Kiss Kiss

by
Roald Dahl

Contents

The Landlady

William and Mary

The Way Up to Heaven

Parson’s Pleasure

Mrs Bixby and the Colonel’s Coat

Royal Jelly

Georgy Porgy

Genesis and Catastrophe

Edward the Conqueror

Pig

The Champion of the World

The Landlady

Billy Weaver had travelled down from London on the slow afternoon train, with a change at Swindon on the way, and by the time he got to Bath it was about nine o’clock in the evening and the moon was coming up out of a clear starry sky over the houses opposite the station entrance. But the air was deadly cold and the wind was like a flat blade of ice on his cheeks.
       “Excuse me,” he said, “but is there a fairly cheap hotel not too far away from here?”
       “Try The Bell and Dragon,” the porter answered, pointing down the road. “They might take you in. It’s about a quarter of a mile along on the other side.”
       Billy thanked him and picked up his suitcase and set out to walk the quarter-mile to The Bell and Dragon. He had never been to Bath before. He didn’t know anyone who lived there. But Mr Greenslade at the Head Office in London had told him it was a splendid city. “Find your own lodgings,” he had said, “and then go along and report to the Branch Manager as soon as you’ve got yourself settled.”
       Billy was seventeen years old. He was wearing a new navy-blue overcoat, a new brown trilby hat, and a new brown suit, and he was feeling fine. He walked briskly down the street. He was trying to do everything briskly these days. Briskness, he had decided, was the one common characteristic of all successful businessmen. The big shots up at Head Office were absolutely fantastically brisk all the time. They were amazing.
       There were no shops on this wide street that he was walking along, only a line of tall houses on each side, all of them identical. They had porches and pillars and four or five steps going up to their front doors, and it was obvious that once upon a time they had been very swanky residences. But now, even in the darkness, he could see that the paint was peeling from the woodwork on their doors and windows, and that the handsome white façades were cracked and blotchy from neglect.
       Suddenly, in a downstairs window that was brilliantly illuminated by a street-lamp not six yards away, Billy caught sight of a printed notice propped up against the glass in one of the upper panes. It said BED AND BREAKFAST. There was a vase of pussy-willows, tall and beautiful, standing just underneath the notice.
       He stopped walking. He moved a bit closer. Green curtains (some sort of velvety material) were hanging down on either side of the window. The pussy-willows looked wonderful beside them. He went right up and peered through the glass into the room, and the first thing he saw was a bright fire burning in the hearth. On the carpet in front of the fire, a pretty little dachshund was curled up asleep with its nose tucked into its belly. The room itself, so far as he could see in the half-darkness, was filled with pleasant furniture. There was a baby-grand piano and a big sofa and several plump armchairs; and in one corner he spotted a large parrot in a cage. Animals were usually a good sign in a place like this, Billy told himself; and all in all, it looked to him as though it would be a pretty decent house to stay in. Certainly it would be more comfortable than The Bell and Dragon.
       On the other hand, a pub would be more congenial than a boarding-house. There would be beer and darts in the evenings, and lots of people to talk to, and it would probably be a good bit cheaper, too. He had stayed a couple of nights in a pub once before and he had liked it. He had never stayed in any boarding-houses, and, to be perfectly honest, he was a tiny bit frightened of them. The name itself conjured up images of watery cabbage, rapacious landladies, and a powerful smell of kippers in the living-room.
       After dithering about like this in the cold for two or three minutes, Billy decided that he would walk on and take a look at The Bell and Dragon before making up his mind. He turned to go.
       And now a queer thing happened to him. He was in the act of stepping back and turning away from the window when all at once his eye was caught and held in the most peculiar manner by the small notice that was there. BED AND BREAKFAST, it said. BED AND BREAKFAST, BED AND BREAKFAST, BED AND BREAKFAST. Each word was like a large black eye staring at him through the glass, holding him, compelling him, forcing him to stay where he was and not to walk away from that house, and the next thing he knew, he was actually moving across from the window to the front door of the house, climbing the steps that led up to it, and reaching for the bell.
       He pressed the bell. Far away in a back room he heard it ringing, and then at once—it must have been at once because he hadn’t even had time to take his finger from the bell-button—the door swung open and a woman was standing there.
       Normally you ring the bell and you have at least a half-minute’s wait before the door opens. But this dame was like a jack-in-the-box. He pressed the bell—and out she popped! It made him jump.
       She was about forty-five or fifty years old, and the moment she saw him, she gave him a warm welcoming smile.
       “Please come in,” she said pleasantly. She stepped aside, holding the door wide open, and Billy found himself automatically starting forward into the house. The compulsion or, more accurately, the desire to follow after her into that house was extraordinarily strong.
       “I saw the notice in the window,” he said, holding himself back.
       “Yes, I know.”
       “I was wondering about a room.”
       “It’s all ready for you, my dear,” she said. She had a round pink face and very gentle blue eyes.
       “I was on my way to The Bell and Dragon,” Billy told her. “But the notice in your window just happened to catch my eye.”
       “My dear boy,” she said, “why don’t you come in out of the cold?”
       “How much do you charge?”
       “Five and sixpence a night, including breakfast.”
       It was fantastically cheap. It was less than half of what he had been willing to pay.
       “If that is too much,” she added, “then perhaps I can reduce it just a tiny bit. Do you desire an egg for breakfast? Eggs are expensive at the moment. It would be sixpence less without the egg.”
       “Five and sixpence is fine,” he answered. “I should like very much to stay here.”
       “I knew you would. Do come in.”
       She seemed terribly nice. She looked exactly like the mother of one’s best school-friend welcoming one into the house to stay for the Christmas holidays. Billy took off his hat, and stepped over the threshold.
       “Just hang it there,” she said, “and let me help you with your coat.”
       There were no other hats or coats in the hall. There were no umbrellas, no walking-sticks—nothing.
       “We have it all to ourselves,” she said, smiling at him over her shoulder as she led the way upstairs. “You see, it isn’t very often I have the pleasure of taking a visitor into my little nest.”
       The old girl is slightly dotty, Billy told himself. But at five and sixpence a night, who gives a damn about that? “I should’ve thought you’d be simply swamped with applicants,” he said politely.
       “Oh, I am, my dear, I am, of course I am. But the trouble is that I’m inclined to be just a teeny weeny bit choosy and particular—if you see what I mean.”
       “Ah, yes.”
       “But I’m always ready. Everything is always ready day and night in this house just on the off-chance that an acceptable young gentleman will come along. And it is such a pleasure, my dear, such a very great pleasure when now and again I open the door and I see someone standing there who is just exactly right.” She was halfway up the stairs, and she paused with one hand on the stair-rail, turning her head and smiling down at him with pale lips. “Like you,” she added, and her blue eyes travelled slowly all the way down the length of Billy’s body, to his feet, and then up again.
       On the first-floor landing she said to him, “This floor is mine.”
       They climbed up a second flight. “And this one is all yours,” she said. “Here’s your room. I do hope you’ll like it.” She took him into a small but charming front bedroom, switching on the light as she went in.
       “The morning sun comes right in the window, Mr Perkins. It is Mr Perkins, isn’t it?”
       “No,” he said. “It’s Weaver.”
       “Mr Weaver. How nice. I’ve put a water-bottle between the sheets to air them out, Mr Weaver. It’s such a comfort to have a hot water-bottle in a strange bed with clean sheets, don’t you agree? And you may light the gas fire at any time if you feel chilly.”
       “Thank you,” Billy said. “Thank you ever so much.” He noticed that the bedspread had been taken off the bed, and that the bedclothes had been neatly turned back on one side, all ready for someone to get in.
       “I’m so glad you appeared,” she said, looking earnestly into his face. “I was beginning to get worried.”
       “That’s all right,” Billy answered brightly. “You mustn’t worry about me.” He put his suitcase on the chair and started to open it.
       “And what about supper, my dear? Did you manage to get anything to eat before you came here?”
       “I’m not a bit hungry, thank you,” he said. “I think I’ll just go to bed as soon as possible because tomorrow I’ve got to get up rather early and report to the office.”
       “Very well, then. I’ll leave you now so that you can unpack. But before you go to bed, would you be kind enough to pop into the sitting-room on the ground floor and sign the book? Everyone has to do that because it’s the law of the land, and we don’t want to go breaking any laws at this stage in the proceedings, do we?” She gave him a little wave of the hand and went quickly out of the room and closed the door.
       Now, the fact that his landlady appeared to be slightly off her rocker didn’t worry Billy in the least. After all, she was not only harmless—there was no question about that—but she was also quite obviously a kind and generous soul. He guessed that she had probably lost a son in the war, or something like that, and had never got over it.
       So a few minutes later, after unpacking his suitcase and washing his hands, he trotted downstairs to the ground floor and entered the living-room. His landlady wasn’t there, but the fire was glowing in the hearth, and the little dachshund was still sleeping in front of it. The room was wonderfully warm and cosy. I’m a lucky fellow, he thought, rubbing his hands. This is a bit of all right.
       He found the guest-book lying open on the piano, so he took out his pen and wrote down his name and address. There were only two other entries above his on the page, and, as one always does with guest-books, he started to read them. One was a Christopher Mulholland from Cardiff. The other was Gregory W. Temple from Bristol.
       That’s funny, he thought suddenly. Christopher Mulholland. It rings a bell.
       Now where on earth had he heard that rather unusual name before?
       Was he a boy at school? No. Was it one of his sister’s numerous young men, perhaps, or a friend of his father’s? No, no, it wasn’t any of those. He glanced down again at the book.

