The Man Who Killed Himself

by Julian Symons

  I can’t stand it and won’t. If I give up Joan why should you feel bound to him, what has he ever done to make you happy? You say I must not come down but I shall if I wish, why not, I am so wretched, what harm can it do, I would sooner come down and have it out once and for all. I shall not give up because I love you and if you do not love me any more I would sooner end everything.

  It was repetitive stuff to read, like all love letters, but it seemed convincing. At least, it convinced him.

  Chapter Ten

  Finishing Touches

  DIARY

  Friday June 13

  Friday the 13th, unlucky, rather worried. But it wasn’t. Not that I am superstitious anyway, but you never know. Clare now quite usual self. Said she heard I’d seen Elsom. Yes, I said, had to be in London and he’d dropped in. His proposition sounded interesting but I’d have to investigate it, didn’t want to lose my independence. She agreed, but wasn’t interested. Why should I worry about that? But I do. Went on to talk about discussion in local Liberal Party. Man named Ffoliot – Jenkins says they are too much like Labour. Why should I have to listen to that, what does she take me for?

  Saturday, June 14

  Shopped in morning. Hubble called while out, gave Clare clean bill of health. Later she went to Liberal committee. I talked to Susan, asked her if she had seen strange man around.

  Susan What kind of man?

  Self Reddish-brown beard, loud clothes.

  S Don’t know who you mean.

  Self Yesterday I saw him leaving this house just before I came in.

  S Better ask Mrs Brownjohn about him.

  Self I did. She didn’t know what I was talking about.

  S No more do I. Probably some sort of hawker and Mrs Brownjohn didn’t open the door.

  Self He didn’t look like a hawker.

  I hugged myself during this conversation. Susan doesn’t like me, all to the good perhaps. I think it sunk in, left her curious.

  Sunday, June 15

  Houses are built of single bricks joined with mortar. Today went for drinks to the Paynes’. Had a chance to talk to Mrs P, their daughter goes sometimes to Clare’s art class at Weybridge. I asked what time she got back, Mrs P said about 7 o’clock. I said that was funny, I’d rung Clare last two Wednesdays about 9.30, no reply. Mrs P pricked up ears, didn’t think Wendy came back with Clare (I knew she didn’t, Clare can’t stand her!) but would find out. No no, I said hurriedly, don’t do that, probably the line was out of order. We agreed telephone service was terrible. She will ask her though. I let Mrs P see I was worried, said it was a pity I couldn’t be home more. Every little thing tells.

  Monday, June 16

  Why do I have to do it? Today C came to me, said suddenly it was a pity I had to go away so much in mid-week, she missed me. I said she had the Liberal Party, art class, etc. ‘Yes, but we could go out together. To the theatre perhaps. I haven’t been to the theatre in years. Perhaps if Elsom–’

  Perhaps, I said. Then she looked as if she was sorry for having spoken. ‘You know I never interfere.’

  Why do I have to do it, I wondered then? I felt sorry, but it’s no use. Events have a logic. They must work themselves out. And what has C ever given me in the way of companionship or sex or money? Silly to be sentimental, but I am sometimes. Life is a terrible tangle. Why can’t it be straightforward? Today we gardened together. In the afternoon a new American car came. I had to adjust it before it fitted the slot, but then it worked marvellously. Raced it against several British cars, American won easily. Clare made milk jelly, horrible.

  On Tuesday he was again in London. At Romany House the cares of Arthur Brownjohn were sloughed off from Major Easonby Mellon. There were letters to be sent out, some introducing Patricia Parker, there were people to see. Then a quick, early lunch. Then Major Easonby Mellon went to Waterloo Station and took the train to Fraycut. Was it Easonby Mellon who took the train? In the carriage which he occupied alone, he considered the question. Could Arthur Brownjohn have done what he was going to do this afternoon? It was one thing to drop hints and make discreet suggestions, quite another to mount the frontal assault that was to be essayed now. No, Arthur could not have done it. But the hand of Easonby Mellon was firm, the smile with which he viewed himself in the carriage glass had about it a touch of bravado.

  Arthur Brownjohn had never done more than say a timid good morning to the ticket collector, who looked remarkably like the comedian Phil Silvers. Major Mellon first handed him the wrong half of his ticket and then asked the way to a house called The Laurels.

  Phil Silvers lacked patience. ‘Never ’eard of it.’ He turned away.

  The Major bristled. ‘Just keep a civil tongue in your head when you’re asked a civil question.’

  ‘I said never ’eard of it.’

  ‘The Laurels, Livingstone Road.’

  ‘Down the High Street, first left, second right.’

  The Major fumbled in his pocket, produced a shilling, handed it over, nodded, walked away. A sideways look revealed Phil Silvers looking after him with a stare that blended surprise and disdain.

  Major Mellon sauntered up the High Street and went into the Catherine of Aragon, a pub which Arthur Brownjohn had never entered. He ordered a double whisky and asked the barmaid whether she knew The Laurels in Livingstone Road. He had received directions at the station, but couldn’t find it.

