‘What about him?’ asked Fred.
‘Has he an attic?’
‘He lives in a cottage,’ replied Fred. He wished his visitor would go away or else keep silent. He had no interest in attics himself.
All at once Watson started to talk about a silver dish which someone had presented to him. On receiving it he had made a speech which had gone down exceptionally well. By all accounts the clapping had been heard in St Martin’s Road. ‘I borrowed most of my words from other authors,’ he admitted, ‘but I do not think anyone noticed. I would like your father to have the dish.’
‘It isn’t his birthday,’ said Fred. ‘However, he will be in this afternoon. I should come back then.’
‘There is also a chair,’ said Watson. ‘A very special chair. I should like him to have that also, although I would not like him to sit on it.’
He got up and glanced at the painting on the easel. He frowned and walked to the door. Fred had never known him to make any comment on either his father’s work or his own. It was a point in his favour. When he had come to collect his portrait he had complimented Mr Bush on the frame. Grateful that Watson was leaving, Fred wished him good morning.
‘If you ask me, it’s goodbye,’ said Watson. He was smiling good humouredly. ‘Be sure to tell your father about the salver and the chair.’ He knew perfectly well that Fred would forget that he had even called.
He went home and spoke to Ellen Pyne in the dining-room. She was laying the table for dinner and he could tell she was still upset; her hands shook as she took up the cutlery from the sideboard. He didn’t want to pry, but he felt it was his duty to assist her in whatever way he could. ‘There is something troubling you,’ he said. ‘I know it.’
She protested that there was nothing the matter; she couldn’t meet his eye.
‘You mustn’t worry about your mother,’ he persisted.
She admitted she couldn’t help feeling anxious. Her mother had grown frail. She had borne eight children.
‘I expect she finds it was worth it,’ he said. ‘They must be a comfort to her now that she is old.’
‘Not all of them have turned out as she would have wished, Sir.’ the girl said. ‘Though she has loved them all.’
Suddenly he grew impatient. ‘It is often harmful to be loved,’ he said severely. ‘And always harmful to love.’
She seemed to be paying particular attention to his wrists. Scowling, he pulled down the sleeves of his coat.
He took no more than a mouthful of soup. Then, his mind made up, he threw down his spoon and rushing from the room seized his hat and coat. He heard Ellen coming up the basement stairs, and he slammed the front door after him, not wanting to face her, though it was surely none of her business if he hadn’t time to finish his dinner.
He returned to Turner’s shop, and having told the trunkmaker what he had decided walked for several hours about the district. It was strange knowing that he could go home and work undisturbed at his desk, and even stranger that he hadn’t any inclination to do so. He was irritated at the way people looked at him as he passed. He was wearing a suit of clothes that he had bought thirty years before. The coat jacket was too tight across his shoulders, and the trousers were frayed at the bottoms.
In the evening he wrote letters. The decanter of wine that Anne had brought up from the dining-room was still on the library table. He drank two glasses and slept a little, his head resting on his papers.
He woke up thinking of death, and scribbled sentences across a page torn from a notebook:
Of the dead in general the voice of mankind exhorts us to say of them only what is just. Have we not a conviction that in every right-constituted person there is far more good than ill? Are we not anxious, after their deaths, to look on their virtues only and to pass over those imperfections which were in their characters? Are we not desirous to remember only the sweet scent of the rose, and to forget the thorns among which it grew?
Somewhere on the top shelf he knew there was a book on the cultivation of herbs. He couldn’t reach it without standing on Anne’s chair. He was about to drag the chair away from the window when he grew suddenly faint and was afraid he might fall down.
On the Tuesday, sometime in the morning, he bought a hammer and a length of rope. He unwrapped the parcel in the hall and left its contents on the small table beside the coat-stand.
Later, Ellen Pyne asked him if she should put the hammer and the rope away in the cupboard.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Leave them where they are.’
‘There is another hammer in the house, Sir. Had you forgotten?’
‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘But that is in the Mistress’s room and she has locked the door.’
