Angell, Pearl and Little God

by Winston Graham

  Godfrey came over to the bed and glared down at the sick woman who strained off her pillows to shout at him. He raised his hand. She did not flinch.

  ‘That’s right – that’s another way you can prove you’re a man!’

  ‘I don’t need to prove nothing with you,’ he hissed. ‘God, why I stay with you! Why don’t you go in a home? You’re no good here. Go back to your clinic and stay there!’

  As he turned away and went to the door she picked up a glass and threw it at him. It missed by a yard and smashed to pieces on the silk damask wallpaper. He didn’t even look round but went out with a slam of the door that shook the house.

  In the kitchen he banged a kettle on the stove, whistled furiously but soundlessly through pressed lips. He had had enough. For crying out loud, he’d had enough. He was sick to his tonsils of this arrogant old cow. Bawling at him, him, Little God, seventh in the flyweight ratings. What the hell and who the hell did she think she was? Because she’d got a bloody label in front of her name. He could have killed her, saying that about him being with a tart. He’d tart her. He could kill her, stone him he could. A grip round the neck and a sharp twist and she’d stop her screeching. She’d be quiet for ever. Like doing an old hen in. It would be a mercy to her, put her out of her misery. Doing a good turn. Why didn’t she ask him to do it? Maybe that was what she wanted. Maybe she thought that way she could get him had for murder.

  The kettle boiled and he put tea in the pot, slopped water in, got milk from the fridge, clattered two cups and saucers on the tray. Bit of cake. Two flaming biscuits. Sugar basin. Bloody lackey. Bloody footman. Bloody nurse. Male nurse. Little God, seventh in the ratings, male nurse.

  He carried the tray, kicked open the door to the bedroom. She was lying back on the pillow wiping her eyes.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ she shouted.

  ‘Brought you tea. Thought you could throw cups next time.’

  ‘Don’t want any tea. It’s too damned late. Anyway, I can’t keep it down. I shall only sick it up.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ He banged the tray on the table, slopped milk in the cups, poured out the tea, put in sugar, took up his cup, spooned it round, sat on the corner of the bed.

  ‘You don’t know how to drink tea,’ she said. ‘You still look as if you’re in an all night café.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Well, for God’s sake, look as if you like having a saucer! After all those months with me.’

  ‘Being with you only means I get blackguarded all the time.’

  ‘Well, you ought to look to your manners. If you’re going to be a champion boxer you might try to look as if you’re house-trained.’

  ‘Good manners I’m taught here. Lady Vosper, the great teacher of manners, chucks a glass at my head. Wonder you don’t start a school for etiquette.’

  ‘Shut up, you little runt. Anyway I aimed it to miss you.’

  ‘That’s a fine tale.’

  ‘You little ass, d’you think I can’t throw better than that, even in bed?’

  ‘Drink your tea. It’s going cold.’

  ‘God,’ she said. ‘I’ve been feeling terrible all day. Miriam said she was coming but she’s never been near.’

  ‘Miriam won’t come because I’m here. You know that. You know she hates my guts.’

  ‘Well, I’m damned if I’ll be dictated to; not by her, not even by you.’

  ‘Well, no, but it means if I’m here she stops away and you don’t see her. Want a biscuit?’

  ‘No. You know I can’t eat.’

  ‘You’ll be a shadow soon.’

  ‘Feather-weight. To match you.’

  ‘Cor!’ He nodded his head in acknowledgement. ‘You’ll be down to paper-weight. Champion paperweight and glass thrower.’

  She sipped her tea. ‘ Where the hell have you been all afternoon?’

  ‘I was training all morning, then Jude Davis wanted to see me. Then I had a date with an old mate of mine.’

  ‘Male or female?’

  He looked at her. ‘ Female. I suppose you want the truth, do you?’

  ‘So I was right.’

  ‘No, you wasn’t. She wasn’t any – what was that you said? I must say you’re the world champion slanger when it comes to that – what did you say: bird-brained, big-bummed blonde – was that it?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’ She sipped more tea and sighed. ‘ Well, I’d rather you were honest. I suppose the way I am now I can’t exactly expect you to stay celibate.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘Was she nice, little man?’