  The barmaid, by contrast with Phil Silvers, was made up of good humour. She laughed heartily. ‘You’re walking away from it.’

  ‘Right about turn, is it?’ The Major suited the action to the words, to the amusement of half a dozen regulars in the bar. ‘Never had any sense of direction. Will you take a drop of something, my dear?’

  The barmaid took a drop of gin and remarked, after the Major had had two more drinks, that he seemed to be in no hurry.

  ‘In a manner of speaking I’m not. I’m not damn’ well supposed to be here at all.’

  ‘You’re not?’ Laughter rumbled in the barmaid, then became quiescent.

  ‘I’ve come down to see a filthy rotten little skunk and tell him what I think of him, that’s all.’

  ‘And I bet you will, too. But don’t go doing anything you shouldn’t. What’s it about, a woman?’ When he nodded she laughed, in relief at something so familiar. ‘You know what they say, a woman’s not worth it.’

  ‘This particular lady is.’ He took out silver, placed it on the counter. It was nearly three o’clock. The bar was almost empty. The barmaid poured another whisky and, in response to his imperious gesture, another gin for herself.

  ‘You think a deal of her, don’t you?’ she said perspicaciously. ‘What’s this man done, then?’

  ‘Nothing. I am in the wrong. I should not be here at all.’ He added reflectively, ‘I meant to purchase a weapon, but I refrained. I feared I should do someone an injury.’

  ‘A weapon!’ The laughter coiled back into her stomach, leaving a fat tense face. ‘I’ll have no weapons in my bar.’

  ‘I said I haven’t bought it. I shall try reason first.’

  She opened the flap of the bar counter. ‘Closing time.’ As he walked out her speculative gaze followed him.

  Ten minutes later he turned into Livingstone Road. This was the ticklish part of the operation. Clare was, or should be, at a Children’s Care Committee. Susan was, or should be, working in the house. He walked past the front gate two or three times, apparently unobserved. Then the milkman came along the road. The Major had his hand on the gate. He turned away, came face to face with the milkman, who gave him an incurious glance as he passed carrying milk and eggs. When the man had gone the Major returned, pushed open the gate, walked round the garden to the side of the house, picked up a handful of gravel and small stones from the garden path and threw them at the first-floor bedroom window. There was a ping as the window cracked. From the bathroom window adjoining, Susan’s head peered. She shouted something that he could not hear. He shouted unintelligibly back and then l
eft at a smart trot which slowed to a walk as he turned the corner of Livingstone Road. He caught a bus in the High Street which took him to Esher, and from Esher a train back to Waterloo.

  DIARY

  Thursday, June 19

  Stone walls do not a prison make

  Nor iron bars a cage.

  Very true, that poem. Prisons are mental. It’s as if you were enclosed in a room for ever with other people. I often feel I’d have more chance inside the stone walls of a prison. There you can cut through the bars and get out. In the room with other people you can get out except by getting rid of them. Isn’t there a play about all that?

  Writing this in train on the way up to Birmingham. All part of the plan.

  Notes on progress. Contradiction here, have to admit it. I really like all the complications, pitting my wits against ‘authority,’ solving problems as they come up. I’ve done so much since Monday and it’s all so clever, so well arranged, that I can’t help being pleased with it. I said I’d never do anything, but I’ve proved myself wrong! Have to be careful, though. This liking for complication is my weakness.

  Notes, then. Tuesday night bought the gun at a shop in Brixton which has lots of flick-knives in the window. Told the man I wanted it to protect house against burglars, had no licence. Paid through the nose for it, naturally. Smith and Wesson .38, same thing that American police use, the man said. Surprised it was so big. Unpleasant, don’t like the look of the thing. Left it with Joan, said if Flexner reappeared show it to him. Seemed to regard it all as a game, extraordinary woman.

  Then Wednesday. What a day! First arranged to go up to Birmingham today, a.m. to see Gibson of Steel Alloys. Said I wanted to talk to him about whether he’d be interested in new lines I’d been offered by US firm (True!). Then rang Elsom, arranged to look in and see him tonight about 6 o’clock. Then sent telegram to Clare saying meet me Waterloo Station 4 o’clock Wednesday. Point was to keep her away from Weybridge art class that afternoon. Thought of her waiting at Waterloo getting angry, hugged myself. Appealed to sense of humour, I must say. Then the tricky part of the operation which was not pleasant, taking Pat (Bitch) Parker to Weybridge. Was this a mistake, over-complication, should I have made some other arrangement? Still worried about it.

  First she came to the office with the man. He asked again what it was all about. Said divorce case, that seemed to satisfy him. Then he demanded fifty pounds instead of the forty we’d fixed. Blackmail, but what could I do? Very angry, but no good showing it. Had to agree. At least she’d bought a good thick veil as I’d asked. Couldn’t see features clearly behind it.

  Got to Weybridge just after 3.30, signed register ‘Mr and Mrs John Smith,’ classical. Same desk clerk, gave him a fiver, ordered bottle of champagne in room. She perked up at that. Sent her into bathroom so that he shouldn’t see her when he brought it up.