Christopher Mulholland      

231 Cathedral Road, Cardiff

Gregory W. Temple

27 Sycamore Drive, Bristol

       As a matter of fact, now he came to think of it, he wasn’t at all sure that the second name didn’t have almost as much of a familiar ring about it as the first.
       “Gregory Temple?” he said aloud, searching his memory. “Christopher Mulholland? . . .”
       “Such charming boys,” a voice behind him answered, and he turned and saw his landlady sailing into the room with a large silver tea-tray in her hands. She was holding it well out in front of her, and rather high up, as though the tray were a pair of reins on a frisky horse.
       “They sound somehow familiar,” he said.
       “They do? How interesting.”
       “I’m almost positive I’ve heard those names before somewhere. Isn’t that queer? Maybe it was in the newspapers. They weren’t famous in any way, were they? I mean famous cricketers or footballers or something like that?”
       “Famous,” she said, setting the tea-tray down on the low table in front of the sofa. “Oh no, I don’t think they were famous. But they were extraordinarily handsome, both of them, I can promise you that. They were tall and young and handsome, my dear, just exactly like you.”
       Once more, Billy glanced down at the book. “Look here,” he said, noticing the dates. “This last entry is over two years old.”
       “It is?”
       “Yes, indeed. And Christopher Mulholland’s is nearly a year before that—more than three years ago.”
       “Dear me,” she said, shaking her head and heaving a dainty little sigh. “I would never have thought it. How time does fly away from us all, doesn’t it, Mr Wilkins?”
       “It’s Weaver,” Billy said. “W-e-a-v-e-r.”
       “Oh, of course it is!” she cried, sitting down on the sofa. “How silly of me. I do apologise. In one ear and out the other, that’s me, Mr Weaver.”
       “You know something?” Billy said. “Something that’s really quite extraordinary about all this?”
       “No, dear, I don’t.”
       “Well, you see—both of these names, Mulholland and Temple, I not only seem to remember each one of them separately, so to speak, but somehow or other, in some peculiar way, they both appear to be sort of connected together as well. As though they were both famous for the same sort of thing, if you see what I mean—like . . . well . . . like Dempsey and Tunney, for example, or Churchill and Roosevelt.”
       “How amusing,” she said. “But come over here now, dear, and sit down beside me on the sofa and I’ll give you a nice cup of tea and a ginger biscuit before you go to bed.”
       “You really shouldn’t bother,” Billy said. “I didn’t mean you to do anything like that.” He stood by the piano, watching her as she fussed about with the cups and saucers. He noticed that she had small, white, quickly moving hands, and red fingernails.
       “I’m almost positive it was in the newspapers I saw them,” Billy said. “I’ll think of it in a second. I’m sure I will.”
       There is nothing more tantalising than a thing like this which lingers just outside the borders of one’s memory. He hated to give up.
       “Now wait a minute,” he said. “Wait just a minute. Mulholland . . . Christopher Mulholland . . . wasn’t that the name of the Eton schoolboy who was on a walking-tour through the West Country, and then all of a sudden . . .”
       “Milk?” she said. “And sugar?”
       “Yes, please. And then all of a sudden . . .”
       “Eton schoolboy?” she said. “Oh no, my dear, that can’t possibly be right because my Mr Mulholland was certainly not an Eton schoolboy when he came to me. He was a Cambridge undergraduate. Come over here now and sit next to me and warm yourself in front of this lovely fire. Come on. Your tea’s all ready for you.” She patted the empty place beside her on the sofa, and she sat there smiling at Billy and waiting for him to come over.
       He crossed the room, slowly, and sat down on the edge of the sofa. She placed his teacup on the table in front of him.
       “There we are,” she said. “How nice and cosy this is, isn’t it?”
       Billy started sipping his tea. She did the same. For half a minute or so, neither of them spoke. But Billy knew that she was looking at him. Her body was half turned towards him, and he could feel her eyes resting on his face, watching him over the rim of her teacup. Now and again, he caught a whiff of a peculiar smell that seemed to emanate directly from her person. It was not in the least unpleasant, and it reminded him—well, he wasn’t quite sure what it reminded him of. Pickled walnuts? New leather? Or was it the corridors of a hospital?
       “Mr Mulholland was a great one for his tea,” she said at length. “Never in my life have I seen anyone drink as much tea as dear, sweet Mr Mulholland.”
       “I suppose he left fairly recently,” Billy said. He was still puzzling his head about the two names. He was positive now that he had seen them in the newspapers—in the headlines.
       “Left?” she said, arching her brows. “But my dear boy, he never left. He’s still here. Mr Temple is also here. They’re on the third floor, both of them together.”
       Billy set down his cup slowly on the table, and stared at his landlady. She smiled back at him, and then she put out one of her white hands and patted him comfortingly on the knee. “How old are you, my dear?” she asked.
       “Seventeen.”
       “Seventeen!” she cried. “Oh, it’s the perfect age! Mr Mulholland was also seventeen. But I think he was a trifle shorter than you are, in fact I’m sure he was, and his teeth weren’t quite so white. You have the most beautiful teeth, Mr Weaver, did you know that?”
       “They’re not as good as they look,” Billy said. “They’ve got simply masses of fillings in them at the back.”
       “Mr Temple, of course, was a little older,” she said, ignoring his remark. “He was actually twenty-eight. And yet I never would have guessed it if he hadn’t told me, never in my whole life. There wasn’t a blemish on his body.”
       “A what?” Billy said.
       “His skin was just like a baby’s.”
       There was a pause. Billy picked up his teacup and took another sip of his tea, then he set it down again gently in its saucer. He waited for her to say something else, but she seemed to have lapsed into another of her silences. He sat there staring straight ahead of him into the far corner of the room, biting his lower lip.
       “That parrot,” he said at last. “You know something? It had me completely fooled when I first saw it through the window from the street. I could have sworn it was alive.”
       “Alas, no longer.”
       “It’s most terribly clever the way it’s been done,” he said. “It doesn’t look in the least bit dead. Who did it?”
       “I did.”
       “You did?”
       “Of course,” she said. “And have you met my little Basil as well?” She nodded towards the dachshund curled up so comfortably in front of the fire. Billy looked at it. And suddenly, he realised that this animal had all the time been just as silent and motionless as the parrot. He put out a hand and touched it gently on the top of its back. The back was hard and cold, and when he pushed the hair to one side with his fingers, he could see the skin underneath, greyish-black and dry and perfectly preserved.
       “Good gracious me,” he said. “How absolutely fascinating.” He turned away from the dog and stared with deep admiration at the little woman beside him on the sofa. “It must be most awfully difficult to do a thing like that.”
       “Not in the least,” she said. “I stuff all my little pets myself when they pass away. Will you have another cup of tea?”
       “No, thank you,” Billy said. The tea tasted faintly of bitter almonds, and he didn’t much care for it.
       “You did sign the book, didn’t you?”
       “Oh, yes.”
       “That’s good. Because later on, if I happen to forget what you were called, then I can always come down here and look it up. I still do that almost every day with Mr Mulholland and Mr . . . Mr . . .”
       “Temple,” Billy said. “Gregory Temple. Excuse my asking, but haven’t there been any other guests here except them in the last two or three years?”
       Holding her teacup high in one hand, inclining her head slightly to the left, she looked up at him out of the corners of her eyes and gave him another gentle little smile.
       “No, my dear,” she said. “Only you.”

William and Mary

William Pearl did not leave a great deal of money when he died, and his will was a simple one. With the exception of a few small bequests to relatives, he left all his property to his wife.
       The solicitor and Mrs Pearl went over it together in the solicitor’s office, and when the business was completed, the widow got up to leave. At that point, the solicitor took a sealed envelope from the folder on his desk and held it out to his client.
       “I have been instructed to give you this,” he said. “Your husband sent it to us shortly before he passed away.” The solicitor was pale and prim, and out of respect for a widow he kept his head on one side as he spoke, looking downward. “It appears that it might be something personal, Mrs Pearl. No doubt you’d like to take it home with you and read it in privacy.”
       Mrs Pearl accepted the envelope and went out into the street. She paused on the pavement, feeling the thing with her fingers. A letter of farewell from William? Probably, yes. A formal letter. It was bound to be formal—stiff and formal. The man was incapable of acting otherwise. He had never done anything informal in his life.

My dear Mary, I trust that you will not permit my departure from this world to upset you too much, but that you will continue to observe those precepts which have guided you so well during our partnership together. Be diligent and dignified in all things. Be thrifty with your money. Be very careful that you do not . . . et cetera, et cetera.

       A typical William letter.
       Or was it possible that he might have broken down at the last moment and written her something beautiful? Maybe this was a beautiful tender message, a sort of love letter, a lovely warm note of thanks to her for giving him thirty years of her life and for ironing a million shirts and cooking a million meals and making a million beds, something that she could read over and over again, once a day at least, and she would keep it for ever in the box on her dressing-table together with her brooches.
       There is no knowing what people will do when they are about to die, Mrs Pearl told herself, and she tucked the envelope under her arm and hurried home.
       She let herself in the front door and went straight to the living-room and sat down on the sofa without removing her hat or coat. Then she opened the envelope and drew out the contents. These consisted, she saw, of some fifteen or twenty sheets of lined white paper, folded over once and held together at the top left-hand corner by a clip. Each sheet was covered with the small, neat, forward-sloping writing that she knew so well, but when she noticed how much of it there was, and in what a neat businesslike manner it was written, and how the first page didn’t even begin in the nice way a letter should, she began to get suspicious.
       She looked away. She lit herself a cigarette. She took one puff and laid the cigarette in the ash-tray.
       If this is about what I am beginning to suspect it is about, she told herself, then I don’t want to read it.
       Can one refuse to read a letter from the dead? Yes.
       Well . . .
       She glanced over at William’s empty chair on the other side of the fireplace. It was a big brown leather armchair, and there was a depression on the seat of it, made by his buttocks over the years. Higher up, on the backrest, there was a dark oval stain on the leather where his head had rested. He used to sit reading in that chair and she would be opposite him on the sofa, sewing on buttons or mending socks or putting a patch on the elbow of one of his jackets, and every now and then a pair of eyes would glance up from the book and settle on her, watchful, but strangely impersonal, as if calculating something. She had never liked those eyes. They were ice blue, cold, small, and rather close together, with two deep vertical lines of disapproval dividing them. All her life they had been watching her. And even now, after a week alone in the house, she sometimes had an uneasy feeling that they were still there, following her around, staring at her from doorways, from empty chairs, through a window at night.
       Slowly she reached into her handbag and took out her spectacles and put them on. Then, holding the pages up high in front of her so that they caught the late afternoon light from the window behind, she started to read:

THIS NOTE, my dear Mary, is entirely for you, and will be given you shortly after I am gone.
       Do not be alarmed by the sight of all this writing. It is nothing but an attempt on my part to explain to you precisely what Landy is going to do to me, and why I have agreed that he should do it, and what are his theories and his hopes. You are my wife and you have a right to know these things. In fact you must know them. During the past few days I have tried very hard to speak with you about Landy, but you have steadfastly refused to give me a hearing. This, as I have already told you, is a very foolish attitude to take, and I find it not entirely an unselfish one either. It stems mostly from ignorance, and I am absolutely convinced that if only you were made aware of all the facts, you would immediately change your view. That is why I am hoping that when I am no longer with you, and your mind is less distracted, you will consent to listen to me more carefully through these pages. I swear to you that when you have read my story, your sense of antipathy will vanish, and enthusiasm will take its place. I even dare to hope that you will become a little proud of what I have done.
       As you read on, you must forgive me, if you will, for the coolness of my style, but this is the only way I know of getting my message over to you clearly. You see, as my time draws near, it is natural that I begin to brim with every kind of sentimentality under the sun. Each day I grow more extravagantly wistful, especially in the evenings, and unless I watch myself closely my emotions will be overflowing on to these pages.
       I have a wish, for example, to write something about you and what a satisfactory wife you have been to me through the years, and I am promising myself that if there is time, and I still have the strength, I shall do that next.
       I have a yearning also to speak about this Oxford of mine where I have been living and teaching for the past seventeen years, to tell something about the glory of the place and to explain, if I can, a little of what it has meant to have been allowed to work in its midst. All the things and places that I loved so well keep crowding in on me now in this gloomy bedroom. They are bright and beautiful as they always were, and today, for some reason, I can see them more clearly than ever. The path around the lake in the gardens of Worcester College, where Lovelace used to walk. The gateway at Pembroke. The view westward over the town from Magdalen Tower. The great hall at Christchurch. The little rockery at St John’s where I have counted more than a dozen varieties of campanula, including the rare and dainty C. Waldsteiniana. But there, you see! I haven’t even begun and already I’m falling into the trap. So let me get started now; and let you read it slowly, my dear, without any of that sense of sorrow or disapproval that might otherwise embarrass your understanding. Promise me now that you will read it slowly, and that you will put yourself in a cool and patient frame of mind before you begin.
       The details of the illness that struck me down so suddenly in my middle life are known to you. I need not waste time upon them—except to admit at once how foolish I was not to have gone earlier to my doctor. Cancer is one of the few remaining diseases that these modern drugs cannot cure. A surgeon can operate if it has not spread too far; but with me, not only did I leave it too late, but the thing had the effrontery to attack me in the pancreas, making both surgery and survival equally impossible.
       So here I was with somewhere between one and six months left to live, growing more melancholy every hour—and then, all of a sudden, in comes Landy.
       That was six weeks ago, on a Tuesday morning, very early, long before your visiting time, and the moment he entered I knew there was some sort of madness in the wind. He didn’t creep in on his toes, sheepish and embarrassed, not knowing what to say, like all my other visitors. He came in strong and smiling, and he strode up to the bed and stood there looking down at me with a wild bright glimmer in his eyes, and he said, “William, my boy, this is perfect. You’re just the one I want!”
       Perhaps I should explain to you here that although John Landy has never been to our house, and you have seldom if ever met him, I myself have been friendly with him for at least nine years. I am, of course, primarily a teacher of philosophy, but as you know I’ve lately been dabbling a good deal in psychology as well. Landy’s interests and mine have therefore slightly overlapped. He is a magnificent neuro-surgeon, one of the finest, and recently he has been kind enough to let me study the results of some of his work, especially the varying effects of prefrontal lobotomies upon different types of psychopath. So you can see that when he suddenly burst in on me Tuesday morning, we were by no means strangers to one another.
       “Look,” he said, pulling up a chair beside the bed. “In a few weeks you’re going to be dead. Correct?”
       Coming from Landy, the question didn’t seem especially unkind. In a way it was refreshing to have a visitor brave enough to touch upon the forbidden subject.
       “You’re going to expire right here in this room, and then they’ll take you out and cremate you.”
       “Bury me,” I said.
       “That’s even worse. And then what? Do you believe you’ll go to heaven?”
       “I doubt it,” I said, “though it would be comforting to think so.”
       “Or hell, perhaps?”
       “I don’t really see why they should send me there.”
       “You never know, my dear William.”
       “What’s all this about?” I asked.
       “Well,” he said, and I could see him watching me carefully, “personally, I don’t believe that after you’re dead you’ll ever hear of yourself again—unless . . .” and here he paused and smiled and leaned closer “. . . unless, of course, you have the sense to put yourself into my hands. Would you care to consider a proposition?”
       The way he was staring at me, and studying me, and appraising me with a queer kind of hungriness, I might have been a piece of prime beef on the counter and he had bought it and was waiting for them to wrap it up.
       “I’m really serious about it, William. Would you care to consider a proposition?”
       “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
       “Then listen and I’ll tell you. Will you listen to me?”
       “Go on then, if you like. I doubt I’ve got very much to lose by hearing it.”
       “On the contrary, you have a great deal to gain—especially after you’re dead.”
       I am sure he was expecting me to jump when he said this, but for some reason I was ready for it. I lay quite still, watching his face and that slow white smile of his that always revealed the gold clasp of an upper denture curled around the canine on the left side of his mouth.
       “This is a thing, William, that I’ve been working on quietly for some years. One or two others here at the hospital have been helping me, especially Morrison, and we’ve completed a number of fairly successful trials with laboratory animals. I’m at the stage now where I’m ready to have a go with a man. It’s a big idea, and it may sound a bit far-fetched at first, but from a surgical point of view there doesn’t seem to be any reason why it shouldn’t be more or less practicable.”
       Landy leaned forward and placed both hands on the edge of my bed. He has a good face, handsome in a bony sort of way, with none of the usual doctor’s look about it. You know that look, most of them have it. It glimmers at you out of their eyeballs like a dull electric sign and it reads Only I can save you. But John Landy’s eyes were wide and bright and little sparks of excitement were dancing in the centres of them.
       “Quite a long time ago,” he said, “I saw a short medical film that had been brought over from Russia. It was a rather gruesome thing, but interesting. It showed a dog’s head completely severed from the body, but with the normal blood supply being maintained through the arteries and veins by means of an artificial heart. Now the thing is this: that dog’s head, sitting there all alone on a sort of tray, was alive. The brain was functioning. They proved it by several tests. For example, when food was smeared on the dog’s lips, the tongue would come out and lick it away; and the eyes would follow a person moving across the room.
       “It seemed reasonable to conclude from this that the head and the brain did not need to be attached to the rest of the body in order to remain alive—provided, of course, that a supply of properly oxygenated blood could be maintained.
       “Now then. My own thought, which grew out of seeing this film, was to remove the brain from the skull of a human and keep it alive and functioning as an independent unit for an unlimited period after he is dead. Your brain, for example, after you are dead.”
       “I don’t like that,” I said.
       “Don’t interrupt, William. Let me finish. So far as I can tell from subsequent experiments, the brain is a peculiarly self-supporting object. It manufactures its own cerebrospinal fluid. The magic processes of thought and memory which go on inside it are manifestly not impaired by the absence of limbs or trunk or even of skull, provided, as I say, that you keep pumping in the right kind of oxygenated blood under the proper conditions.
       “My dear William, just think for a moment of your own brain. It is in perfect shape. It is crammed full of a lifetime of learning. It has taken you years of work to make it what it is. It is just beginning to give out some first-rate original ideas. Yet soon it is going to have to die along with the rest of your body simply because your silly little pancreas is riddled with cancer.”
       “No thank you,” I said to him. “You can stop there. It’s a repulsive idea, and even if you could do it, which I doubt, it would be quite pointless. What possible use is there in keeping my brain alive if I couldn’t talk or see or hear or feel? Personally, I can think of nothing more unpleasant.”
       “I believe that you would be able to communicate with us,” Landy said. “And we might even succeed in giving you a certain amount of vision. But let’s take this slowly. I’ll come to all that later on. The fact remains that you’re going to die fairly soon whatever happens; and my plans would not involve touching you at all until after you are dead. Come now, William. No true philosopher could object to lending his dead body to the cause of science.”
       “That’s not putting it quite straight,” I answered. “It seems to me there’d be some doubt as to whether I were dead or alive by the time you’d finished with me.”
       “Well,” he said, smiling a little, “I suppose you’re right about that. But I don’t think you ought to turn me down quite so quickly, before you know a bit more about it.”
       “I said I don’t want to hear it.”
       “Have a cigarette,” he said, holding out his case.
       “I don’t smoke, you know that.”
       He took one himself and lit it with a tiny silver lighter that was no bigger than a shilling piece. “A present from the people who make my instruments,” he said. “Ingenious, isn’t it?”
       I examined the lighter, then handed it back.
       “May I go on?” he asked.
       “I’d rather you didn’t.”
       “Just lie still and listen. I think you’ll find it quite interesting.”
       There were some blue grapes on a plate beside my bed. I put the plate on my chest and began eating the grapes.
       “At the very moment of death,” Landy said, “I should have to be standing by so that I could step in immediately and try to keep your brain alive.”
       “You mean leaving it in the head?”
       “To start with, yes. I’d have to.”
       “And where would you put it after that?”
       “If you want to know, in a sort of basin.”
       “Are you really serious about this?”
       “Certainly I’m serious.”
       “All right. Go on.”
       “I suppose you know that when the heart stops and the brain is deprived of fresh blood and oxygen, its tissues die very rapidly. Anything from four to six minutes and the whole thing’s dead. Even after three minutes you may get a certain amount of damage. So I should have to work rapidly to prevent this from happening. But with the help of the machine, it should all be quite simple.”
       “What machine?”
       “The artificial heart. We’ve got a nice adaptation here of the one originally devised by Alexis Carrel and Lindbergh. It oxygenates the blood, keeps it at the right temperature, pumps it in at the right pressure, and does a number of other little necessary things. It’s really not at all complicated.”
       “Tell me what you would do at the moment of death,” I said. “What is the first thing you would do?”
       “Do you know anything about the vascular and venous arrangements of the brain?”
       “No.”
       “Then listen. It’s not difficult. The blood supply to the brain is derived from two main sources, the internal carotid arteries and the vertebral arteries. There are two of each, making four arteries in all. Got that?”
       “Yes.”
       “And the return system is even simpler. The blood is drained away by only two large veins, the internal jugulars. So you have four arteries going up—they go up the neck, of course— and two veins coming down. Around the brain itself they naturally branch out into other channels, but those don’t concern us. We never touch them.”
       “All right,” I said. “Imagine that I’ve just died. Now what would you do?”
       “I should immediately open your neck and locate the four arteries, the carotids and the vertebrals. I should then perfuse them, which means that I’d stick a large hollow needle into each. These four needles would be connected by tubes to the artificial heart.
       “Then, working quickly, I would dissect out both the left and right jugular veins and hitch these also to the heart machine to complete the circuit. Now switch on the machine, which is already primed with the right type of blood, and there you are. The circulation through your brain would be restored.”
       “I’d be like that Russian dog.”
       “I don’t think you would. For one thing, you’d certainly lose consciousness when you died, and I very much doubt whether you would come to again for quite a long time—if indeed you came to at all. But, conscious or not, you’d be in a rather interesting position, wouldn’t you? You’d have a cold dead body and a living brain.”
       Landy paused to savour this delightful prospect. The man was so entranced and bemused by the whole idea that he evidently found it impossible to believe I might not be feeling the same way.
       “We could now afford to take our time,” he said. “And believe me, we’d need it. The first thing we’d do would be to wheel you to the operating-room, accompanied of course by the machine, which must never stop pumping. The next problem . . .”
       “All right,” I said. “That’s enough. I don’t have to hear the details.”
       “Oh but you must,” he said. “It is important that you should know precisely what is going to happen to you all the way through. You see, afterwards, when you regain consciousness, it will be much more satisfactory from your point of view if you are able to remember exactly where you are and how you came to be there. If only for your own peace of mind you should know that. You agree?”
       I lay still on the bed, watching him.
       “So the next problem would be to remove your brain, intact and undamaged, from your dead body. The body is useless. In fact it has already started to decay. The skull and the face are also useless. They are both encumbrances and I don’t want them around. All I want is the brain, the clean beautiful brain, alive and perfect. So when I get you on the table I will take a saw, a small oscillating saw, and with this I shall proceed to remove the whole vault of your skull. You’d still be unconscious at that point so I wouldn’t have to bother with anaesthetic.”
       “Like hell you wouldn’t,” I said.
       “You’d be out cold, I promise you that, William. Don’t forget you died just a few minutes before.”
       “Nobody’s sawing off the top of my skull without an anaesthetic,” I said.
       Landy shrugged his shoulders. “It makes no difference to me,” he said. “I’ll be glad to give you a little procaine if you want it. If it will make you any happier I’ll infiltrate the whole scalp with procaine, the whole head, from the neck up.”
       “Thanks very much,” I said.
       “You know,” he went on, “it’s extraordinary what sometimes happens. Only last week a man was brought in unconscious, and I opened his head without any anaesthetic at all and removed a small blood clot. I was still working inside the skull when he woke up and began talking.
       “ ‘Where am I?’ he asked.
       “ ‘You’re in hospital.’
       “ ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Fancy that.’
