want to go and where? I said, somewhere in France. Mid-France, maybe, or Paris. I wasn’t particular. He thumbed through some booklets and said, well the easiest way was to come back to London, but if I wanted to start from Torquay then the best route was from Exeter airport to Jersey. I would have to spend a night in Jersey and then I could fly on the next day to various places in France and Spain.

  ‘Nothing from Plymouth?’

  ‘By sea? Well, possibly. There’s the French Line.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Atlantic liners call at Plymouth about twice weekly and pick up passengers for Le Havre. We can book you right through to Paris. You leave Plymouth midday, spend a night on board and get to Paris next day in time for lunch.’

  ‘What days do they leave?’

  ‘Well there’s one next Tuesday and one on Saturday.’

  ‘Is there ever one on a Friday?’

  ‘Yes, the following Friday, the eighteenth. The Flandre. That’s in ten days’ time. Shall we book you that?’

  ‘I don’t know the language,’ I said. ‘I suppose I shall be able to get along.’

  He smiled. ‘Oh, yes, miss – madam. You can get along with English anywhere in Paris. But would you like our courier to meet you at the station?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  Then there was the business of foreign money and a passport. He gave me the address of the chief passport office, and I went out of Cook’s and straight into one of those quick places in Oxford Street where you can have your photo done in a few hours. I said I’d call back later. But the question that worried me a bit was, what Justice of the Peace, or solicitor or bank manager or doctor was going to testify that they had known me X years and that the details I was going to fill in about myself were correct?

  I was ten minutes late at Dr Roman’s, but when I got there I gave him good value. I was inspired that day. I free associated like a junkie. I tried to think of all the dirty stories that had ever been whispered to me in the gutters, the attic bedrooms and the waste plots of Plymouth. And I told him a lot of invented dreams full of gorgeous symbolism. I told him I’d dreamt I was the third largest salmon in the world and that I was swimming round in an enormous glass bowl, and that outside the bowl were a whole lot of men trying to reach in and catch me, but I kept slipping through their fingers. (And while I was telling this I thought, what does it matter about getting somebody to testify to the truth of my statements for my passport? I can testify myself. Who’s to know my writing?)

  I told him I dreamt I was walking down a street, well dressed but I knew I had no underwear on, and I must buy some in case I was knocked down by a car. I turned in at a shop, but when I got in I found all the shoppers were rats. I could feel them running backwards and forwards over my bare feet. (And while I told him that I thought, Mark’s keys, the keys of the printing works and the safe, those he leaves on his dressing-table every night. There’s two Yale keys and a big ordinary key and two small ones like those for suitcases and a brass key.)

  I told him I dreamt I was in a condemned cell waiting to be hanged for something I hadn’t done, and I think I’m going to get a reprieve; and there’s a knock on the door and the wardress comes in and she says, ‘I think I’d better finish this off now,’ and she snatches up a long knife and comes at me, and I’ve nothing to defend myself with and I struggle with her and get hold of the blade of the knife in my hands and feel it cut deep into my hands and I feel the blade grating on the bones of my fingers. (And while I tell him this I think, I’m going hunting with Mark and Rex next week. I’ll have to get the keys copied by then. The Thursday night I can leave and the day after that see Mother and then cross to France. That’s the way it’s got to be.)

  When the session was nearly over Dr Roman said: ‘Last week we were making real progress. What’s the matter today?’

  ‘Nothing. I feel rather happy.’

  ‘I think you ought to distinguish between being happy and being what the Americans call trigger-happy. Has something happened to upset you?’

  ‘Heavens, no, I’m going hunting for the first time next week and I’m rather excited about it, that’s all. Do you know the Thorn Hunt? One of the most popular, they say. I’m riding my horse over there the day before, and Mark’s being lent one by the MFH. Mark’s cousin, Rex Newton-Smith, has invited us. It’s really quite an occasion for me. Isn’t that what well-bred people call it – an occasion?’

  He got up and prowled across the room. His black suit was shiny at the elbows. ‘When you oppose me so implacably, you’re really
only opposing your own cure. It delays your progress. But of course it is only another form of protest from that part of you that doesn’t want to be cured.’