  Then gave Miss Pat a real shock. As I opened the bottle, poured it, she said archly, ‘What happens now?’

  The bitch was ready for anything. She disgusted me. Took out a pack of cards, asked if she played bezique. ‘You’ve brought me up here to play cards!’ Didn’t want to cause a scene, said this was strictly business. Glared at me. ‘I always knew you were a creep.’

  EM could have made a blistering reply, really given her the rough side of his tongue. Didn’t do so, just said she was getting well paid for it. Didn’t play, however, so played patience alone. She sat smoking, said I hadn’t even brought bloody papers to read, called me a creep again. Sticks and stones, etc., but words will never hurt me.

  At a quarter to six mussed up bed thoroughly, creasing sheets and denting pillows, while she stared at me. At six o’clock we left, she wearing veil. Looked at her figure as I walked out, stockier than I thought, really quite like Clare, especially legs. Travelled up together to Waterloo, not speaking. Gave her the other twenty-five pounds, took it without a thank-you. Goodbye Miss P (B) Parker.

  Then to Clapham. Ought to write about that, but can’t. Makes me shiver to think of what I had to do. It makes me angry to think I should have to work by such deceits. Why does society punish a man for going through a social form with two different women? And if all the things said about the sacrament of marriage, one flesh, etc. are true, why should a wife be allowed a separate bank account? Absurd. The habits by which we live and think are not what we believe.

  Only writing this to avoid saying anything about last night and Joan. Ashamed, I don’t know why.

  It was those hours of Wednesday evening that he fought to eliminate from his mind afterwards. Recollection of them brought terror to him for he knew that what he did, even though it had been forced on him, was wrong.

  Seven-thirty. He opened the door, Joan greeted him. He met her with a deliberate brightness that oppressed him by its falsity. ‘We’re going out.’

  ‘Out?’

  ‘The flicks. La Ronde is on at the Globe, you’ve always wanted to see it.’

  ‘But E, I’ve got some nice chops I was just going to grill.’

  ‘No time for that, my girl. La Ronde, it’s –’ He kissed the tips of her fingers. ‘Anton Walbrook.’

  ‘I know, but.’ She did not complete the sentence, peered at him. ‘Something’s wrong.’

  ‘Nothing. Don’t be absurd.’

  ‘It’s to do with the Department, that man coming. You’re going to leave me, E, I know you are.’

  The image crossed his mind of a bitch knowing that it is going to be put down. Why should he feel like this, when he was doing nothing to hurt her? She clung to him. ‘You don’t love me any more.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘I love you, E. If I didn’t have you, there’d be nothing left, I should kill myself.’ To this he made no reply. ‘Come to bed. Now.’

  He removed her arms from his neck. ‘You said the Tallises are away?’ They were the occupants of the other maisonette in the house.

  She stared. ‘You want to get me out of the house?’

  In your own interest, he said to himself, while aloud he told her not to talk nonsense, he was coming with her. The stresses of the day had overcome him. He felt as if he were running a high temperature, and when he put his hand to his forehead it was covered with sweat. In the end she agreed to go, but insisted that he come with her while she put on her coat. When they were outside the house she said abruptly, ‘The garden shed.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why is it locked? What have you done with the key?’

  He did not answer, but wrenched her arm so that she cried out. The night was hot. He could feel the sweat rolling down his body, dropping from the torso and pouring down his legs. His collar was wringing wet. Involuntarily he looked down to see whether water was staining his shoes. He swayed, and she caught his arm. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  They crossed the road and walked along beside the common. The scent of grass was strong in his nostrils, the roar of traffic exceptionally loud. Suddenly the grass scent was replaced by that of petrol, moving over him in sickly waves. The gears of a lorry grated, and the sound broke on his ears like a shriek of pain. In a field boys played cricket, the ball thudding on bat like a drum. Was it the traffic noise or something wrong with his hearing that made the words she was saying merge into indistinguishable blobs of sound? He turned his head to speak, but she shrieked something and made a gesture. He turned back. Slowly, as it seemed slowly, a cricket ball, reddish brown, moved through the blue air. A long way back on the field the players all stood turned towards him, a theatre audience waiting for something to happen. Joan was calling out, he moved his head, the ball went past (with a super-sensitivity of hearing that replaced his deafness he heard it pass, making a distinct train-like whistle). Then it was in the road and had banged against the tinny side of a car.

  ‘That almost hit you.’ Her voice sounded faint now, as though wax were in his ears. He shook his head and smiled slightly. A man picked up the ball and threw it back to the cricketers.

  Th
e cinema was half-empty. They sat in a row with only two other people in it. They arrived near the end of the first scene, the soldier’s encounter with the prostitute. The darkness surrounding them seemed to have something physical about it, like a blanket. He was jerked sharply into attention by a new theme in the music, and turned to look at Joan. She was staring straight ahead at the screen, and in profile her face had a crumpled, folded expression. Tears crawled like snailmarks down her cheek and she made no attempt to wipe them away.