  ‘Oh … so-so. Nice in a way. Young.’

  ‘That’s not very kind to me.’

  ‘Well, I don’t mean it that way, see. You’ve got something she hasn’t got, that’s what I meant.’

  ‘I had something perhaps. D’you mean that?’

  ‘You told me to be honest. I’m being honest. She’s a right ornament, this girl. A smasheroo. Tall, big, a honey of a figure, long legs, twenty or twenty-one, nice, see, not a tart, not a bit of a tart, brought up genteel, all that. A dream girl. O. K., O. K. But … when you’ve climbed in the hay, that’s it, that always is it. No worse than most others. Better than some. She’s learning fast. She likes it. I like it. So that’s fine. But you ask me, and it’s funny, I don’t see why, but she hasn’t got what you’ve got, so help me.’

  ‘You little bastard,’ said Flora.

  ‘Well, ta very much. That’s all the thanks I get.’

  ‘I’m sorry for her. I’m sorry for anyone that tangles with you. I wish I’d hit you with that glass.’

  ‘Here you are. Take my cup.’

  ‘Oh, Godfrey, I do hate you and yet … Even when you’re confessing to having been in bed with some honey blonde, yet you’re still a sort of – stimulus. You keep me alive.’

  ‘Yeah, Flora. Maybe. I’m not a winner at it, though, am I?’

  ‘Not a winner with me. Nobody can be a winner. I’m on the way out. D’you know what I shall regret most of all? Not seeing you as feather-weight champion of England.’

  Godfrey munched a piece of biscuit. ‘Maybe I shall miss that too. Not miss being champ, but miss you being there.’

  ‘I wish you meant that.’

  ‘’Course I mean it, you old fool.’

  There was silence. Flora had no energy left to raise her head from the pillow. Her frail but still capable hands plucked at the bed jacket, pulled out a packet of cigarettes, a lighter. She flicked the lighter and blew out the first smoke.

  ‘Godfrey, you know I’ve no money. No personal money.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘All my marriages … I was too careless. Lived too well and enjoyed myself and didn’t worry about wills or settlements. So when I married Julian I had practically nothing of my own. He’d quite a lot and while he was alive we burned it up. Then when he died he left money and property to me, but it was in trust for his children by former marriages. There’s Claude, his eldest son, who lives in Geneva, and Lettice and Arthur. I was left with the income for life. When I die the money will go to them. I’ve got sweet nothing – practically. Nor has Miriam. When I die Miriam will get about six thousand pounds, that’s all. And I’m going to leave a thousand pounds to you. That’s all there is. Everything at Merrick House – even the furniture in this flat – belongs to the trustees. So … if a few things have disappeared these last months with Miriam, a few things people won’t notice, don’t blame her too much. It’s only her helping herself to a few bits and pieces. I feel she’s entitled to them.’

  ‘You knew all the time then?’

  ‘Not at the beginning. Until you told me about it. I didn’t think then I was going to die. Evidently Miriam did. Maybe the doctors said something to her, I don’t know. But when a few other things went, I knew about it then but I said nothing. Miriam’s my daughter, you know, and although she isn’t everybody’s light and joy, blood is thicker than water. I don’t begrudge her anythi
ng she’s had. But I want to ask you. When I’m dead don’t make a fuss about these things she’s taken. If you don’t, nobody else will notice, nobody will care. If you don’t tell them the trustees won’t know. It’s a small thing – they’re small things, but she prizes them and they have value. For my sake, if you care anything at all for me, say nothing to anybody.’

  ‘O.K.,’ said Godfrey. ‘If that’s how you want it, I’ll muzzle myself. But it’ll be against the grain.’

  ‘It’s against the grain for me to leave you no more, little man,’ Flora said. ‘You’ve made a difference to this last year.’

  He said: ‘It’s funny with women. You get them and then that’s it. This one, this blonde, I’d nearly have done murder to get her. First off she didn’t want me, wouldn’t touch me with a barge-pole, thought herself too good, too pure; but that made me all the keener. What you can’t get you want more. I even thought I’d like to marry her.’ He stirred his tea reflectively. ‘Could still, I suppose. She’d be O. K. to come home to, a smashing piece. She’d be a smashing piece at the ringside, and you could introduce her to people. You know. But in bed she’s like any other. And after a while I’d maybe want others more than I’d want her. There are too many birds in the world. They all look different and they all turn out the same.’