       “ ‘Tell me,’ I asked him, ‘is this bothering you, what I’m doing?’
       “ ‘No,’ he answered. ‘Not at all. What are you doing?’
       “ ‘I’m just removing a blood clot from your brain.’
       “ ‘You are?’
       “ ‘Just lie still. Don’t move. I’m nearly finished.’
       “ ‘So that’s the bastard who’s been giving me all those headaches,’ the man said.”
       Landy paused and smiled, remembering the occasion. “That’s word for word what the man said,” he went on, “although the next day he couldn’t even recollect the incident. It’s a funny thing, the brain.”
       “I’ll have the procaine,” I said.
       “As you wish, William. And now, as I say, I’d take a small oscillating saw and carefully remove your complete calvarium—the whole vault of the skull. This would expose the top half of the brain, or rather the outer covering in which it is wrapped. You may or may not know that there are three separate coverings around the brain itself—the outer one called the dura mater or dura, the middle one called the arachnoid, and the inner one called the pia mater or pia. Most laymen seem to have the idea that the brain is a naked thing floating around in fluid in your head. But it isn’t. It’s wrapped up neatly in these three strong coverings, and the cerebrospinal fluid actually flows within the little gap between the two inner coverings, known as the subarachnoid space. As I told you before, this fluid is manufactured by the brain and it drains off into the venous system by osmosis.
       “I myself would leave all three coverings—don’t they have lovely names, the dura, the arachnoid, and the pia?—I’d leave them all intact. There are many reasons for this, not least among them being the fact that within the dura run the venous channels that drain the blood from the brain into the jugular.
       “Now,” he went on, “we’ve got the upper half of your skull off so that the top of the brain, wrapped in its outer covering, is exposed. The next step is the really tricky one: to release the whole package so that it can be lifted cleanly away, leaving the stubs of the four supply arteries and the two veins hanging underneath ready to be re-connected to the machine. This is an immensely lengthy and complicated business involving the delicate chipping away of much bone, the severing of many nerves, and the cutting and tying of numerous blood vessels. The only way I could do it with any hope of success would be by taking a rongeur and slowly biting off the rest of your skull, peeling it off downward like an orange until the sides and underneath of the brain covering are fully exposed. The problems involved are highly technical and I won’t go into them, but I feel fairly sure that the work can be done. It’s simply a question of surgical skill and patience. And don’t forget that I’d have plenty of time, as much as I wanted, because the artificial heart would be continually pumping away alongside the operating-table, keeping the brain alive.
       “Now, let’s assume that I’ve succeeded in peeling off your skull and removing everything else that surrounds the sides of the brain. That leaves it connected to the body only at the base, mainly by the spinal column and by the two large veins and the four arteries that are supplying it with blood. So what next?
       “I would sever the spinal column just above the first cervical vertebra, taking great care not to harm the two vertebral arteries which are in that area. But you must remember that the dura or outer covering is open at this place to receive the spinal column, so I’d have to close this opening by sewing the edges of the dura together. There’d be no problem there.
       “At this point, I would be ready for the final move. To one side, on a table, I’d have a basin of a special shape, and this would be filled with what we call Ringer’s Solution. That is a special kind of fluid we use for irrigation in neurosurgery. I would now cut the brain completely loose by severing the supply arteries and the veins. Then I would simply pick it up in my hands and transfer it to the basin. This would be the only other time during the whole proceeding when the blood flow would be cut off; but once it was in the basin, it wouldn’t take a moment to re-connect the stubs of the arteries and veins to the artificial heart.
       “So there you are,” Landy said. “Your brain is now in the basin, and still alive, and there isn’t any reason why it shouldn’t stay alive for a very long time, years and years perhaps, provided we looked after the blood and the machine.”
       “But would it function?”
       “My dear William, how should I know? I can’t even tell you whether it would ever regain consciousness.”
       “And if it did?”
       “There now! That would be fascinating!”
       “Would it?” I said, and I must admit I had my doubts.
       “Of course it would! Lying there with all your thinking processes working beautifully, and your memory as well . . .”
       “And not being able to see or feel or smell or hear or talk,” I said.
       “Ah!” he cried. “I knew I’d forgotten something! I never told you about the eye. Listen. I am going to try to leave one of your optic nerves intact, as well as the eye itself. The optic nerve is a little thing about the thickness of a clinical thermometer and about two inches in length as it stretches between the brain and the eye. The beauty of it is that it’s not really a nerve at all. It’s an outpouching of the brain itself, and the dura or brain covering extends along it and is attached to the eyeball. The back of the eye is therefore in very close contact with the brain, and cerebrospinal fluid flows right up to it.
       “All this suits my purpose very well, and makes it reasonable to suppose that I could succeed in preserving one of your eyes. I’ve already constructed a small plastic case to contain the eyeball, instead of your own socket, and when the brain is in the basin, submerged in Ringer’s Solution, the eyeball in its case will float on the surface of the liquid.”
       “Staring at the ceiling,” I said.
       “I suppose so, yes. I’m afraid there wouldn’t be any muscles there to move it around. But it might be sort of fun to lie there so quietly and comfortably peering out at the world from your basin.”
       “Hilarious,” I said. “How about leaving me an ear as well?”
       “I’d rather not try an ear this time.”
       “I want an ear,” I said. “I insist upon an ear.”
       “No.”
       “I want to listen to Bach.”
       “You don’t understand how difficult it would be,” Landy said gently. “The hearing apparatus—the cochlea, as it’s called—is a far more delicate mechanism than the eye. What’s more, it is encased in bone. So is a part of the auditory nerve that connects it with the brain. I couldn’t possibly chisel the whole thing out intact.”
       “Couldn’t you leave it encased in the bone and bring the bone to the basin?”
       “No,” he said firmly. “This thing is complicated enough already. And anyway, if the eye works, it doesn’t matter all that much about your hearing. We can always hold up messages for you to read. You really must leave me to decide what is possible and what isn’t.”
       “I haven’t yet said that I’m going to do it.”
       “I know, William, I know.”
       “I’m not sure I fancy the idea very much.”
       “Would you rather be dead, altogether?”
       “Perhaps I would. I don’t know yet. I wouldn’t be able to talk, would I?”
       “Of course not.”
       “Then how would I communicate with you? How would you know that I’m conscious?”
       “It would be easy for us to know whether or not you regain consciousness,” Landy said. “The ordinary electro-encephalograph could tell us that. We’d attach the electrodes directly to the frontal lobes of your brain, there in the basin.”
       “And you could actually tell?”
       “Oh, definitely. Any hospital could do that part of it.”
       “But I couldn’t communicate with you.”
       “As a matter of fact,” Landy said, “I believe you could. There’s a man up in London called Wertheimer who’s doing some interesting work on the subject of thought communication, and I’ve been in touch with him. You know, don’t you, that the thinking brain throws off electrical and chemical discharges? And that these discharges go out in the form of waves, rather like radio waves?”
       “I know a bit about it,” I said.
       “Well, Wertheimer has constructed an apparatus somewhat similar to the encephalograph, though far more sensitive, and he maintains that within certain narrow limits it can help him to interpret the actual things that a brain is thinking. It produces a kind of graph which is apparently decipherable into words or thoughts. Would you like me to ask Wertheimer to come and see you?”
       “No,” I said. Landy was already taking it for granted that I was going to go through with this business, and I resented his attitude. “Go away now and leave me alone,” I told him. “You won’t get anywhere by trying to rush me.”
       He stood up at once and crossed to the door.
       “One question,” I said.
       He paused with a hand on the doorknob. “Yes, William?”
       “Simply this. Do you yourself honestly believe that when my brain is in that basin, my mind will be able to function exactly as it is doing at present? Do you believe that I will be able to think and reason as I can now? And will the power of memory remain?”
       “I don’t see why not,” he answered. “It’s the same brain. It’s alive. It’s undamaged. In fact, it’s completely untouched. We haven’t even opened the dura. The big difference, of course, would be that we’ve severed every single nerve that leads into it—except for the one optic nerve—and this means that your thinking would no longer be influenced by your senses. You’d be living in an extraordinarily pure and detached world. Nothing to bother you at all, not even pain. You couldn’t possibly feel pain because there wouldn’t be any nerves to feel it with. In a way, it would be an almost perfect situation. No worries or fears or pains or hunger or thirst. Not even any desires. Just your memories and your thoughts, and if the remaining eye happened to function, then you could read books as well. It all sounds rather pleasant to me.”
       “It does, does it?”
       “Yes, William, it does. And particularly for a Doctor of Philosophy. It would be a tremendous experience. You’d be able to reflect upon the ways of the world with a detachment and a serenity that no man had ever attained before. And who knows what might not happen then! Great thoughts and solutions might come to you, great ideas that could revolutionise our way of life! Try to imagine, if you can, the degree of concentration that you’d be able to achieve!”
       “And the frustration,” I said.
       “Nonsense. There couldn’t be any frustration. You can’t have frustration without desire, and you couldn’t possibly have any desire. Not physical desire, anyway.”
       “I should certainly be capable of remembering my previous life in the world, and I might desire to return to it.”
       “What, to this mess! Out of your comfortable basin and back into this madhouse!”
       “Answer one more question,” I said. “How long do you believe you could keep it alive?”
       “The brain? Who knows? Possibly for years and years. The conditions would be ideal. Most of the factors that cause deterioration would be absent, thanks to the artificial heart. The blood-pressure would remain constant at all times, an impossible condition in real life. The temperature would also be constant. The chemical composition of the blood would be near perfect. There would be no impurities in it, no virus, no bacteria, nothing. Of course it’s foolish to guess, but I believe that a brain might live for two or three hundred years in circumstances like these. Good-bye for now,” he said. “I’ll drop in and see you tomorrow.” He went out quickly, leaving me, as you might guess, in a fairly disturbed state of mind.
       My immediate reaction after he had gone was one of revulsion towards the whole business. Somehow, it wasn’t at all nice. There was something basically repulsive about the idea that I myself, with all my mental faculties intact, should be reduced to a small slimy blob lying in a pool of water. It was monstrous, obscene, unholy. Another thing that bothered me was the feeling of helplessness that I was bound to experience once Landy had got me into the basin. There could be no going back after that, no way of protesting or explaining. I would be committed for as long as they could keep me alive.
       And what, for example, if I could not stand it? What if it turned out to be terribly painful? What if I became hysterical?
       No legs to run away on. No voice to scream with. Nothing. I’d just have to grin and bear it for the next two centuries.
       No mouth to grin with either.
       At this point, a curious thought struck me, and it was this : Does not a man who has had a leg amputated often suffer from the delusion that the leg is still there? Does he not tell the nurse that the toes he doesn’t have any more are itching like mad, and so on and so forth? I seemed to have heard something to that effect quite recently.
       Very well. On the same premise, was it not possible that my brain, lying there alone in that basin, might not suffer from a similar delusion in regard to my body? In which case, all my usual aches and pains could come flooding over me and I wouldn’t even be able to take an aspirin to relieve them. One moment I might be imagining that I had the most excruciating cramp in my leg, or a violent indigestion, and a few minutes later, I might easily get the feeling that my poor bladder—you know me—was so full that if I didn’t get to emptying it soon it would burst.
       Heaven forbid.
       I lay there for a long time thinking these horrid thoughts. Then quite suddenly, round about midday, my mood began to change. I became less concerned with the unpleasant aspect of the affair and found myself able to examine Landy’s proposals in a more reasonable light. Was there not, after all, I asked myself, something a bit comforting in the thought that my brain might not necessarily have to die and disappear in a few weeks’ time? There was indeed. I am rather proud of my brain. It is a sensitive, lucid, and uberous organ. It contains a prodigious store of information, and it is still capable of producing imaginative and original theories. As brains go, it is a damn good one, though I say it myself. Whereas my body, my poor old body, the thing that Landy wants to throw away—well, even you, my dear Mary, will have to agree with me that there is really nothing about that which is worth preserving any more.
       I was lying on my back eating a grape. Delicious it was, and there were three little seeds in it which I took out of my mouth and placed on the edge of the plate.
       “I’m going to do it,” I said quietly. “Yes, by God, I’m going to do it. When Landy comes back to see me tomorrow I shall tell him straight out that I’m going to do it.”
       It was as quick as that. And from then on, I began to feel very much better. I surprised everyone by gobbling an enormous lunch, and shortly after that you came in to visit me as usual.
       But how well I looked, you told me. How bright and well and chirpy. Had anything happened? Was there some good news?”
       Yes, I said there was. And then, if you remember, I bade you sit down and make yourself comfortable, and I began immediately to explain to you as gently as I could what was in the wind.
       Alas, you would have none of it. I had hardly begun telling you the barest details when you flew into a fury and said that the thing was revolting, disgusting, horrible, unthinkable, and when I tried to go on, you marched out of the room.
       Well, Mary, as you know, I have tried to discuss this subject with you many times since then, but you have consistently refused to give me a hearing. Hence this note, and I can only hope that you will have the good sense to permit yourself to read it. It has taken me a long time to write. Two weeks have gone since I started to scribble the first sentence, and I’m now a good deal weaker than I was then. I doubt whether I have the strength to say much more. Certainly I won’t say good-bye, because there’s a chance, just a tiny chance, that if Landy succeeds in his work I may actually see you again later, that is if you can bring yourself to come and visit me.
       I am giving orders that these pages shall not be delivered to you until a week after I am gone. By now, therefore, as you sit reading them, seven days have already elapsed since Landy did the deed. You yourself may even know what the outcome has been. If you don’t, if you have purposely kept yourself apart and have refused to have anything to do with it—which I suspect may be the case—please change your mind now and give Landy a call to see how things went with me. That is the least you can do. I have told him that he may expect to hear from you on the seventh day.