At dinner time he told Ellen that he would be going away for the night. She gave a small moan; her hands shook as she put the dishes on the table.
‘You can ask somebody in,’ he said. ‘To keep you company.’
‘It’s not being alone that frightens me,’ she blurted out, and he looked up, startled. She turned and busied herself at the sideboard.
‘Are you crying?’ he asked.
‘I can’t help it, Sir,’ she muttered, and tried not to sniff.
After a moment, he said, ‘It’s true. Being alone is not the worst thing that can happen,’ and added,’ you’re a good girl, Ellen.’
She left the room, her face quite calm, as though everything was all right.
He felt very unwell that evening. Earlier, he had gone to Brixton station, determined to go on a journey, but at the last minute he drew back.
At eleven o’clock he heard someone moving about downstairs. He went on to the landing and called out, ‘Anne, is it you?’
‘No, Sir, it’s Ellen.’
He looked down at her, frowning. ‘Whoever you are,’ he said, ‘I don’t feel well.’ She asked him if she should bring him some hot milk.
‘I don’t want milk,’ he said, ‘I want peace. Is the street full of people?’
‘People, Sir?’ she said.
‘Go and look,’ he shouted. ‘Send them away. I am not a peep show.’
She opened the front door and peered out at the dark road. There wasn’t a sound to be heard save the rustling of the holly bush by the gate. ‘There’s nobody there,’ she told him, and closed the door.
‘In the morning,’ he said, ‘if you should find something wrong with me, go and fetch Dr Rugg.’
‘Shall I fetch him now, Sir?’ she said.
‘It’s not urgent now,’ he replied. ‘But I may require medicines in the morning.’
That night he dreamt he was running behind a young girl whose hair streamed in the wind like a horse’s tail. He tried to catch up with her but she was too swift for him. In the distance the arms of a windmill combed the sky. As he ran, he shouted for the girl to wait for him – he had been told there was something she could tell him. A quantity of golden apples spilled from the basket she was carrying and bowled down the lane towards him. He leaped over them, and a strand of hair blew from her head and lashed his face; it cut his cheek. It was hardly a nightmare but he woke trembling, his shirt sticking to his back. There was something he had forgotten, either a portion of his dream or something that had happened earlier, some dark event which hovered at the edges of his mind. Finally he got up and, lighting a candle, went through into the library to find a suitable book to read. The window was open and yet there was an unpleasant smell in the room. He realised that it was the smell of his own clothes; he had worn the same shirt for three days. He was perplexed by a sheet of paper, covered in his handwriting, which he saw lying on his desk. Examining the last line he could make nothing of it: Are we not desirous to remember only the sweet scent of the rose, and to forget the thorns among which it grew? He thought the style deplorable.
At daybreak he found himself sitting in the chair by the banked up fire, staring at the window. The most frightful image jigged before his eyes. Suspended between the desk and window he saw a naked figu
re, portly, pale as milk, obscenely sighing. He jumped to his feet and the figure vanished, and now there was only the blind with the new day behind it, puffing outwards as the wind blew.
Ellen got up, as usual, at six o’clock. She let the dog out into the yard and it padded straight to the border of sooty earth by the back wall and began to dig a hole. It was raining; she didn’t want Snap coming in with muddy paws, and she tried to shoo him away on to the flagstones. The dog bared its teeth at her and growled, and she ran indoors half afraid of it, though it had always been as soft as butter.
At eight o’clock she knocked on the Master’s bedroom door and told him his breakfast was ready.
He said he would be down directly. His voice sounded quite normal.
But he didn’t appear for another three-quarters of an hour, and when finally he rang the bell for her to come up and she entered the dining-room, she couldn’t help staring at him. He didn’t look ill at all; there was even a dab of colour in his cheeks.
She said, ‘I’m glad to see you well, Sir’, and all at once he gave her a ferocious smile, his lip curled back over his teeth. It was a terrible smile. She was shaking so much that she splashed hot water on to the cloth. She left the room as quickly as possible and whimpered as she ran down the basement stairs. She wanted her mother.
