by Nina Bawden
I asked her. “Did anyone see you?”
She shook her head. “Only Daddy, Harriet. And Uncle Cyril. He knew I was there, of course.”
I could not believe that evil could look so innocent.
“You knew that isn’t what I mean.” I choked back the sickness that rose in my throat. I said deliberately, “Did Daddy see you kill your mother?”
Her face was blankly incredulous. “See me kill her?” Her eyes were wide and wondering. “Oh, no, Harriet. I didn’t kill her, you see. Daddy did.” She paused and went on with a terrible effort. “He was angry with me because I was there. Dreadfully angry. He told me to go away. I was afraid he’d kill me too. It was awful to be so afraid. I knelt down beside her, that’s how I got the blood on my frock. I took it off and rolled it up in a sack and threw it away.”
Her face was contorted with terror. “Harriet, he’ll kill me now I’ve told you, won’t he? You won’t let him, will you?” And then, clinging to me, her fingers digging into the soft flesh of my arms, “You do love me still, don’t you? There’s such danger, my voices tell me…”
Helpless, I stroked her hair. I was appallingly ashamed. “What voices, my darling?”
She drew back and looked into my face. Her expression was surprised. She said, in a light, matter-of-fact voice, “Why, the ones that tell me what to do, of course.”
Then she clung to me again in a frenzy, buried her face in my shoulder. “Harriet, you said you’d look after me, you promised.”
“I will. Maggie, listen to me for a moment. We’ll go away. Just you and me. Somewhere where you’ll be safe from everything and grow well and strong and not be frightened any more.”
She went rigid in my arms. I let her go and she sat down on a chair and looked up at me. She said carefully, “But I don’t want to go away. I want to stay here.” Her lower lip pouted mutinously. “You said you’d never send me away.”
“I’m not sending you away. We shall be together. Why do you want to stay? Is it because of Archie? Have you been seeing him?”
Her mouth trembled. I said hastily, “It doesn’t matter now. We’ll talk about that later. Can you pack for yourself?”
I felt suddenly quite calm and purposeful. The future was quite clear. We would pack, take the Delage and drive to the station. We could go to London and wait for my mother. Mrs. Foster would give us a latch-key. We could stay there for a while; I would take her to doctors and find out what was the best way to treat her. Later I would get a job and look after her.
Her smile illumined her face. “All right,” she said. “You won’t be long, will you?”
She looked very sweet and very tender. It was inconceivable that I could have been, even for a brief moment, afraid of her.
He grinned idiotically at me. “You phoned me,” he said,
“remember?”
He had been waiting by the front door when I drove the Delage into the drive. His motor-cycle was spattered with snow. He wore an enormous trench-coat that swamped him completely.
He took off his goggles and stammered, “Chap who passed on the message said you were in a hell of a state. I came as soon as I could. What’s wrong?”
I said stupidly, “I didn’t mean you to come.”
“No?” He kicked sheepishly at the snow. “Foolish of me, I suppose. Oh well.…” His grin grew wider. “Nothing to-day, thank you. No rescuers, knight errants.…” He confessed shyly, “I thought you might be in trouble. Bodies lying all over the place. Ross Esquire to the rescue. Enter Fortinbras in a dirty raincoat. That sort of thing.…”
Beneath the thin glaze of sophistication he was youthfully romantic. I said, to save his pride, “Did you think there might be a story?”
He looked grateful. “Perhaps. If there was, I might get my job back.”
“Why did you get the sack?”
He dived into his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped his glasses, peering blindly at me. “Over-confidence. And taking too long a holiday. My editor said I was to go away and consider seriously the idea that work was more than an out-of-date Victorian fad. I’ve been a bad boy.…”
He screwed his face in a grimace. In the harsh light from the snow, his ugliness was almost grotesque, a joke. “Really, you know, I came because I thought you might need someone.…” He gestured helplessly. “But if you say you’re all right, I’ve got to take it, I suppose. Can’t expect to be entertained for my charms—or can I?” He regarded me hopefully.
I said weakly, “Not now, I can’t explain.” I apologised formally, “It seems so rude when you’ve come such a long way.”
He waved his hands airily. “Oh, don’t let that worry you.” He went on shyly, “There is something wrong, isn’t there? You’ve found out something … it’s written all over your face.”
And so I told him. He listened attentively, standing in the snow, rubbing his gauntleted hands together.