Your faithful husband
William

P.S. Be good when I am gone, and always remember that it is harder to be a widow than a wife. Do not drink cocktails. Do not waste money. Do not smoke cigarettes. Do not eat pastry. Do not use lipstick. Do not buy a television apparatus. Keep my rose beds and my rockery well weeded in the summers. And incidentally I suggest that you have the telephone disconnected now that I shall have no further use for it.

W

       Mrs Pearl laid the last page of the manuscript slowly down on the sofa beside her. Her little mouth was pursed up tight and there was a whiteness around her nostrils.
       But really! You would think a widow was entitled to a bit of peace after all these years.
       The whole thing was just too awful to think about. Beastly and awful. It gave her the shudders.
       She reached for her bag and found herself another cigarette. She lit it, inhaling the smoke deeply and blowing it out in clouds all over the room. Through the smoke she could see her lovely television set, brand new, lustrous, huge, crouching defiantly but also a little self-consciously on top of what used to be William’s worktable.
       What would he say, she wondered, if he could see that now?
       She paused, to remember the last time he had caught her smoking a cigarette. That was about a year ago, and she was sitting in the kitchen by the open window having a quick one before he came home from work. She’d had the radio on loud playing dance music and she had turned round to pour herself another cup of coffee and there he was standing in the doorway, huge and grim, staring down at her with those awful eyes, a little black dot of fury blazing in the centre of each.
       For four weeks after that, he had paid the housekeeping bills himself and given her no money at all, but of course he wasn’t to know that she had over six pounds salted away in a soap-flake carton in the cupboard under the sink.
       “What is it?” she had said to him once during supper. “Are you worried about me getting lung cancer?”
       “I am not,” he had answered.
       “Then why can’t I smoke?”
       “Because I disapprove, that’s why.”
       He had also disapproved of children, and as a result they had never had any of them either.
       Where was he now, this William of hers, the great disapprover?
       Landy would be expecting her to call up. Did she have to call Landy?
       Well, not really, no.
       She finished her cigarette, then lit another one immediately from the old stub. She looked at the telephone that was sitting on the worktable beside the television set. William had asked her to call. He had specifically requested that she telephone Landy as soon as she had read the letter. She hesitated, fighting hard now against that old ingrained sense of duty that she didn’t quite yet dare to shake off. Then, slowly, she got to her feet and crossed over to the phone on the worktable. She found a number in the book, dialled it, and waited.
       “I want to speak to Mr Landy, please.”
       “Who is calling?”
       “Mrs Pearl. Mrs William Pearl.”
       “One moment, please.”
       Almost at once, Landy was on the other end of the wire.
       “Mrs Pearl?”
       “This is Mrs Pearl.”
       There was a slight pause.
       “I am so glad you called at last, Mrs Pearl. You are quite well, I hope?” The voice was quiet, unemotional, courteous. “I wonder if you would care to come over here to the hospital? Then we can have a little chat. I expect you are very eager to know how it all came out.”
       She didn’t answer.
       “I can tell you now that everything went pretty smoothly, one way and another. Far better, in fact, than I was entitled to hope. It is not only alive, Mrs Pearl, it is conscious. It recovered consciousness on the second day. Isn’t that interesting?”
       She waited for him to go on.
       “And the eye is seeing. We are sure of that because we get an immediate change in the deflections on the encephalograph when we hold something up in front of it. And now we’re giving it the newspaper to read every day.”
       “Which newspaper?” Mrs Pearl asked sharply.
       “The Daily Mirror. The headlines are larger.”
       “He hates The Mirror. Give him The Times.”
       There was a pause, then the doctor said, “Very well, Mrs Pearl. We’ll give it The Times. We naturally want to do all we can to keep it happy.”
       “Him,” she said. “Not it. Him!”
       “Him,” the doctor said. “Yes, I beg your pardon. To keep him happy. That’s one reason why I suggested you should come along here as soon as possible. I think it would be good for him to see you. You could indicate how delighted you were to be with him again—smile at him and blow him a kiss and all that sort of thing. It’s bound to be a comfort to him to know that you are standing by.”
       There was a long pause.
       “Well,” Mrs Pearl said at last, her voice suddenly very meek and tired. “I suppose I had better come on over and see how he is.”
       “Good. I knew you would. I’ll wait here for you. Come straight up to my office on the second floor. Good-bye.”
       Half an hour later, Mrs Pearl was at the hospital.
       “You mustn’t be surprised by what he looks like,” Landy said as he walked beside her down a corridor.
       “No, I won’t.”
       “It’s bound to be a bit of a shock to you at first. He’s not very prepossessing in his present state, I’m afraid.”
       “I didn’t marry him for his looks, Doctor.”
       Landy turned and stared at her. What a queer little woman this was, he thought, with her large eyes and her sullen, resentful air. Her features, which must have been quite pleasant once, had now gone completely. The mouth was slack, the cheeks loose and flabby, and the whole face gave the impression of having slowly but surely sagged to pieces through years and years of joyless married life. They walked on for a while in silence.
       “Take your time when you get inside,” Landy said. “He won’t know you’re in there until you place your face directly above his eye. The eye is always open, but he can’t move it at all, so the field of vision is very narrow. At present we have it looking straight up at the ceiling. And of course he can’t hear anything. We can talk together as much as we like. It’s in here.”
       Landy opened a door and ushered her into a small square room.
       “I wouldn’t go too close yet,” he said, putting a hand on her arm. “Stay back here a moment with me until you get used to it all.”
       There was a biggish white enamel bowl about the size of a washbasin standing on a high white table in the centre of the room, and there were half a dozen thin plastic tubes coming out of it. These tubes were connected with a whole lot of glass piping in which you could see the blood flowing to and from the heart machine. The machine itself made a soft rhythmic pulsing sound.
       “He’s in there,” Landy said, pointing to the basin, which was too high for her to see into. “Come just a little closer. Not too near.”
       He led her two paces forward.
       By stretching her neck, Mrs Pearl could now see the surface of the liquid inside the basin. It was clear and still, and on it there floated a small oval capsule, about the size of a pigeon’s egg.
       “That’s the eye in there,” Landy said. “Can you see it?”
       “Yes.”
       “So far as we can tell, it is still in perfect condition. It’s his right eye, and the plastic container has a lens on it similar to the one he used in his own spectacles. At this moment he’s probably seeing quite as well as he did before.”
       “The ceiling isn’t much to look at,” Mrs Pearl said.
       “Don’t worry about that. We’re in the process of working out a whole programme to keep him amused, but we don’t want to go too quickly at first.”
       “Give him a good book.”
       “We will, we will. Are you feeling all right, Mrs Pearl?”
       “Yes.”
       “Then we’ll go forward a little more, shall we, and you’ll be able to see the whole thing.”
       He led her forward until they were standing only a couple of yards from the table, and now she could see right down into the basin.
       “There you are,” Landy said. “That’s William.”
       He was far larger than she had imagined he would be, and darker in colour. With all the ridges and creases running over his surface, he reminded her of nothing so much as an enormous pickled walnut. She could see the stubs of the four big arteries and the two veins coming out from the base of him and the neat way in which they were joined to the plastic tubes; and with each throb of the heart machine, all the tubes gave a little jerk in unison as the blood was pushed through them.
       “You’ll have to lean over,” Landy said, “and put your pretty face right above the eye. He’ll see you then, and you can smile at him and blow him a kiss. If I were you I’d say a few nice things as well. He won’t actually hear them, but I’m sure he’ll get the general idea.”
       “He hates people blowing kisses at him,” Mrs Pearl said. “I’ll do it my own way if you don’t mind.” She stepped up to the edge of the table, leaned forward until her face was directly over the basin, and looked straight down into William’s eye.
       “Hallo, dear,” she whispered. “It’s me—Mary.”
       The eye, bright as ever, stared back at her with a peculiar, fixed intensity.
       “How are you, dear?” she said.
       The plastic capsule was transparent all the way round so that the whole of the eyeball was visible. The optic nerve connecting the underside of it to the brain looked like a short length of grey spaghetti.
       “Are you feeling all right, William?”
       It was a queer sensation peering into her husband’s eye when there was no face to go with it. All she had to look at was the eye, and she kept staring at it, and gradually it grew bigger and bigger, and in the end it was the only thing that she could see—a sort of face in itself. There was a network of tiny red veins running over the white surface of the eyeball, and in the ice-blue of the iris there were three or four rather pretty darkish streaks radiating from the pupil in the centre. The pupil was large and black, with a little spark of light reflecting from one side of it.
       “I got your letter, dear, and came over at once to see how you were. Dr Landy says you are doing wonderfully well. Perhaps if I talk slowly you can understand a little of what I am saying by reading my lips.”
       There was no doubt that the eye was watching her.
       “They are doing everything possible to take care of you, dear. This marvellous machine thing here is pumping away all the time and I’m sure it’s a lot better than those silly old hearts all the rest of us have. Ours are liable to break down at any moment, but yours will go on for ever.”
       She was studying the eye closely, trying to discover what there was about it that gave it such an unusual appearance.
       “You seem fine, dear, simply fine. Really you do.”
       It looked ever so much nicer, this eye, than either of his eyes used to look, she told herself. There was a softness about it somewhere, a calm, kindly quality that she had never seen before. Maybe it had to do with the dot in the very centre, the pupil. William’s pupils used always to be tiny black pinheads. They used to glint at you, stabbing into your brain, seeing right through you, and they always knew at once what you were up to and even what you were thinking. But this one she was looking at now was large and soft and gentle, almost cowlike.
       “Are you quite sure he’s conscious?” she asked, not looking up.
       “Oh yes, completely,” Landy said.
       “And he can see me?”
       “Perfectly.”
       “Isn’t that marvellous? I expect he’s wondering what happened.”
       “Not at all. He knows perfectly well where he is and why he’s there. He can’t possibly have forgotten that.”
       “You mean he knows he’s in this basin?”
       “Of course. And if only he had the power of speech, he would probably be able to carry on a perfectly normal conversation with you this very minute. So far as I can see, there should be absolutely no difference mentally between this William here and the one you used to know back home.”
       “Good gracious me,” Mrs Pearl said, and she paused to consider this intriguing aspect.
       You know what, she told herself, looking behind the eye now and staring hard at the great grey pulpy walnut that lay so placidly under the water. I’m not at all sure that I don’t prefer him as he is at present. In fact, I believe that I could live very comfortably with this kind of a William. I could cope with this one.
       “Quiet, isn’t he?” she said.
       “Naturally he’s quiet.”
       No arguments and criticisms, she thought, no constant admonitions, no rules to obey, no ban on smoking cigarettes, no pair of cold disapproving eyes watching me over the top of a book in the evenings, no shirts to wash and iron, no meals to cook—nothing but the throb of the heart machine, which was rather a soothing sound anyway and certainly not loud enough to interfere with television.
       “Doctor,” she said. “I do believe I’m suddenly getting to feel the most enormous affection for him. Does that sound queer?”
       “I think it’s quite understandable.”
       “He looks so helpless and silent lying there under the water in his little basin.”
       “Yes, I know.”
       “He’s like a baby, that’s what he’s like. He’s exactly like a little baby.”
       Landy stood still behind her, watching.
       “There,” she said softly, peering into the basin. “From now on Mary’s going to look after you all by herself and you’ve nothing to worry about in the world. When can I have him back home, Doctor?”
       “I beg your pardon?”
       “I said when can I have him back—back in my own house?”
       “You’re joking,” Landy said.
       She turned her head slowly around and looked directly at him. “Why should I joke?” she asked. Her face was bright, her eyes round and bright as two diamonds.
       “He couldn’t possibly be moved.”
       “I don’t see why not.”
       “This is an experiment, Mrs Pearl.”
       “It’s my husband, Dr Landy.”
       A funny little nervous half-smile appeared on Landy’s mouth. “Well . . .” he said.
       “It is my husband, you know.” There was no anger in her voice. She spoke quietly, as though merely reminding him of a simple fact.
       “That’s rather a tricky point,” Landy said, wetting his lips. “You’re a widow now, Mrs Pearl. I think you must resign yourself to that fact.”
       She turned away suddenly from the table and crossed over to the window. “I mean it,” she said, fishing in her bag for a cigarette. “I want him back.”
       Landy watched her as she put the cigarette between her lips and lit it. Unless he were very much mistaken, there was something a bit odd about this woman, he thought. She seemed almost pleased to have her husband over there in the basin.
       He tried to imagine what his own feelings would be if it were his wife’s brain lying there and her eye staring up at him out of that capsule.
       He wouldn’t like it.
       “Shall we go back to my room now?” he said.
       She was standing by the window, apparently quite calm and relaxed, puffing her cigarette.
       “Yes, all right.”
       On her way past the table she stopped and leaned over the basin once more. “Mary’s leaving now, sweetheart,” she said. “And don’t you worry about a single thing, you understand? We’re going to get you right back home where we can look after you properly just as soon as we possibly can. And listen dear . . .” At this point she paused and carried the cigarette to her lips, intending to take a puff.
       Instantly the eye flashed.
       She was looking straight into it at the time, and right in the centre of it she saw a tiny but brilliant flash of light, and the pupil contracted into a minute black pinpoint of absolute fury.
       At first she didn’t move. She stood bending over the basin, holding the cigarette up to her mouth, watching the eye.
       Then very slowly, deliberately, she put the cigarette between her lips and took a long suck. She inhaled deeply, and she held the smoke inside her lungs for three or four seconds; then suddenly, whoosh, out it came through her nostrils in two thin jets which struck the water in the basin and billowed out over the surface in a thick blue cloud, enveloping the eye.
       Landy was over by the door, with his back to her, waiting. “Come on, Mrs Pearl,” he called.
       “Don’t look so cross, William,” she said softly. “It isn’t any good looking cross.”
       Landy turned his head to see what she was doing.
       “Not any more it isn’t,” she whispered. “Because from now on, my pet, you’re going to do just exactly what Mary tells you. Do you understand that?”
       “Mrs Pearl,” Landy said, moving towards her.
       “So don’t be a naughty boy again, will you, my precious,” she said, taking another pull at the cigarette. “Naughty boys are liable to get punished most severely nowadays, you ought to know that.”
       Landy was beside her now, and he took her by the arm and began drawing her firmly but gently away from the table.
       “Good-bye, darling,” she called. “I’ll be back soon.”
       “That’s enough, Mrs Pearl.”
       “Isn’t he sweet?” she cried, looking up at Landy with big bright eyes. “Isn’t he heaven? I just can’t wait to get him home.”