  ‘Why these soulful confessions, you stinking little beast?’

  ‘You’re the only one I ever talked to – or ever would talk to – see. You’re an old bitch but that’s the way it is. Maybe living with you this long.’

  ‘You’ve been softened by the pure influence of an understanding woman.’

  ‘Go and stuff yourself.’

  Silence fell. Lady Vosper’s eyes closed and she fell into a light doze. It seemed as if sleep were always stealing up on her now, and shortly it would become a sleep from which she would not waken. Godfrey got up and began to sneak out.

  ‘Where the hell are you going?’

  ‘I’m going to pack my bags and go, seeing as you’ve left me no money in your will. I’m going to shake the dust of the house off my feet.’

  ‘You ungrateful louse. All I’ve done for you!’

  ‘All I’ve done for you, you mean. It’s time for your dope. You like it in soda, don’t you?’

  ‘Is there another cup of tea?’

  ‘Maybe.’ He came back and poured her one. ‘Yes, it’s not bad. Where’s your pills?’

  ‘I put them in the drawer.’

  He took them out. She said: ‘Before you leave for ever, have you time for a game of rummy?’

  ‘What’s got into you? You don’t think you can win, do you?’

  ‘I can beat the pants off you any day of the week.’

  ‘Oh, yes, like you did Wednesday. Like you did Monday. Like you did last Sunday week.’

  ‘I let you win then. You get so downhearted, so bloody-minded when you lose. Sort of cry-baby.’

  ‘Like you was when I come back just now. If I had all the money I’d won from you at rummy, I’d be a rich man.’

  ‘Stop speaking so badly! And get the cards.’

  ‘Two minutes ago you was going to sleep.’

  ‘Well, this will keep me awake. I’ve got a long enough sleep ahead.’

  He went to a drawer, took out a pack of cards, pulled over the invalid table that slid over the bed in front of her.

  He began to deal.

  She said: ‘You know that bureau in the drawing room?

  The bottom drawer’s locked.’

  ‘Six-six, seven-seven,’ he counted and turned up the next card.

  ‘When I’m dead,’ she said, ‘you’ll find my keys in my purse. Unlock the bottom drawer and in the corner there’s an attaché case. Queen, King, Ace of Spades.’

  ‘For Chrissake,’ he said, ‘I’ve not started yet! That’s thirty-five you’ve scored before I’ve even started! Talk about a crook.’

  ‘I’ve told you. It’s you that’s going to sleep. Not sorted your cards yet?’

  ‘I’m thinking,’ he snarled. He discarded and she picked up.

  ‘In the attaché case,’ she said, ‘there’s two hundred pounds in tenners. I want you to have that.’

  ‘What you been doing, robbing the poor box? I don’t want any more of your lousy money.’

  ‘Have you got a bank account?’

  ‘Bank account, me? Like hell. I got a few quid in the post office.’

  ‘Well, maybe tomorrow you’d better take the money and pay it in. If I die there’ll be people about, and you might be accused of taking it.’

  ‘I would if your Miriam got half a chance.’

  ‘Leave her out of it, Godfrey, leave her out of it.’

  The game went peacefully on.

  Chapter Four

  Angell had not been so unhappy for twenty years. In the two decades since the death of Anna he had more and more retreated into himself, barricaded behind his law books, insulated by a careful passion for the arts, comfortable within a slow growing mountain of flesh. From within this protective bastion he had made careful limited sorties which had enabled him to keep in touch with the rest of humanity, and to patronize it, without ever being in danger of losing his foothold and being swept into the crowd. But this year madness had fallen on him. Prodded by a half dozen accumulative circumstances, prompted, he thought, by a casual likeness, impelled by some middle-aged urge not to let life slip quite away before it was too late, he had left his defensive position and deliberately stepped into the thick of the throng. Even his decision to reduce his weight seemed to have a symbolic significance, a stripping off of a protective layer.