“Well,” he said, “what now?” His voice was loud in the white winter silence.
I faltered, “I don’t know. First, I’ve got to get her away. Afterwards, we’ll see.…”
“Well, if you’ve made up your mind.…” He hesitated and glanced at me sharply. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“She can’t stay here with James. Whatever’s wrong with her, he’s the cause of the trouble.”
He sighed. “All right. I’ll be getting along then. I’m only in the way.” His eyes narrowed. “Only don’t be too trusting,” he said. He sat on his motor-cycle and trundled it round to face the gate. He stared into the distance. “As long as she’s willing to go with you, I suppose, it’s safe enough.” He blinked at me. “Bye-bye for now. Have fun.”
The engine spluttered into life and he skidded away through the gates and down the lane.
When he had gone, the world seemed very empty and cold and still.
Maggie was not in the drawing-room. Her bedroom was empty, the white coverlet smoothed tidily over the bed. She had not begun to pack. I called her and my voice echoed hollow in the big, quiet house.
I wondered if she had gone out. I looked out of the window and saw the cold, lonely fields, the desolate sky. Somewhere, the branch of a tree weighed down with sap and snow cracked with a noise like a pistol shot.
I went down the stairs. Standing in the hall, I thought I heard a sound, a scrape on stone.
“Maggie?” I said and there was no answer.
In the big kitchen the boiler was black and dead, the dairy door stood open.
“Maggie.” The silence pressed around me, heavy and inimical.
I waited, holding my breath. The snow dripped off my raincoat on to the stone flags. I thought: she can’t have gone far. She’ll be in the garage or the stables, hiding from me. I went into the dairy and knelt on one knee by my overshoes. The laces were knotted and caked with snow. I fumbled at them with clumsy fingers.
There was a noise behind me, a soft hiss like the indrawing of breath. Still crouching, I turned my head and Maggie stood there, behind the dairy door, holding high above her head the curved, bright sword.
I tried to scream but, as in a nightmare—and this is always the ultimate horror—no sound came from my throat. Beyond my raised, protecting arm, out of the corner of my eye, I saw, as swift and unreal as a shooting star, the sword descend.
It all happened very quickly and in a confused mist of fear. James was there. I heard him grunt and swear and then Maggie screamed, a high, thin, sad sound like a train whistle. I remember her limp feet, dragging on the dairy floor as he hauled her backwards through the doorway.
Like a stuffed doll, her head lolled forward, the hair falling in a bright cascade over her face and breast.
The sword lay where it had clattered to the floor. I picked it up and put it on the shelf. There was blood on the blade.
James said, “Are you all right? Did she touch you?”
His eyes burned in his white face. He was wearing his British Warm and riding breeches. One hand was in his c
oat pocket. It wasn’t for a long time that I knew the sword had caught him across the palm and cut, cleanly, right down to the white thumb bone.
I felt my arms. Numbly, I said, “I don’t think so.” Then, on a rising note, “Why did she do it?”
Maggie was crying. “No,” she said, “no.” The voice came from the hall. Then a brisk, professional voice. “Come on now. That’s enough.”
“Yes,” said James grimly, “murder’s enough.”
“She killed her mother,” I said, and I saw his eyelids flicker. For a moment, perhaps, he hesitated.
“No, dear. That won’t do. From now on we’ve got to have the truth between us.” His face was wretched, he seemed to have aged ten years. “She took the gun and followed Eva into the field. I saw her from the window. By the time I reached her, she had caught up with her mother. I had to fight to get the gun away from her—she was beside herself. But it went off in my hands, not hers.”
“Why didn’t you say so before?”
“To you?” He made a shambling, clumsy movement towards me. “Because you might not have believed me. I couldn’t risk it. Don’t you see, I couldn’t risk it?” He stared at me humbly, there were tears in his eyes.
William Ross said, from the door, “That’s an excellent explanation. As Harriet says, why didn’t you produce it before? Or has it merely been prompted by what happened just now?”
Not so sure of himself as he sounded, he lit a cigarette with unsteady fingers.
James said dully, “She was my daughter.” He turned to me. “Friend of yours? We met him in the lane, Cole and I. If we hadn’t, we might not have hurried.” He added, in an injured voice, “I suppose he could claim that he saved your life.”
I walked to the gate with Ross.
