The Beauty of the Dead and Other Stories

by H. E. Bates

  With this thought in his mind he managed to get slowly out of bed and put his feet into his slippers. The pain in his heart had now ceased to have direction or motion, and lay there only like a dull embedded bullet. He felt that he wanted to press it away and so held both hands locked across his chest, staggering a little as he walked. He felt very weak as he walked downstairs, slowly, not troubling to put on the lights, feeling his way by the cold walls of the staircase, and he was troubled by a remote but fierce idea that he did not want to die. By the time he reached the passage which led from the stairs to the glass door of the shop this thought had replaced all others: had become not merely a wish but a determination. He at last put on the lights of the shop, where the telephone was, and then stood still: a small, grey, perplexed little figure, his pain-washed eyes blinking in the white reflected light that sprang at him from the cabinets and shelves of glass and silver with which the shop was full.

  For one moment he looked at the telephone, thought better of it, and then went into the room behind the shop, switching on the light. By the fireplace, in which the fire was quite dead, there was a cupboard. He stood with his hand on the brass knob of it, intending to get himself a glass of brandy. But for a long time he could not move. The upward motion of his arm had brought on the pain in his heart again. Suddenly he shut his eyes and felt that he was falling.

  It was some moments later that he came to himself, knowing that he must have fainted. He pulled himself up to the cupboard and found the bottle of brandy and a glass. He poured out a little brandy and drank it. It smoothed away the harsh edges of his weakness and pain and for a second or two he looked vaguely about him, slowly coming back to his senses before going back upstairs, still carrying the bottle and the glass, still half-stupefied, so that he forgot to switch off the lights.

  From that moment until eight o’clock he lay in bed, thinking. The pain in his heart had ceased, there remained in its place a huge, accumulative fear. He felt that he had been down to the edge of life, had looked over into a vast space of unknown darkness, and had only just managed to come back. This fear was sometimes so strong that he held himself immobile, not daring to move. He lay looking at the grey winter morning light distribute itself reluctantly on the tiny pieces of rose and emerald glass of the chandelier, which still shook and tinkled in the moving air. After sixty-eight years something almost catastrophic had happened to him, and now fear of its recurrence drove his thoughts back into the past. He recalled his life in the shop. He was not married. Outside, in permanent gilt lettering, he had had put up a quarter of a century ago a large notice: ‘Peacock for Presents. Pence to Pounds’, and on this simple motto he had built up a secure, comfortable business. He had tried during all that time not to harm anyone; he felt he could recall honestly that he had never cheated a single person out of a single penny. He was not afraid of the opinion of any man. He had tried to be decent, upright, considerate, and he felt that perhaps he had succeeded. No, he was not afraid of that.

  It was only the conscious realization of his fear of death that disturbed him. He knew suddenly, as he lay looking at the pieces of glass quivering above his head in the increasing light, that he had been afraid of it for years. The desire never to give pain to others had made him sensitive to the thought of any pain to himself. In one sense it had made him an ultra-careful man – he remembered how in the days of gas-lighting he would never go to bed without turning off the main for fear of being blown up or asphyxiated in the night – in another, quite careless. What had happened that morning had brought to his mind another result of his fear. Somehow he had shrunk from making a will.

  But now he would rectify that. Yes, now he must see to it. When Edward came at eight o’clock he would explain what had happened; they would call in a solicitor. Edward would understand; you could talk to Edward. Edward was his assistant: a thoughtful, conscientious young man remarkable for resource and promptitude. He was not only a shop-assistant, but he came in every morning an hour earlier than opening time in order to cook breakfast. When he thought of Edward the little jeweller felt his mind instantly strengthened and tranquillized.

  At eight o’clock the clocks downstairs began striking the hour and they had no sooner finished than he heard the sound of Edward unlocking and opening the back door. He lay still for a few moments, listening, and then called.

  ‘Edward!’ he called. ‘Edward!’

  He was surprised at the weakness of his own voice. It dissolved against the walls of the room, unheard. He tried to raise himself slightly on his elbow, but it seemed as if his body were made of wax that dissolved too under its own slight motion. He could only lie back on the pillows, weakly repeating Edward’s name.