The Way Up to Heaven

All her life, Mrs Foster had had an almost pathological fear of missing a train, a plane, a boat, or even a theatre curtain. In other respects, she was not a particularly nervous woman, but the mere thought of being late on occasions like these would throw her into such a state of nerves that she would begin to twitch. It was nothing much—just a tiny vellicating muscle in the corner of the left eye, like a secret wink—but the annoying thing was that it refused to disappear until an hour or so after the train or plane or whatever it was had been safely caught.
       It was really extraordinary how in certain people a simple apprehension about a thing like catching a train can grow into a serious obsession. At least half an hour before it was time to leave the house for the station, Mrs Foster would step out of the elevator all ready to go, with hat and coat and gloves, and then, being quite unable to sit down, she would flutter and fidget about from room to room until her husband, who must have been well aware of her state, finally emerged from his privacy and suggested in a cool dry voice that perhaps they had better get going now, had they not?
       Mr Foster may possibly have had a right to be irritated by this foolishness of his wife’s, but he could have had no excuse for increasing her misery by keeping her waiting unnecessarily. Mind you, it is by no means certain that this is what he did, yet whenever they were to go somewhere, his timing was so accurate—just a minute or two late, you understand—and his manner so bland that it was hard to believe he wasn’t purposely inflicting a nasty private little torture of his own on the unhappy lady. And one thing he must have known—that she would never dare to call out and tell him to hurry. He had disciplined her too well for that. He must also have known that if he was prepared to wait even beyond the last moment of safety, he could drive her nearly into hysterics. On one or two special occasions in the later years of their married life, it seemed almost as though he had wanted to miss the train simply in order to intensify the poor woman’s suffering.
       Assuming (though one cannot be sure) that the husband was guilty, what made his attitude doubly unreasonable was the fact that, with the exception of this one small irrepressible foible, Mrs Foster was and always had been a good and loving wife. For over thirty years, she had served him loyally and well. There was no doubt about this. Even she, a very modest woman, was aware of it, and although she had for years refused to let herself believe that Mr Foster would ever consciously torment her, there had been times recently when she had caught herself beginning to wonder.
       Mr Eugene Foster, who was nearly seventy years old, lived with his wife in a large six-storey house in New York City, on East Sixty-second Street, and they had four servants. It was a gloomy place, and few people came to visit them. But on this particular morning in January, the house had come alive and there was a great deal of bustling about. One maid was distributing bundles of dust sheets to every room, while another was draping them over the furniture. The butler was bringing down suitcases and putting them in the hall. The cook kept popping up from the kitchen to have a word with the butler, and Mrs Foster herself, in an old-fashioned fur coat and with a black hat on the top of her head, was flying from room to room and pretending to supervise these operations. Actually, she was thinking of nothing at all except that she was going to miss her plane if her husband didn’t come out of his study soon and get ready.
       “What time is it, Walker?” she said to the butler as she passed him.
       “It’s ten minutes past nine, Madam.”
       “And has the car come?”
       “Yes, Madam, it’s waiting. I’m just going to put the luggage in now.”
       “It takes an hour to get to Idlewild,” she said. “My plane leaves at eleven. I have to be there half an hour beforehand for the formalities. I shall be late. I just know I’m going to be late.”
       “I think you have plenty of time, Madam,” the butler said kindly. “I warned Mr Foster that you must leave at nine fifteen. There’s still another five minutes.”
       “Yes, Walker, I know, I know. But get the luggage in quickly, will you please?”
       She began walking up and down the hall, and whenever the butler came by, she asked him the time. This, she kept telling herself, was the one plane she must not miss. It had taken months to persuade her husband to allow her to go. If she missed it, he might easily decide that she should cancel the whole thing. And the trouble was that he insisted on coming to the airport to see her off.
       “Dear God,” she said aloud, “I’m going to miss it. I know, I know, I know I’m going to miss it.” The little muscle beside the left eye was twitching madly now. The eyes themselves were very close to tears.
       “What time is it, Walker?”
       “It’s eighteen minutes past, Madam.”
       “Now I really will miss it!” she cried. “Oh, I wish he would come!”
       This was an important journey for Mrs Foster. She was going all alone to Paris to visit her daughter, her only child, who was married to a Frenchman. Mrs Foster didn’t care much for the Frenchman, but she was fond of her daughter, and, more than that, she had developed a great yearning to set eyes on her three grandchildren. She knew them only from the many photographs that she had received and that she kept putting up all over the house. They were beautiful, these children. She doted on them, and each time a new picture arrived she would carry it away and sit with it for a long time, staring at it lovingly and searching the small faces for signs of that old satisfying blood likeness that meant so much. And now, lately, she had come more and more to feel that she did not really wish to live out her days in a place where she could not be near these children, and have them visit her, and take them for walks, and buy them presents, and watch them grow. She knew, of course, that it was wrong and in a way disloyal to have thoughts like these while her husband was still alive. She knew also that although he was no longer active in his many enterprises, he would never consent to leave New York and live in Paris. It was a miracle that he had ever agreed to let her fly over there alone for six weeks to visit them. But, oh, how she wished she could live there always, and be close to them!
       “Walker, what time is it?”
       “Twenty-two minutes past, Madam.”
       As he spoke, a door opened and Mr Foster came into the hall. He stood for a moment, looking intently at his wife, and she looked back at him—at this diminutive but still quite dapper old man with the huge bearded face that bore such an astonishing resemblance to those old photographs of Andrew Carnegie.
       “Well,” he said, “I suppose perhaps we’d better get going fairly soon if you want to catch that plane.”
       “Yes, dear—yes! Everything’s ready. The car’s waiting.”
       “That’s good,” he said. With his head over to one side, he was watching her closely. He had a peculiar way of cocking the head and then moving it in a series of small, rapid jerks. Because of this and because he was clasping his hands up high in front of him, near the chest, he was somehow like a squirrel standing there—a quick clever old squirrel from the Park.
       “Here’s Walker with your coat, dear. Put it on.”
       “I’ll be with you in a moment,” he said. “I’m just going to wash my hands.”
       She waited for him, and the tall butler stood beside her, holding the coat and the hat.
       “Walker, will I miss it?”
       “No, Madam,” the butler said. “I think you’ll make it all right.”
       Then Mr Foster appeared again, and the butler helped him on with his coat. Mrs Foster hurried outside and got into the hired Cadillac. Her husband came after her, but he walked down the steps of the house slowly, pausing halfway to observe the sky and to sniff the cold morning air.
       “It looks a bit foggy,” he said as he sat down beside her in the car. “And it’s always worse out there at the airport. I shouldn’t be surprised if the flight’s cancelled already.”
       “Don’t say that, dear—please.”
       They didn’t speak again until the car had crossed over the river to Long Island.
       “I arranged everything with the servants,” Mr Foster said. “They’re all going off today. I gave them half pay for six weeks and told Walker I’d send him a telegram when we wanted them back.”
       “Yes,” she said. “He told me.”
       “I’ll move into the club tonight. It’ll be a nice change staying at the club.”
       “Yes, dear. I’ll write to you.”
       “I’ll call in at the house occasionally to see that everything’s all right and to pick up the mail.”
       “But don’t you really think Walker should stay there all the time to look after things?” she asked meekly.
       “Nonsense. It’s quite unnecessary. And anyway, I’d have to pay him full wages.”
       “Oh yes,” she said. “Of course.”
       “What’s more, you never know what people get up to when they’re left alone in a house,” Mr Foster announced, and with that he took out a cigar and, after snipping off the end with a silver cutter, lit it with a gold lighter.
       She sat still in the car with her hands clasped together tight under the rug.
       “Will you write to me?” she asked.
       “I’ll see,” he said. “But I doubt it. You know I don’t hold with letter-writing unless there’s something specific to say.”
       “Yes, dear, I know. So don’t you bother.”
       They drove on, along Queens Boulevard, and as they approached the flat marshland on which Idlewild is built, the fog began to thicken and the car had to slow down.
       “Oh dear!” cried Mrs Foster. “I’m sure I’m going to miss it now! What time is it?”
       “Stop fussing,” the old man said. “It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s bound to be cancelled now. They never fly in this sort of weather. I don’t know why you bothered to come out.”
       She couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to her that there was suddenly a new note in his voice, and she turned to look at him. It was difficult to observe any change in his expression under all that hair. The mouth was what counted. She wished, as she had so often before, that she could see the mouth clearly. The eyes never showed anything except when he was in a rage.
       “Of course,” he went on, “if by any chance it does go, then I agree with you—you’ll be certain to miss it now. Why don’t you resign yourself to that?”
       She turned away and peered through the window at the fog. It seemed to be getting thicker as they went along, and now she could only just make out the edge of the road and the margin of grassland beyond it. She knew that her husband was still looking at her. She glanced at him again, and this time she noticed with a kind of horror that he was staring intently at the little place in the corner of her left eye where she could feel the muscle twitching.
       “Won’t you?” he said.
       “Won’t I what?”
       “Be sure to miss it now if it goes. We can’t drive fast in this muck.”
       He didn’t speak to her any more after that. The car crawled on and on. The driver had a yellow lamp directed on to the edge of the road, and this helped him to keep going. Other lights, some white and some yellow, kept coming out of the fog towards them, and there was an especially bright one that followed close behind them all the time.
       Suddenly, the driver stopped the car.
       “There!” Mr Foster cried. “We’re stuck. I knew it.”
       “No, sir,” the driver said, turning round. “We made it. This is the airport.”
       Without a word, Mrs Foster jumped out and hurried through the main entrance into the building. There was a mass of people inside, mostly disconsolate passengers standing around the ticket counters. She pushed her way through and spoke to the clerk.
       “Yes,” he said. “Your flight is temporarily postponed. But please don’t go away. We’re expecting this weather to clear any moment.”
       She went back to her husband who was still sitting in the car and told him the news. “But don’t you wait, dear,” she said. “There’s no sense in that.”
       “I won’t,” he answered. “So long as the driver can get me back. Can you get me back, driver?”
       “I think so,” the man said.
       “Is the luggage out?”
       “Yes, sir.”
       “Good-bye, dear,” Mrs Foster said, leaning into the car and giving her husband a small kiss on the coarse grey fur of his cheek.
       “Good-bye,” he answered. “Have a good trip.”
       The car drove off, and Mrs Foster was left alone.
       The rest of the day was a sort of nightmare for her. She sat for hour after hour on a bench, as close to the airline counter as possible, and every thirty minutes or so she would get up and ask the clerk if the situation had changed. She always received the same reply—that she must continue to wait, because the fog might blow away at any moment. It wasn’t until after six in the evening that the loudspeakers finally announced that the flight had been postponed until eleven o’clock the next morning.