  ‘What part’s that?’

  He looked at me. ‘Such protests are not altogether discouraging because they show that the core of the resistance is becoming sensitive to pressure. Next time perhaps we shall be able to recover the lost ground.’

  ‘At five guineas a visit I suppose there’s no hurry.’

  ‘None at all. But I have a long waiting list. You need only come just as long as you want to.’

  I went to Petty France and saw one of the passport officers. He said if I got the form filled in and signed there should be no delay. I went to a big ironmongery shop in the city and asked to see some keys. They had a big choice. The Yales were easy, as any Yale looks much the same as any other. I bought two or three brass ones and two or three key-rings because I couldn’t remember just what Mark’s was like. I told them I wanted the keys for amateur theatricals.

  That night I argued with Mark. I asked him please not to do anything about going to see those people and paying the money back, not for a week or two. I said it had taken me by surprise and I had to get it straight in my own mind. I said two weeks wouldn’t make any difference – not all that difference. I said perhaps in two weeks I could make up my mind to come with him. If I went to these people myself and they saw how sorry I really was . . .

  He wasn’t easy to persuade but in the end he agreed to hold everything for the time being . . .

  My biggest problem of all was Forio. I couldn’t take him with me, that was what hurt most. He was my oldest friend, in a way my only friend. I mean we seemed to understand each other just like that. Our moods were the same. I could have ridden him anywhere almost without a bridle. When he put his head against mine it was the gesture of a friend who asked nothing but my friendship in return.

  I couldn’t even sell him to someone I would be sure would care for him, because I couldn’t let anyone know I was going. The best I could do was write to the Garrods the day before I left enclosing money and asking them to have him back. If I gave him to them it might be the best thing, but I couldn’t bear the thought of him being used as a hack.

  I went into Mark’s bedroom a couple of times that week when he was dressing and got a better look at the keys and the ring. On the Tuesday I skipped Roman altogether but went into the city again and bought some more keys. All I had to do was get keys and a ring that he would see on his dressing-table without noticing the difference. It wasn’t hard. I collected my passport. The vicar of Berkhamsted was called Pearson. Nobody at the passport office queried his signature. I got my ticket from Cook’s and picked up some French money. I was scared of the whole thing, of being in a foreign country with only a few hundred pounds, of not knowing the language, of coming to a bad end.

  I wondered what Mother would say when I went down and told her she’d been living on stolen money for the last four years.

  She was tougher than she looked. Anyway, I’d got to do it. It was better she should hear it from me first than from the police.

  On the Monday Terry rang me from the office.

  ‘Doing anything this afternoon?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to talk to you.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Can we meet for tea? Neutral ground.’

  ‘If you like . . . St Albans? There’s a café, The Lyonesse.’

  ‘Right. Let’s meet at four.’

  When I got there he was waiting for me. His eyes had that funny angry look they’d had when we talked about Mark. I’d been afraid he might want the money I owed him but he never mentioned it. When he’d ordered tea he said: ‘How much d’you know about what’s happening at Rutland’s? Are you behind it?’

  ‘Behind what?’

  ‘Well, those clever visits of yours to my poker parties which are supposed to be against Mark’s wishes. Was it all a glorious little sham so that you could spy on me on his behalf?’

  ‘Spy on you? How could I?’

  ‘Mean to say you don’t know Mark has sold out of Rutland’s?’

  ‘Sold out? What are you talking about? He’d never do that!’

  ‘Oh, yes, he has – or next door to it. He told us at the board meeting this morning. He and Rex have sold out to the Glastonbury Trust.’

  I stared at him. ‘But I thought that was what you wanted.’

  He laughed. ‘Well, it wasn’t. You’ve played us quite the dirtiest trick, haven’t you?’

  Tea came. I poured him a cup. He said: ‘You read some letters of father’s once. He told me. I suppose you told Mark what was in them, my dear.’

  ‘I still don’t understand.’