  A few moments later he heard the young man mounting the stairs; then his voice:

  ‘Mr. Peacock! Are you there, Mr. Peacock? Was that you calling? Mr. Peacock!’

  ‘In here, Edward,’ was all he could say, ‘in here.’

  Edward came hurriedly into the bedroom, a bespectacled young man with brown, alarmed eyes.

  ‘Oh! there you are, Mr. Peacock. All the lights were on downstairs, Mr. Peacock, and I couldn’t make it out. Whatever’s the matter?’

  ‘Nasty turn, Edward,’ he said. ‘In the night. About four o’clock.’ He tried to smile. ‘An awful pain in my heart, Edward. Nasty.’ He tried again to struggle up in bed.

  ‘I wouldn’t try to get up if I were you, Mr. Peacock,’ Edward said.

  ‘No good lying here, Edward.’

  ‘That’s all very well, Mr. Peacock,’ Edward said, ‘but if you’re not well, I ought to ring up the doctor. Shall I?’

  ‘I don’t know, Edward. I don’t know what to say. I’ve never been like this before, Edward. I don’t know – ’

  He tried again to get up. For the second time his body melted like wax on the pillows. He shut his eyes for a moment, weak and tired, and when he opened them again Edward had gone out of the room, and he called after him:

  ‘Edward! Edward!’

  It was only after he had called six or seven times that he realized once more how weak his voice was, that it had no more strength than the gentle, insistent sound of the chandelier trembling above his head, that it was now very like the voice of a child, crying in trouble and getting no answer.

  II

  He lay in the bedroom all that day, irritated and tired, yet restless. Frequently he found himself troubled by the motions and the sound of the chandelier. It was a very strange thing that he had never noticed it before. Yet now it troubled him. Once or twice he settled back on the pillows, trying to sleep, but the tinkling of the little pieces of glass, stirring in the wind blowing in at the open window, made a tiny maddening curtain between himself and oblivion. At other times he lay thinking: about the shop, then Edward, about the chrysanthemums in his little greenhouse behind the shop, about the doctor. When the doctor had been and departed he turned over in his mind what he had said. He tried to read into his reticent words at first more and then less than they seemed to mean. ‘The heart has had a nasty bump, Mr. Peacock, that’s the trouble. A nasty little bump. It needs rest and quiet, that’s all, Mr. Peacock. If I were you I should get someone in to look after you.’ In time these words began to have on him the same effect of irritation as the sound of the chandelier. They told him nothing. Very clever to say the heart had had a nasty bump; wonderful to advise getting someone in. The trouble was that he had nobody: except a sister who lived at the far end of the town, married to a third-rate insurance agent who rolled his own miserable ragged cigarettes for the sake of economy. He did not like either his sister or her husband; he did not think they liked him. It annoyed him that he should be forced even to think of them now.

  He was glad when, about twelve o’clock, Edward came upstairs to say that his solicitor had arrived. Yet once again his feelings instantly took the form of fresh irritation.

  ‘All right, all right, all right!’ he said. ‘Show him up! What’s the sense in tramping upstairs twen
ty times when once will do?’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Peacock, yes.’ Edward hurriedly left the room.

  ‘Wasting shoe leather!’

  He lay back on the pillows, ashamed. His heart was beating very rapidly. He had not intended to speak like that. Far from it. No. He did not know at all what was coming over him. A few minutes later his solicitor came in, a tall narrow-jawed man who enjoyed a little shooting two or three days a week and who now entered the room with great heartiness, smiling. Suddenly the little jeweller, who had lived for so many years without contention or malice, felt that he hated him. He felt illogically that the solicitor and the idea of the will were the causes and not the result of his pain. His mouth set itself coldly against the bed-sheet, his eyes levelly transfixed.

  ‘Sorry to see you like this, Mr. Peacock. Awfully sorry. Understand you wanted to see me?’

  ‘No!’ the little jeweller said. ‘No!’