       Mrs Foster didn’t quite know what to do when she heard this news. She stayed sitting on her bench for at least another half-hour, wondering, in a tired, hazy sort of way, where she might go to spend the night. She hated to leave the airport. She didn’t wish to see her husband. She was terrified that in one way or another he would eventually manage to prevent her from getting to France. She would have liked to remain just where she was, sitting on the bench the whole night through. That would be the safest. But she was already exhausted, and it didn’t take her long to realise that this was a ridiculous thing for an elderly lady to do. So in the end she went to a phone and called the house.
       Her husband, who was on the point of leaving for the club, answered it himself. She told him the news, and asked whether the servants were still there.
       “They’ve all gone,” he said.
       “In that case, dear, I’ll just get myself a room somewhere for the night. And don’t you bother yourself about it at all.”
       “That would be foolish,” he said. “You’ve got a large house here at your disposal. Use it.”
       “But, dear, it’s empty.”
       “Then I’ll stay with you myself.”
       “There’s no food in the house. There’s nothing.”
       “Then eat before you come in. Don’t be so stupid, woman. Everything you do, you seem to want to make a fuss about it.”
       “Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’ll get myself a sandwich here, and then I’ll come on in.”
       Outside, the fog had cleared a little, but it was still a long, slow drive in the taxi, and she didn’t arrive back at the house on Sixty-second Street until fairly late.
       Her husband emerged from his study when he heard her coming in. “Well,” he said, standing by the study door, “how was Paris?”
       “We leave at eleven in the morning,” she answered. “It’s definite.”
       “You mean if the fog clears.”
       “It’s clearing now. There’s a wind coming up.”
       “You look tired,” he said. “You must have had an anxious day.”
       “It wasn’t very comfortable. I think I’ll go straight to bed.”
       “I’ve ordered a car for the morning,” he said. “Nine o’clock.”
       “Oh, thank you, dear. And I certainly hope you’re not going to bother to come all the way out again to see me off.”
       “No,” he said slowly. “I don’t think I will. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t drop me at the club on your way.”
       She looked at him, and at that moment he seemed to be standing a long way off from her, beyond some borderline. He was suddenly so small and far away that she couldn’t be sure what he was doing, or what he was thinking, or even what he was.
       “The club is downtown,” she said. “It isn’t on the way to the airport.”
       “But you’ll have plenty of time, my dear. Don’t you want to drop me at the club?”
       “Oh, yes—of course.”
       “That’s good. Then I’ll see you in the morning at nine.”
       She went up to her bedroom on the second floor, and she was so exhausted from her day that she fell asleep soon after she lay down.
       Next morning, Mrs Foster was up early, and by eight thirty she was downstairs and ready to leave.
       Shortly after nine, her husband appeared. “Did you make any coffee?” he asked.
       “No, dear. I thought you’d get a nice breakfast at the club. The car is here. It’s been waiting. I’m all ready to go.”
       They were standing in the hall—they always seemed to be meeting in the hall nowadays—she with her hat and coat and purse, he in a curiously cut Edwardian jacket with high lapels.
       “Your luggage?”
       “It’s at the airport.”
       “Ah yes,” he said. “Of course. And if you’re going to take me to the club first, I suppose we’d better get going fairly soon, hadn’t we?”
       “Yes!” she cried. “Oh, yes—please!”
       “I’m just going to get a few cigars. I’ll be right with you. You get in the car.”
       She turned and went out to where the chauffeur was standing, and he opened the car door for her as she approached.
       “What time is it?” she asked him.
       “About nine fifteen.”
       Mr Foster came out five minutes later, and watching him as he walked slowly down the steps, she noticed that his legs were like goat’s legs in those narrow stovepipe trousers that he wore. As on the day before, he paused halfway down to sniff the air and to examine the sky. The weather was still not quite clear, but there was a wisp of sun coming through the mist.
       “Perhaps you’ll be lucky this time,” he said as he settled himself beside her in the car.
       “Hurry, please,” she said to the chauffeur. “Don’t bother about the rug. I’ll arrange the rug. Please get going. I’m late.”
       The man went back to his seat behind the wheel and started the engine.
       “Just a moment!” Mr Foster said suddenly. “Hold it a moment, chauffeur, will you?”
       “What is it, dear?” She saw him searching the pockets of his overcoat.
       “I had a little present I wanted you to take to Ellen,” he said. “Now, where on earth is it? I’m sure I had it in my hand as I came down.”
       “I never saw you carrying anything. What sort of present?”
       “A little box wrapped up in white paper. I forgot to give it to you yesterday. I don’t want to forget it today.”
       “A little box!” Mrs Foster cried. “I never saw any little box!” She began hunting frantically in the back of the car.
       Her husband continued searching through the pockets of his coat. Then he unbuttoned the coat and felt around in his jacket. “Confound it,” he said, “I must’ve left it in my bedroom. I won’t be a moment.”
       “Oh, please!” she cried. “We haven’t got time! Please leave it! You can mail it. It’s only one of those silly combs anyway. You’re always giving her combs.”
       “And what’s wrong with combs, may I ask?” he said, furious that she should have forgotten herself for once.
       “Nothing, dear, I’m sure. But . . .”
       “Stay here!” he commanded. “I’m going to get it.”
       “Be quick, dear! Oh, please be quick!”
       She sat still, waiting and waiting.
       “Chauffeur, what time is it?”
       The man had a wristwatch, which he consulted. “I make it nearly nine thirty.”
       “Can we get to the airport in an hour?”
       “Just about.”
       At this point, Mrs Foster suddenly spotted a corner of something white wedged down in the crack of the seat on the side where her husband had been sitting. She reached over and pulled out a small paper-wrapped box, and at the same time she couldn’t help noticing that it was wedged down firm and deep, as though with the help of a pushing hand.
       “Here it is!” she cried. “I’ve found it! Oh dear, and now he’ll be up there for ever searching for it! Chauffeur, quickly—run in and call him down, will you please?”
       The chauffeur, a man with a small rebellious Irish mouth, didn’t care very much for any of this, but he climbed out of the car and went up the steps to the front door of the house. Then he turned and came back. “Door’s locked,” he announced. “You got a key?”
       “Yes—wait a minute.” She began hunting madly in her purse. The little face was screwed up tight with anxiety, the lips pushed outward like a spout.
       “Here it is! No—I’ll go myself. It’ll be quicker. I know where he’ll be.”
       She hurried out of the car and up the steps to the front door, holding the key in one hand. She slid the key into the keyhole and was about to turn it—and then she stopped. Her head came up, and she stood there absolutely motionless, her whole body arrested right in the middle of all this hurry to turn the key and get into the house, and she waited—five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten seconds, she waited. The way she was standing there, with her head in the air and the body so tense, it seemed as though she were listening for the repetition of some sound that she had heard a moment before from a place far away inside the house.
       Yes—quite obviously she was listening. Her whole attitude was a listening one. She appeared actually to be moving one of her ears closer and closer to the door. Now it was right up against the door, and for still another few seconds she remained in that position, head up, ear to door, hand on key, about to enter but not entering, trying instead, or so it seemed, to hear and to analyse these sounds that were coming faintly from this place deep within the house.
       Then, all at once, she sprang to life again. She withdrew the key from the door and came running back down the steps.
       “It’s too late!” she cried to the chauffeur. “I can’t wait for him, I simply can’t. I’ll miss the plane. Hurry now, driver, hurry! To the airport!”
       The chauffeur, had he been watching her closely, might have noticed that her face had turned absolutely white and that the whole expression had suddenly altered. There was no longer that rather soft and silly look. A peculiar hardness had settled itself upon the features. The little mouth, usually so flabby, was now tight and thin, the eyes were bright, and the voice, when she spoke, carried a new note of authority.
       “Hurry, driver, hurry!”
       “Isn’t your husband travelling with you?” the man asked, astonished.
       “Certainly not! I was only going to drop him at the club. It won’t matter. He’ll understand. He’ll get a cab. Don’t sit there talking, man. Get going! I’ve got a plane to catch for Paris!”
       With Mrs Foster urging him from the back seat, the man drove fast all the way, and she caught her plane with a few minutes to spare. Soon she was high up over the Atlantic, reclining comfortably in her aeroplane chair, listening to the hum of the motors, heading for Paris at last. The new mood was still with her. She felt remarkably strong and, in a queer sort of way, wonderful. She was a trifle breathless with it all, but this was more from pure astonishment at what she had done than anything else, and as the plane flew farther and farther away from New York and East Sixty-second Street, a great sense of calmness began to settle upon her. By the time she reached Paris, she was just as strong and cool and calm as she could wish.
       She met her grandchildren, and they were even more beautiful in the flesh than in their photographs. They were like angels, she told herself, so beautiful they were. And every day she took them for walks, and fed them cakes, and bought them presents, and told them charming stories.
       Once a week, on Tuesdays, she wrote a letter to her husband—a nice, chatty letter—full of news and gossip, which always ended with the words “Now be sure to take your meals regularly, dear, although this is something I’m afraid you may not be doing when I’m not with you.”
       When the six weeks were up, everybody was sad that she had to return to America, to her husband. Everybody, that is, except her. Surprisingly, she didn’t seem to mind as much as one might have expected, and when she kissed them all good-bye, there was something in her manner and in the things she said that appeared to hint at the possibility of a return in the not too distant future.
       However, like the faithful wife she was, she did not overstay her time. Exactly six weeks after she had arrived, she sent a cable to her husband and caught the plane back to New York.
       Arriving at Idlewild, Mrs Foster was interested to observe that there was no car to meet her. It is possible that she might even have been a little amused. But she was extremely calm and did not overtip the porter who helped her into a taxi with her baggage.
       New York was colder than Paris, and there were lumps of dirty snow lying in the gutters of the streets. The taxi drew up before the house on Sixty-second Street, and Mrs Foster persuaded the driver to carry her two large cases to the top of the steps. Then she paid him off and rang the bell. She waited, but there was no answer. Just to make sure, she rang again, and she could hear it tinkling shrilly far away in the pantry, at the back of the house. But still no one came.
       So she took out her own key and opened the door herself.
       The first thing she saw as she entered was a great pile of mail lying on the floor where it had fallen after being slipped through the letter box. The place was dark and cold. A dust sheet was still draped over the grandfather clock. In spite of the cold, the atmosphere was peculiarly oppressive, and there was a faint and curious odour in the air that she had never smelled before.
       She walked quickly across the hall and disappeared for a moment around the corner to the left, at the back. There was something deliberate and purposeful about this action; she had the air of a woman who is off to investigate a rumour or to confirm a suspicion. And when she returned a few seconds later, there was a little glimmer of satisfaction on her face.
       She paused in the centre of the hall, as though wondering what to do next. Then, suddenly, she turned and went across into her husband’s study. On the desk she found his address book, and after hunting through it for a while she picked up the phone and dialled a number.
       “Hello,” she said. “Listen—this is Nine East Sixty-second Street. . . . Yes, that’s right. Could you send someone round as soon as possible, do you think? Yes, it seems to be stuck between the second and third floors. At least, that’s where the indicator’s pointing. . . . Right away? Oh, that’s very kind of you. You see, my legs aren’t any too good for walking up a lot of stairs. Thank you so much. Good-bye.”
       She replaced the receiver and sat there at her husband’s desk, patiently waiting for the man who would be coming soon to repair the lift.