Shortly after ten o’clock she heard him go out. She went up to the dining-room and stacked the dishes and put more slack on the fire.
The master came in an hour later when she was dusting the drawing-room. She had expected him, but at the sound of his step on the path her heart leapt in her breast. She wasn’t afraid of him; she was afraid for him. He came into the drawing-room and said calmly, ‘If I should be ill before dinner, send for the doctor.’ He was holding a small paper bag, twisted into a cone at the top.
‘Please, Sir,’ she said. ‘Won’t you tell me what is wrong?’
‘I know what I’m doing,’ he said. ‘Don’t be alarmed.’
He went upstairs, and she stood on the threshold of the drawing-room and waited. Afterwards she couldn’t remember what had gone on in her head, only the sound of the ormolu clock ticking the minutes away on the mantel-shelf.
She had been standing there for perhaps an hour when she heard him groaning in the room above. She climbed the stairs and went into the bedroom. He was lying there, propped on pillows, looking at her. There was a medicine glass and a green bottle on the chair by the bed, and a phial on the floor.
‘Oh Sir,’ she cried, and she ran to him and clasped his hand, the tears spilling down her cheeks.
He stared past her and feebly indicated with his head that she should go to the wash-stand. She did as he wished and saw some letters lying there, among them an envelope with her name on it. She picked it up and read what he had written beneath her name, and dropped the envelope as though it had burned her fingers.
‘Tell them nothing of my domestic life,’ he said. ‘For my sake. Be truthful as regards the events of the past few days but remember I have always been a private man.’
She stood at the end of the bed, wringing her hands and sniffing. She hadn’t the education to comfort him. He had closed his eyes, and his face was the colour of the sheet about his throat. She thought he had fainted, but suddenly he said, ‘I have put the pistol back in the drawer in the dressing-room.’
‘Pistol, Sir!’ she blubbered.
‘When I took off the shirt,’ he murmured. ‘I thought I should bleed to death.’
She waited a short while longer and then crept to the door, watching over her shoulder in case he stirred. She was certain he was asleep; otherwise she wouldn’t have left him on his own.
He was unconscious when the doctor arrived. Dr Rugg did what he could for him, and then read the letters shown to him by Ellen Pyne. He sent her downstairs. Taking the key from the washstand he opened the door of the room behind the library.
After a few minutes he went down into the hall and told Ellen Pyne that he was going out. She must stay where she was. She was crying, and he was so distracted that he lent her his handkerchief, though he had a heavy cold on him.
In the early afternoon, when Watson had sufficiently recovered, Dr Rugg hurried home to tell his wife that he wouldn’t be available for the rest of the day. She should send his patients on to Dr Rose in Clarkson Avenue.
On coming back to St Martin’s Road he found Dr Pope, the surgeon, waiting for his opinion on whether Watson was fit to be moved. Reluctantly he agreed that he was.
Watson asked if it was absolutely necessary for him to leave the house. ‘I don’t like being away from my books,’ he said, ‘or my dog.’ The dog was barking outside on the landing, and he called out to it and tried to coax it into the room. He seemed amused when it backed off, whining, its ears laid flat to its head.
In spite of being somewhat unsteady on his feet he didn’t need any assistance while dressing. He fussed over which boots he should put on; there was a special pair which suited him. He was quite lucid. Pointing at the chest of drawers, he drew Dr Rugg’s attention to a large oyster shell.
‘Ah, yes, most interesting,’ remarked the doctor, humouring him.
‘It’s a curious thing,’ Watson said, ‘but I cannot be sure where I picked it up. Some say Ireland, others the South Seas.’ And he smiled, as though he had made a joke.
He took particular pains over his appearance. He had two silver-backed hair brushes, and he used them vigorously. Dr Rugg wanted to know whether there wasn’t someone he should get in touch with on his behalf.
‘To what end?’ asked Watson.
‘To let them know what has happened,’ explained Dr Rugg. ‘And you must have advice.’
‘I don’t feel it will be of much use,’ Watson said.