  ‘Well, Mr. Peacock – ’

  ‘I don’t want to see you! I don’t want to see anybody!’

  ‘All right, Mr. Peacock, all right, all right. As you like, Mr. Peacock. As you like. Perhaps I might come in again tomorrow?’

  ‘No!’ the little jeweller shouted. ‘No!’

  For some moments after the solicitor had gone he was still speaking, repeating that angry monosyllable in a voice that was foreign to him. When he had finished he was again ashamed. He lay silent, his hands pressing his nightshirt against his heart. Closing his eyes, he tried to search for the causes of his strange behaviour. He then discovered that he was lonely. He felt suddenly a great need for companionship, for some objective event or circumstance that would make him forget his fear.

  Lying there, he recalled the chrysanthemums in his little greenhouse behind the shop, and it seemed to him that he had found a solution. He felt a great hunger for the sight of the flowers. He called Edward, and then when Edward came upstairs he began to explain what he wanted: how Edward was to go downstairs to the greenhouse and cut the chrysanthemums. The young man stood listening reticently, with an expression of grave concern, asking at last how many chrysanthemums he was to bring? Something about the young man’s earnest gravity suddenly seemed very funny to the little jeweller and he began laughing.

  ‘Cut them all,’ he said. ‘Cut them all, Edward. Bring them up here so that I can look at them. All of them, Edward, all of them! Go on! Go on!’

  ‘You don’t mean it, Mr. Peacock?’

  ‘Bless me, mean it? Of course I mean it. Why should I say it if I didn’t mean it?’

  ‘What shall I do for vases, Mr. Peacock?’

  The little jeweller suddenly began laughing again, telling the young man that he was to get the vases out of the shop. The assistant looked very troubled but said, ‘Yes, Mr. Peacock’, and left the room. Ten minutes later he began to bring up the first of the flowers, great stalks of bronze and yellow and amber and pink, which he held at arm’s length, like torches. He laid them first on the bed, where the little jeweller could reach out and touch them with the tips of his fingers, and then began to arrange them in bowls and vases brought up from the living room and the shop. The little jeweller watched him with bright, alert eyes, the chandelier and the solicitor and the pain in his heart momentarily forgotten. It seemed to him now that the room was alight. For the first time that day he lay untroubled by fear. He let the lids of his eyes relax and from his prostrate position on the bed he watched the great curled chrysanthemums swim about the room like constellations that brightened and soothed his mind. He asked at last how many flowers there were. The young assistant said he did not know, and the little jeweller said, ‘Count them, Edward, there must be fifty or sixty.’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Peacock,’ the young man said and began to move his hands, counting the flowers, turning his head at last to say, ‘Sixty, Mr. Peacock. Exactly sixty. Funny how you guessed.’

  ‘Guessed?’ The little jeweller began laughing in a strange way again. ‘No, Edward, no. I counted them! Counted them.’ He laughed at the young man’s grave disturbed face. ‘Caught you that time, Edward, eh? Caught you?’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Peacock,’ Edward said.

  ‘Caught you nicely, eh, Edward?’ He continued for some moments to laugh with bright eyes. He ceased only to turn again to the young man and speak.

  ‘Like having sixty moons shining in the room together,’ he said. ‘Eh, Edward, eh?’

  III

  Later that afternoon he fell asleep, awaking with fear in his heart about half-past three, momentarily disturbed by the November twilight and the sound of the chandelier. Earlier, before sleeping, he had been along to the bathroom. The catch of the bedroom door had not fastened properly, and the door now stood partially open. In this way he could hear voices. He lay listening intently for some moments, and then it came to him that they were the voices of his sister and her husband, talking to Edward at the foot of the stairs.

  For some time he could not hear what they were saying. He caught only the tone of their voices. They seemed almost to be arguing. He heard Edward make a sudden exclamation, as if in protest. He heard the aggressively pitched note of his sister’s voice, surprised, resentful, dominating Edward. He did not know why he concluded that his brother-in-law was there; except perhaps because he was completely silent.

  Soon the voices came nearer. He heard the sound of feet on the stairs, and caught a sentence of his sister’s: ‘Well, then I think we’ll go up and see what just is the matter.’

