After Hubble had gone this evening I thought about my life and saw it as a record of failure. I have never done anything that succeeded, never carried through any idea, although I do believe I have had some good ones. Sometimes I have been really stupid, as I was about the cleaning cream. I trust people too much. I remember Mother putting her hand on my head and saying she hoped I should find somebody to look after me, because that was what I should need in life. I didn’t understand her then, but do now. Remember also Roberts, headmaster at the grammar school telling Mother that I lacked resolution. He was right. Sometimes it seems to me that what we do is a matter of the way we look. If I looked different I should be different. I think I have proved that through EM.
Putting it down here may make me feel better. Tonight shan’t be able to sleep. Desperate.
Came back on Friday, asked Clare how she had been. Tuesday night she had been sick, she said, Wednesday morning sick again. Said perhaps she’d had too much protein after all, had she rung Hubble?
‘I nearly rang him. And then I thought I should be able to find out what it was myself. Couldn’t be the food. I’d been ill before that. And I did find out what it was.’
‘What?’
‘My tooth powder.’ I was aghast, terrified. I stammered something, said it couldn’t be. She gave me a glare of hideous triumph.
‘Don’t you see? Every time I brushed my teeth I was sick. There was something wrong with that tin, it must have been bad. I’ve changed to a tube, had no trouble since.’ I asked what she had done with the tin and she said she’d thrown it away. Also said she would tell Hubble when she saw him tomorrow.
‘Tomorrow?’ I must have looked foolish, but then she always thinks I look foolish. She said she had asked some people in for drinks, Hubble one of them.
After thinking about this I realised that perhaps it was all to the good. When Hubble came I should be able to drop in a worried reference to her gastric trouble, even mention in a joking way her attribution of it to tooth powder. Then tomorrow night a small dose of Z in her nightcap. The large dose the following weekend.
We played bezique (let her win) and I made the nightcap and took it up. She said I made a good whisky toddy. Expect I looked strange at that, because she went on: ‘Not been drinking, have you?’ I said of course not. ‘It’s for your own good I’m saying it, you know you can’t drink.’
She put her hand on mine, then belched. I was disgusted, it was all I could do not to turn away my head. Her hand is very coarse with the veins standing out, actually it is bigger than my own hand which is small and rather delicate. There is something coarse altogether about her which I find repulsive.
That was Friday. Saturday was routine. Up at seven-thirty, breakfast, potter round the garden in old clothes, out with the shopping basket. Clare doesn’t like me to go shopping. However. I like it so why shouldn’t I do it? Why should I feel guilty as though I were letting her down, shopping isn’t a thing a Slattery man would do?
Damn all Slatteries.
Remember thinking, soon I shall be able to go shopping without worrying, all on my owneo, buy what I like. That would be a real pleasure. I wonder if it’s true that all the most intense pleasures are solitary? After all, I haven’t joined a slot racing club. I say it’s because Clare wouldn’t like the members to come here, but perhaps it’s because I like slot racing on my own.
Perhaps. Doesn’t matter. The question’s not going to arise.
3 o’clock. Wide awake.
Went to the supermarket in the High Street, marvellous place, met Mrs Payne and of course she asked about Clare. Said she was better, saw my opportunity.
‘I’m not quite satisfied, though. Do you know what she says caused the trouble? Her tooth powder.’ Mrs P stared, as well she might. ‘She’s thrown it out. I don’t think tooth powder could cause sickness, do you?’
‘I never heard of such a thing. Is she getting fancies?’ To Mrs P ‘fancies’ are like scarlet fever. Had a little talk with her about prices, very interesting. Corned beef in the supermarket is ninepence a tin cheaper than at Penquick’s. I believe the day of the private grocer has gone. Went home feeling pleased with self at mentioning powder. A good general is a bold general I thought.
Drinks in the evening, representative Fraycut selection. Payne and wife, retired naval commander named Burke, Charles Ransom secretary of local Liberal Party, one or two others. And of course Hubble plus wife, H smelling of drink. Susan handed round hot sausages and bits of things on toast, I looked after drinks. Had one or two. Told tooth powder story to people, including Hubble, asked him what he thought, had the powder caused the trouble?
He glared at me, made me feel uncomfortable. ‘Told you what I thought.’ He said something about high protein diet.
I was going to ask him how he explained the tooth powder and have another drink when Clare put her hand over mine (again!) and said I’d had enough. Caught sight of self in a glass, tie askew and head shining, was inclined to agree. I knew I had to keep absolutely clear-headed, in command of events. Clare introduced me to a ghastly man named Elsom, engineering executive, face full of teeth, recently come to Fraycut, Clare met him at some Liberal do. Conversation:
E How’s it going, old man?
Self Very well, thanks.
E Must have a bit of lunch one day. I mean, we’re more or less in the same line, I believe. What’s your office number?
Self I’m in quite a small way, you know.
E Still, I’d like to have a natter. Might be useful. Nothing too small to interest GBD.