  ‘Always the Rutlands have had control of the firm, effective control, with Rex’s co-operation. It isn’t a good thing for any company. But when Tim Rutland was killed, the old man, Mark’s father, more or less let the reins slip, and for years, for years, my father kept things going. I helped him. They still had ultimate control but they never exercised it. I grew up to feel that we were building something worth while, that all our efforts meant something. But then along came this superannuated naval lieutenant who immediately tried to take all control in his own hands and turned the business into a glorified retail shop and threw his weight about as if he was fighting the battle of Trafalgar. It was particularly intolerable for my father, who’s had thirty years’ experience of printing and knows more about it in his little finger than all the tribe of Rutlands put together.’

  I was quite startled at the venom in his voice. ‘But I thought it was you who got this Malcolm Leicester interested in the business in the first place?’

  ‘So we did. We knew the Newton-Smiths would not sell to us but we thought they would sell to an outsider. We thought that the Glastonbury Trust would be an enormous asset as a big minority holder. With a nominee of theirs on the board, we could between us slightly overweigh the Rutland interest and preserve a proper balance of control.’

  With what had happened this last week and what I’d been doing yesterday and today, this thing he was talking about hardly seemed to concern me. I mean it was remote, like a happening in the life of one of the Mollie Jeffreys. In my mind I’d already run away.

  ‘And what’s wrong with Mark selling out? – though I can’t believe he’s done it.’

  ‘He’s going to do it. The Glastonbury Trust, instead of being a big minority holder who could act in cooperation with us or not at all, becomes virtually owner, and I and my father will be reduced to ciphers.’

  My tea was too sweet. I added some water.

  ‘But isn’t that just what you’ve been trying to do to Mark?’

  Terry fiddled with his tie. ‘So you are on his side, my dear. I just wanted to know.’

  ‘I’m on nobody’s side. It doesn’t concern me. Why should it? It’s Mark’s money. He does what he wants with it . . . Anyway, why are you telling me all this?’

  ‘What sort of influence have you got with him?’

  I stared. ‘Over this? None at all.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. Look, Mary, it’s this way. The Glastonbury Trust has made an offer of seventy-two shillings for all our shares. Mark told us this morning. A circular’s being printed to send to our outside shareholders, recommending acceptance. It will go out next Monday. There’s still time to draw back, my dear.’

  My mind was wandering again; I wasn’t really interested. Who was he talking about?

  ‘You think I could stop him? You’re crazy. Why should I want to?’

  Terry leaned back and watched a girl leaving the shop. His eyes started on her legs and worked up.

  ‘Why did you marry Mark?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘You’re not his type. I’ve told you before. You’re more my type. Up against it. Know what they called me at school? Turkey. Because I’d got a red neck. That sets you off on the wrong foot, doesn’t it?’

  �
�Maybe.’

  ‘Somehow you got off on the wrong foot too. I don’t know how but it hasn’t left you feeling too good about life. Not sure of yourself. I’m never sure of myself, even though I act that way. D’you know the first girl I ever had, all the time I was thinking, she’s really bored and disgusted. It puts one off, the knowledge that one is – different in a disgusting way. It’s like getting out of step early on in the march.’

  ‘You’re making a lot out of nothing.’

  ‘That’s what you think. Oddly enough, I get on well with Dad. I’m sorry for him and even sometimes admire him. He held the firm together when it would otherwise have gone to pieces. But the rest of mankind . . . you’ve got to despise ’em before they despise you.’

  He went on talking for a bit, off and around the point. He hadn’t much to say, but again I felt a sort of link that he was trying to make stronger. But it wasn’t anything he actually said, because I hardly listened. If I had listened I should have thought him a fool for supposing I couldn’t see the truth, which was that in some way Mark had turned the tables on him. How he’d done it I didn’t quite understand and I didn’t care. I didn’t care for Terry’s problems at all, nor for Mark’s. The firm of Rutland & Co. meant less to me than last week’s laundry bill.

  Maybe I should have paid more attention to the fact that he was talking to me at all. Asking my help and sympathy really was grasping at a straw, and the proverb says drowning men etc. That didn’t register. All I knew was that he was plugging at something that went deeper than what you might call logic. We were like two houses on opposite sides of the street connected by a land-line.