‘What about Mr Fraser?’ persisted Rugg. ‘He was a pupil of yours and is a clever young man.’
Watson shrugged his shoulders and continued to brush his hair. Dr Rugg himself wrote a note to Fraser and took it downstairs to Ellen Pyne. He told her to run all the way to the solicitor’s house. When she opened the door he saw half a dozen people gathered in the street, mainly young boys and old women. He changed his mind about the note – he was afraid Pyne might drop it and that it would fall into the wrong hands. He took it from her and tore it up.
He mentioned to Dr Pope that there were people in the road; he tried to keep his voice low in case Watson should hear.
‘What’s that?’ demanded Watson. ‘What’s wrong now?’
‘There are some boys in the road,’ Dr Rugg said, and added hastily, ‘They are not from the school. They are mostly ragamuffins.’
Watson became agitated. He rushed to the window and made as if to pull aside the blind. Dr Rugg took him by the arm and spoke soothingly to him. ‘The boys will be sent away before we leave the house,’ he assured him.
A cab arrived some minutes later. Dr Rugg took leave of Watson in the hall. He said the servant was very distressed and that he would stay and attend to her. It was an excuse. He shrank from seeing Watson exposed to the salacious gaze of that excited crowd.
He thought that Ellen Pyne was a courageous girl. Though she was in a state of shock she refused to go home to her family, saying she preferred to be in the neighbourhood in case there was anything she could do for her master. ‘He’ll be worried about his books and papers,’ she said. ‘Someone ought to keep an eye on them.’
Dr Rugg enquired whether there was anyone nearby who could take her in.
‘There’s a girl in service further up the road,’ she said. ‘Her mistress has already sent word to the door that I can stay there for some nights.’
‘You understand,’ Dr Rugg warned, ‘that it would be better for all concerned if you said as little as possible, at this time, of what you know?’
‘I know nothing, Sir,’ the girl said.
Dr Rugg went home to have his tea. There were still people in the road, standing on the opposite pavement staring at the house. It was raining heavily, but they stood
there, gawping up at the windows.
In the evening he walked to Fraser’s house and was told that he was out and wouldn’t be back until ten o’clock. Next he went to Brixton and was allowed to see Watson, who was brought out to him with a shawl draped over his shoulders; he was eating a sandwich and frowning. Dr Rugg asked him if he had anything particular on his mind.
‘I asked for lean beef,’ Watson said. ‘This is too tough.’
‘I mean anything to do with the situation in which you find yourself,’ said Rugg.
‘How would you feel?’ countered Watson. He looked down at his sandwich in disgust.
Dr Rugg told him he would return the following day. He was on his way to Fraser’s; when he learned what had happened Fraser would be sure to come and see him. Watson said he didn’t think Fraser would bother.
Dr Rugg called at Fraser’s house again, some time before eleven. Fraser was dreadfully concerned. He had been round to St Martin’s Road and seen the house bolted and barred. He said it was unendurable to think of a man like Watson kept from his books. What he must be suffering!
‘He seems comfortable enough,’ said Dr Rugg. ‘I saw him two hours ago. The meat sandwich sent in by Ellen Pyne seemed to be his main preoccupation. I had some hopes that he might have suffered an epileptic seizure. Epileptic mania would, I think, be sufficient evidence of a state of temporary insanity.’
Fraser began to talk about the character of Mr Watson, his kindness, his ability as a teacher, his commitment to his pupils. He had never allowed flogging. ‘Once,’ he said, ‘when I was a new boy, a junior master wrongly accused me of some trivial offence. He hit me on the cheek and put me out of the room. I was thirteen and big for my age, but I cried.’ He faltered, and looked perplexedly round the room, at the cheerful fire in the grate, the gasolier burning above the polished table, as though he couldn’t understand what he was doing in such pleasant surroundings now that the world was turned upside down. He blurted out: ‘I cannot believe it. It doesn’t seem possible. It’s unthinkable that he should be considered insane. I have know him since I was a child. He is saner than most men.’
Watson’s Apology Page 17