Self GBD?
E Gracey, Basinghall and Derwent. My outfit. They tell me you’re by way of being an inventor.
Self Just an amateur.
E Don’t be modest. You must make your money out of something.
Obviously a pest. But I’ve dealt with people like this before, have a good technique of brushing them off, even though I say so. Introduced him now to Mrs Payne who started on at once about disgraceful English weather and their holiday in Spain. Had to give Elsom office number but got away after that. Subsequent technique will be to say I have another engagement if he rings, and if I’m not there then naturally there’s no reply.
Half an hour later they’d all gone. Clare in a filthy temper when we cleared things away, seemed to think I’d had too much.
‘Arthur, how many times have I told you not to take more than two glasses?’ Couldn’t say my dear. Unanswerable question. Didn’t try to answer it. ‘A glass filled with tonic water looks just the same as one filled with gin. No Slattery has been unable to hold his liquor but you are not a Slattery.’ Unanswerable again. ‘I remember when Uncle Ratty was out in Africa…’
Soon I shall be free of this, I told myself, I shall never hear the name Slattery again. Parties like these tire Clare out, and at ten-thirty she said she was going to bed. Self: ‘I’ll bring up your nightcap.’ Somehow I felt it was certain she would say she was too tired this evening, but she simply nodded.
Got the small Manila envelope out of briefcase. Made the drink. Hand trembling? Not at all. Put powder carefully into it, dissolved almost at once. Didn’t cloud the glass which stood, browny-gold, steaming a little. Took it up. I still believed something would happen to stop her drinking it, but nothing did. Afterwards all she said was: ‘Rather strong.’
‘I mixed it as usual.’
Brought down glass, washed it, put envelope back in briefcase (too soon to burn, think of smell), and relocked. Came up here, sat down to write diary, couldn’t because of excitement. Analysed my own feelings. To do something that causes pain to another person, I’ve always believed that to be wrong. I am not a cruel man. That is the truth. But think of the way Clare has behaved to me, that’s what is responsible for my actions. The truth is I really cannot think of her as a person at all. She is an object, an obstacle. I have done my best to treat her well, but it is impossible. Summing up my analysis, I have to say that what I felt was a sense of achievement.
&
nbsp; I was wrong.
(Just been down to look at her again. The thought crossed my mind that she might be dead. Thought, believed, hoped, what is the word? Nonsense, I knew it wouldn’t be so. She was sleeping quietly.)
Settled down to wait. Went to see her, she was asleep. Came down, took all the sitting-room ornaments into the kitchen and washed them, something to do. Had just decided nothing would happen when there was a noise upstairs. Then moaning. Went up. She was on the landing outside the bathroom bent almost double, retching. Got her out into the lavatory – but I can’t write about all that, it disgusts me. She was in pain, and that is something I can’t bear. Rang Hubble. It seemed a terribly long time before he arrived, just before midnight. She went on being sick. He was drunk, I’m sure of it. Had to hold on to the rail as he came upstairs. Left him with Clare. Twenty minutes before he came down. Knew what he’d say, severe gastric upset. Offered a drink, but he refused!! Had one myself. Then the conversation. Said, how is she?
H Washed out her stomach, given her an injection, she’s asleep. (Then terrible glare) What did she have tonight?
Self You were at the party, you saw for yourself.(Nice touch.) I’m afraid she sometimes drinks more than is good for her, with her stomach.
H Afterwards?
Self Nothing afterwards. Except her usual nightcap, hot whisky and lime juice. (Boldly) I made it for her.
H Glass.
Self What’s that?
H Glass, man, where’s the glass?
Self I washed it up and put it away.
H Ha (Two letters only, but an awful sound.) Bottles.
I got him the bottles of whisky and lime juice. He sniffed, tasted, recorked them. I thought of saying ‘You should know the smell of whisky if anyone does,’ but didn’t of course. Had to say something though, asked if it was gastric attack. I shall never forget his reply.
‘If you call poisoning gastric.’
Poisoning! What a dreadful word! Don’t know how I managed to look at him, but I did. I even managed to say something about it being possibly one of the canapés. He answered as if he were talking to a child, didn’t sound at all drunk.
‘When I saw your wife recently there was nothing at all seriously wrong with her.’ I said quietly that she had been sick. ‘I said nothing serious. Now she’s had a violent stomach upset, caused by something she’s eaten or drunk. The two things aren’t connected. I’ve an impression it was something corrosive, a mild solution of some metallic poison possibly. Something she drank would be more likely than food.’
‘I don’t see what it could be.’
‘Mystery then. But she’ll do, no need to worry. I’ll look in tomorrow. Be careful what she eats and drinks for the next day or two. I’ll tell her when I see her. But you might bear it in mind too.’