  He lay gripping his hands under the sheet. He did not know why he should feel suddenly so antagonistic towards his sister, towards everyone. He had never liked his sister, but his attitude had been one of remote indifference. But now pain had ripped away the neat edge of his nerves, and he was angry because his sister had somehow been able to discover that he was ill.

  He had withdrawn himself almost entirely under the sheets by the time his sister, preceding Edward and her husband, came into the room: a small, juiceless, volatile woman, with crinkled skin, her hands grasping a large patent leather handbag.

  ‘Well?’ she said. ‘Well! What have you been doing to yourself?’

  He muttered sounds of denial and protest that had on her the effect of a challenge.

  ‘Well, of course, if you’re going to be like that after we’ve traipsed all the way up from North End!’

  ‘Like what?’ he murmured. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Jumping down folks’ throats! Muttering!’ she said. ‘Muttering!’

  He did not say anything. The slight exertion of protest had made him feel once again old and tired. In a moment the tranquillizing effect of sleep and flowers had been lost. He turned with slight weariness in the bed.

  At that moment he saw that his sister had seen the flowers. Her eyes were behaving like lights of warning in their wrinkled sockets. Her mouth, falling open, revealed a colourless dark gap between the plate of her false teeth and the roof of her mouth; but a single word of speech was enough to bring the plate into place again with a click of acid astonishment.

  ‘Well!’ she said. ‘I wonder what next, I wonder what next!’

  The little jeweller clenched his hands even harder under the sheets. As he did so his brother-in-law spoke for the first time.

  ‘Been bringing the greenhouse indoors, eh?’ He spoke with false robustness, as if trying to be funny. His words became as it were knotted in his moustache, which his habit of smoking loose cheap cigarettes had turned a gingery yellow.

  ‘And what if I have?’ the little jeweller said. ‘What if I have? What exactly is it to do with you?’

  ‘Mr. Peacock,’ Edward said. ‘Mr. Peacock. The doctor said you were on no account to get excited.’

  ‘Excited?’ the woman said. ‘Excited. It looks as if that’s the trouble. Over-excitement about something. Bringing a greenhouse-full of flowers into the house.’

  ‘Can’t I do what I like with them?’ he said, trying to raise his voice. ‘They’re my flowers! Without you interfering?’


  ‘Mr. Peacock,’ Edward began.

  ‘Be quiet, Edward!’ he said. ‘Get downstairs! Get down to the shop. What do you suppose customers will be doing? Get down to the shop!’

  As the young assistant went reluctantly out of the room the little jeweller’s sister began speaking again, in protest, but he suddenly cut her off with an attack of angry words, at the same time throwing up his hands and bringing them down on the sheets.

  ‘And you get out too! Both of you. Before I lose my temper. How can I get rest if you come up here arguing? How can I? How can I?’

  ‘All right!’ his sister said. ‘All right! But it looks to me as if you want someone to look after you!’

  ‘I don’t want anything except a little peace and quiet!’ he shouted. ‘Get out!’

  Rather hurriedly his brother-in-law went out of the room, his sister following, her lips strangely set. Suddenly he shouted after them that they could leave the door open. He wanted a little fresh air in there, a little fresh air!

  The door was left slightly open. Exhausted, astonished at himself, feeling slightly ashamed, he lay back on the pillows. It took him some moments to get his breath. Then in the silence he lay listening, hearing again the voices from downstairs.

  It was only after three or four minutes, after his anger was really passed and had become in recollection something foreign and meaningless to him, that he got out of bed, put on his slippers, and went to his bedroom door. As he opened it, he took his grey woollen dressing-gown off the door-peg and slipped it over his shoulders. Then he went slowly along the landing. The voices had already become clearer, yet not distinct. It was already late in the afternoon and as he went cautiously down the first few steps of the stairs he could see the chinks of electric light splintering sharply the darkness between stairs and shop. Half way down the stairs he sat down, looking very small, slightly perplexed with his head to one side, and very solitary. He could hear the voices quite clearly now.