He said, “Well, Harriet, what are you going to do now? Stay with him? You don’t have to, you know.” He reflected. “He’s a clever devil. That half-confession—it was much more convincing, more touching, than a flat denial would have been. He may have known that when he told you.”
“Do you think so?”
I wished he would go quickly. I did not want to discuss James.
The snow was slithering off the roof, on the ground it was pitted with small black holes.
He grinned at me. “You believe him, don’t you? You’ll never find out the truth, you know.”
“That’s my funeral,” I said.
It was a long day. When the specialist arrived, he went up to Maggie’s bedroom with James and Dr. Cole, and I waited in the drawing-room alone. The snow light hurt my eyes; after a little I drew the curtains against the dead white world and lit the lamp.
When James came in he was very pale. His arm was in a sling. He said the specialist had confirmed Dr. Cole’s diagnosis. Maggie was sick. She had always been sick. I think he said that they thought she was a psychopath with schizoid tendencies, but I am not sure that I have got it right.
He said, “Cole said he thought it was likely, the other day when he came to see you. I blame myself—I should have told you.”
“You tried,” I reminded him, “and I didn’t believe you.”
I thought, with revulsion, of Maggie in a mental hospital; the starched uniforms, the careless, unloving faces. We could keep her with us, perhaps, I said. She could have a nurse, proper care.… She would not grow old like the rest of us, ordinary human suffering would not touch her, leave no mark on her face.
He shook his head. Apart from the question of other people’s safety, it was not possible. His mouth twitched with distaste. She would grow progressively more negligent and dirty, incapable finally of controlling her personal habits.
“I’ve been responsible for her long enough,” he said. “I can stand no more.”
I thought I caught an echo of his old intolerance.
I said, “But I can. I’ll look after her.”
His face was grey. “Harriet,” he said, “don’t leave me. I’m broken—finished. I can’t live without you.”
I brushed his hands aside. “May I see her?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders wearily. “If you want to.”
He went away and spoke to the doctors. Then he came back and said that I could go up for a moment or two.
James and the doctors stood beside the door. The catatonic frenzy over—the phrase was the doctor’s—she lay, quite limp and still, in the wicker-chair beside her bed. I spoke her name. She turned her head listlessly and for a moment I saw a faint gleam of recognition in her eyes. I kissed her. I loved her. She was beautiful and inanimate and broken, a crushed lily.
My mother said, “Harriet, how lucky you are. This lovely old house, all this beautiful furniture.” She balanced her coffee cup on her knee, her skirts lifted to the fire.
James, lying beside the television set with a screw-driver in his mouth, lifted his head and looked at me.
She went on, “Now, when I was first married, we lived in a nasty little terrace house with only bamboo furniture. It was a struggle, I can tell you. Nothing but pinch and scrape from morning to night.…”
I said slowly, “We’re going away.”
“What? Not another holiday, surely, Harriet? Oh dear, I shouldn’t have said that, should I? Mothers-in-law should never interfere.” She made a naughty little girl face and put her forefinger to her mouth.
“No,” I said. “Not another holiday. We’re going away for good.”
“You’re not serious.” She appealed to James. “This is just a silly joke, isn’t it?”
He sat up and said to me, “Have you made up your mind?”
His voice was humble. Since Maggie had gone, he had put himself in my hands, made it plain that he depended on me utterly. He had crumpled, he was incapable of making any decision. It was clear that if anything was to be done, I had to do it.
My mother was bewildered. “But my dear girl, why? What is all this about?”
She looked nervously at us both. “Is it something private? Would you like me to go out of the room?”
“Of course not. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shock you. But I couldn’t let you go on talking and not tell you, could I?”
She said indignantly, “It’s not only me that you had to enlighten. James was as much in the dark as I was. Anyway, if you do leave, where will you go, what will you do?” Her practical cry died weakly on the air.
James said, “It’s a bit hard, when a man’s spent five hours fixing his television set, to be told he’s got to move.” He smiled at me shyly. “But you make the decisions now, my darling. It’s up to you.
It always was. It was you who wanted to come here in the beginning, do you remember? Anyway, my love, I’m ready when you are.”
It was too early to feel anything very much. There was no violent rush of emotion, no new spring of love. But there was, from that moment, a faint stirring of hope like a new life beginning.
THE END
Copyright
First published in 1958 by Collins
This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world
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ISBN 978-1-4472-3598-9 EPUB
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Copyright © Nina Bawden, 1958
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