Harmless words? But they weren’t, I know they weren’t. I know they were a warning. He is not the fool he looks, he knew. But why should this happen to me? In the Croydon case the doctors never had any doubt it was gastric trouble, any more than Armstrong’s doctor had any doubt. Why should I be so unlucky? I’m sure that anyone would have thought as I did about Hubble.
When he had left I knew I dare not go on. Unlocked briefcase, took out rest of Z, flushed it down the lavatory, burned both envelopes. All right then. But what happens now? I must write out the words of my humiliation plainly.
I have failed.
Chapter Seven
The Man from Ugli
Clare made a quick recovery. He seemed to spend Sunday in making little milky dishes and taking them up to her. Hubble paid a visit on Sunday afternoon and expressed himself satisfied with her progress but still mystified by the origin of her illness. His manner was neither friendly nor hostile. The only solace was the slot racing layout. Arthur spent most of the afternoon in the attic, rearranging the track to make a Silverstone circuit and putting the pits and spectator stands into new positions. He did not race the cars because Clare was having a nap, and he was afraid of waking her.
By Monday morning she was up and about the house. She attributed her illness to Hubble’s unwisdom in urging her to eat bloody bits of meat and other heavy foods, and her return to semi-vegetarianism began on Monday evening with a dish of grated cheese and carrots. On Tuesday morning Arthur gratefully escaped, telling her that he had an important engagement in Bristol, followed by a tour of the West country. He had more or less recovered what he thought of as his poise. Something, he said to himself in the train on the way up from Fraycut to Waterloo, something will have to be done. But what? In a sense there was no need to do anything at all, for it was hardly likely that, when Clare received her bank statement, she would take legal action against him. He rehearsed in the train a dialogue in which he rebutted her complaints of fraud and forgery. ‘You have only yourself to blame…a wife’s money should belong to her husband…if you had not deliberately denied me the capital I needed to develop my inventions…’
He shook his head sadly. All that might be true, but it really did not matter if it was, because he would never be able to bring himself to say such things. He saw instead a future in which Clare’s domination over him would be unbearably complete.
On this Tuesday he found it difficult to slip into the personality of Easonby Mellon. He did not open the post with his usual zest nor interview clients with his customary conviction. The shadow of Arthur Brownjohn hung over him like a heavy cold, and it was only partly dispelled after a telephone call made to Clare to say that he had found it impossible to postpone his West country tour – he had promised that he would try to do so – and would not be home until Friday. He had four days of freedom, but what were they worth? It was a gloomy Easonby Mellon who went home that evening to Clapham and to Joan. A bit of nonsense revived him slightly, and the meal of liver and bacon followed by steamed sultana pudding which they ate afterwards confirmed him in a feeling that life might have its silver lining. They sat out in the little back garden listening to the purring lawn mower next door. The sound induced a sense of peace. He closed his eyes and did not hear her properly when Joan said something. He asked her to repeat it.
‘I said, having ructions at the office?’
There was something odd about her tone. He opened his eyes. Her face wore what she no doubt thought of as a cryptic smile. He said with an effort, ‘If I’ve been out of sorts it’s not because –’
‘I wondered. Because he’s been here.’
‘Who?’
She looked round, leaned over and whispered. ‘The man from UGLI.’
Was she out of her mind? Was there to be no peace even in Clapham? He sat up in the deck-chair. ‘Joan, what are you talking about?’
‘It was exciting. Tell me, what does he look like?’
‘What does who look like?’
‘Flexner. I’m sure that’s who it was.’
He restrained an impulse to say that she was talking nonsense. How had he described Flexner? ‘He’s tall, over six foot, always dressed like a city man, dark grey or blue suit, umbrella and bowler hat –’
She was nodding. ‘He hadn’t got the bowler hat, but that’s right. And you said he was swarthy.’
‘Dark. Not swarthy.’
‘And a pigeon-toed walk, you mentioned that. Very sinister, I thought he was.’
He was suddenly angry at this tomfoolery. ‘It can’t have been Flexner.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it was. Why not?’
‘He’s out of the country. What did this man say?’
‘But E, I feel sure –’
‘What did he say?’ He was almost shouting. She looked alarmed. ‘Let’s go inside.’
In the flat she described him. ‘He was a tall man, swarthy, and he asked for you so I said you weren’t here, and then he said he wanted to contact you urgently and I thought I recognised him from your description so I said, “You’re attached to the Department, aren’t you?” I thought, you see, it wouldn’t mean anything to him if he weren’t. And he smiled, and it was one of tho
se smiles you said he could give, that cut like a razor, and he said, “You might say I’m attached, yes.” So then I told him I expected he’d know where to find you and he said, “Ah yes, but there’s been a spot of trouble, I didn’t want to contact him there.” So I said I couldn’t help him and then I knew who he was and I said, “You’re Mr Flexner, aren’t you?” and he said with another smile, “That’s right.” So then I said would he leave a message, but he just said tell you that he would be in touch when the time came. I’m sorry if I did wrong, E.’
The Man Who Killed Himself Page 6