  So for a while he had lived more vividly, breathed deeper, known what it was to be young.

  Now came the penalty. Life had lured him out, now it had betrayed him. And he found to his grief and his chagrin that there was no way back. If Pearl had died like Anna, perhaps the new-grown tentacles would have been cut away. Love, lust, jealousy, hate, the emotional ferment, would have been amputated by death, and after an injured, wounded spell gasping on the edge, he might have been able to crawl back behind his ramparts again. Not so now. Pearl still shared his house and board. Beautiful, statuesque, impassive, commonplace, soft-fleshed, gentle, her presence constantly speared him afresh.

  All his life, deep down, had been a knowledge of his own weakness, a weakness of the flesh and of the spirit, but in two successful decades he had built a front that had deceived everyone, even himself. Now his weakness was exposed – most of all to himself. He wanted Pearl, and in spite of his hatred of her, he still enjoyed her from time to time. He did not have the resolution to turn her out.

  Even his attempted reprisal on Godfrey had so far come to nothing. Birman had reported back that he had raised the offer to Jude Davis to £2000 but that, although Davis had seemed to waver at the last, he had turned it down. Angell had been horribly shocked that Birman had advanced the offer so far, and when Birman had said he thought another thousand, or possibly even five hundred, might be enough to turn the scale, Wilfred had rejected it with the vehemence of sea-sickness. His client, he said, would never pay more than had already been offered.

  But the memory of this failure nagged like a sore tooth. Nothing would have given him greater delight than to see this ignorant, insolent, undersized jackanapes soundly beaten in the ring, preferably with Pearl watching; but even revenge could be priced too high. Sometimes he looked at his pictures and his furniture and thought: I don’t need to buy anything more for months, if necessary I could even sellsomething: that Minaux; for instance, or the rather dull Dufy, that would bring me in ample without my ever feeling it. But he could not quite goad himself to squander the money in such a way.

  He could not tell whether the love scene he had surprised was an isolated incident which had blown up while he was away, or whether it was only the one observed act of a sequence. Several times he had telephoned his home in the afternoon and twice there had been no reply. That of course proved nothing. He had been tempted to come
home unexpectedly either in an afternoon or on one of his bridge evenings, but he had not dared to because he did not want to discover them together. He had put off the exposure the first time in order to avoid a precipitate move he would later regret. Now he knew if it happened again he would behave in exactly the same way.

  Twice when she was out he searched her bedroom. This always gave him a sort of sexual excitement, and now jealousy had become a bitter element in it. He searched among her underclothes and her frocks, sniffed her brassieres, looked in her bag and the pockets of her coats and frocks, expecting to find he knew not what. Nothing came to light.

  He thought he was successful in disguising his feelings from her, behaving just as he had done before she went away; but this relationship had subtly altered. A certain kindliness had gone. When he made love he was like a man searching for something on a dissecting table.

  He knew some men would kill her – or still better kill Godfrey: the idea he had briefly contemplated on the night, and the classic way out for a wronged husband. But this was a pipe dream, entertained only in the drowsy hours while reality lost its grip. He would never summon the strength to pull a trigger or raise a knife. In Egypt he had not even been able to shoot a rat; they had laughed at him.

  Failing that, he should divorce her, the civilized solution. But by divorcing her he lost her, and he knew too well that any brief periods of loneliness he had endured before his marriage would be as nothing to what he would suffer if she left him now. What you have not had you do not miss. But there is no way of putting the clock back. Even if he hated her he wanted her around.

  The third solution was to do as he was doing: pretend that he knew nothing, hope that the affair would break up of its own accord, and take what steps he could, if there were other steps to be taken, to break it up from without. Repeatedly he debated whether to throw another five hundred pounds into the balance to suborn Jude Davis. It was just too much for him to bear, the thought of all that money. And with no sure result. He thought, he believed, that Pearl was taken by Godfrey’s physical beauty and undersized dominance. Break that image and you might break the whole illusion which led his beautiful stupid wife into an affair with a common vulgar little stable boy. But women were unpredictable. You could not be sure.