Parson’s Pleasure

Mr Boggis was driving the car slowly, leaning back comfortably in the seat with one elbow resting on the sill of the open window. How beautiful the countryside, he thought; how pleasant to see a sign or two of summer once again. The primroses especially. And the hawthorn. The hawthorn was exploding white and pink and red along the hedges and the primroses were growing underneath in little clumps, and it was beautiful.
       He took one hand off the wheel and lit himself a cigarette. The best thing now, he told himself, would be to make for the top of Brill Hill. He could see it about half a mile ahead. And that must be the village of Brill, that cluster of cottages among the trees right on the very summit. Excellent. Not many of his Sunday sections had a nice elevation like that to work from.
       He drove up the hill and stopped the car just short of the summit on the outskirts of the village. Then he got out and looked around. Down below, the countryside was spread out before him like a huge green carpet. He could see for miles. It was perfect. He took a pad and pencil from his pocket, leaned against the back of the car, and allowed his practised eye to travel slowly over the landscape.
       He could see one medium farmhouse over on the right, back in the fields, with a track leading to it from the road. There was another larger one beyond it. There was a house surrounded by tall elms that looked as though it might be a Queen Anne, and there were two likely farms away over on the left. Five places in all. That was about the lot in this direction.
       Mr Boggis drew a rough sketch on his pad showing the position of each so that he’d be able to find them easily when he was down below, then he got back into the car and drove up through the village to the other side of the hill. From there he spotted six more possibles—five farms and one big white Georgian house. He studied the Georgian house through his binoculars. It had a clean prosperous look, and the garden was well ordered. That was a pity. He ruled it out immediately. There was no point in calling on the prosperous.
       In this square then, in this section, there were ten possibles in all. Ten was a nice number, Mr Boggis told himself. Just the right amount for a leisurely afternoon’s work. What time was it now? Twelve o’clock. He would have liked a pint of beer in the pub before he started, but on Sundays they didn’t open until one. Very well, he would have it later. He glanced at the notes on his pad. He decided to take the Queen Anne first, the house with the elms. It had looked nicely dilapidated through the binoculars. The people there could probably do with some money. He was always lucky with Queen Annes, anyway. Mr Boggis climbed back into the car, released the hand-brake, and began cruising slowly down the hill without the engine.
       Apart from the fact that he was at this moment disguised in the uniform of a clergyman, there was nothing very sinister about Mr Cyril Boggis. By trade he was a dealer in antique furniture, with his own shop and showroom in the King’s Road, Chelsea. His premises were not large, and generally he didn’t do a great deal of business, but because he always bought cheap, very very cheap, and sold very very dear, he managed to make quite a tidy little income every year. He was a talented salesman, and when buying or selling a piece he could slide smoothly into whichever mood suited the client best. He could become grave and charming for the aged, obsequious for the rich, sober for the godly, masterful for the weak, mischievous for the widow, arch and saucy for the spinster. He was well aware of his gift, using it shamelessly on every possible occasion; and often, at the end of an unusually good performance, it was as much as he could do to prevent himself from turning aside and taking a bow or two as the thundering applause of the audience went rolling through the theatre.
       In spite of this rather clownish quality of his, Mr Boggis was not a fool. In fact, it was said of him by some that he probably knew as much about French, English, and Italian furniture as anyone else in London. He also had surprisingly good taste, and he was quick to recognise and reject an ungraceful design, however genuine the article might be. His real love, naturally, was for the work of the great eighteenth-century English designers, Ince, Mayhew, Chippendale, Robert Adam, Manwaring, Inigo Jones, Hepplewhite, Kent, Johnson, George Smith, Lock, Sheraton, and the rest of them, but even with these he occasionally drew the line. He refused, for example, to allow a single piece from Chippendale’s Chinese or Gothic period to come into his showroom, and the same was true of some of the heavier Italian designs of Robert Adam.
       During the past few years, Mr Boggis had achieved considerable fame among his friends in the trade by his ability to produce unusual and often quite rare items with astonishing regularity. Apparently the man had a source of supply that was almost inexhaustible, a sort of private warehouse, and it seemed that all he had to do was to drive out to it once a week and help himself. Whenever they asked him where he got the stuff, he would smile knowingly and wink and murmur something about a little secret.
       The idea behind Mr Boggis’s little secret was a simple one, and it had come to him as a result of something that had happened on a certain Sunday afternoon nearly nine years before, while he was driving in the country.
       He had gone out in the morning to visit his old mother, who lived in Sevenoaks, and on the way back the fanbelt on his car had broken, causing the engine to overheat and the water to boil away. He had got out of the car and walked to the nearest house, a smallish farm building about fifty yards off the road, and had asked the woman who answered the door if he could please have a jug of water.
       While he was waiting for her to fetch it, he happened to glance in through the door to the living-room, and there, not five yards from where he was standing, he spotted something that made him so excited the sweat began to come out all over the top of his head. It was a large oak armchair of a type that he had only seen once before in his life. Each arm, as well as the panel at the back, was supported by a row of eight beautifully turned spindles. The back panel itself was decorated by an inlay of the most delicate floral design, and the head of a duck was carved to lie along half the length of either arm. Good God, he thought. This thing is late fifteenth century!
       He poked his head in further through the door, and there, by heavens, was another of them on the other side of the fireplace!
       He couldn’t be sure, but two chairs like that must be worth at least a thousand pounds up in London. And oh, what beauties they were!
       When the woman returned, Mr Boggis introduced himself and straight away asked if she would like to sell her chairs.
       Dear me, she said. But why on earth should she want to sell her chairs?
       No reason at all, except that he might be willing to give her a pretty nice price.
       And how much would he give? They were definitely not for sale, but just out of curiosity, just for fun, you know, how much would he give?
       Thirty-five pounds.
       How much?
       Thirty-five pounds.
       Dear me, thirty-five pounds. Well, well, that was very interesting. She’d always thought they were valuable. They were very old. They were very comfortable too. She couldn’t possibly do without them, not possibly. No, they were not for sale but thank you very much all the same.
       They weren’t really so very old, Mr Boggis told her, and they wouldn’t be at all easy to sell, but it just happened that he had a client who rather liked that sort of thing. Maybe he could go up another two pounds—call it thirty-seven. How about that?
       They bargained for half an hour, and of course in the end Mr Boggis got the chairs and agreed to pay her something less than a twentieth of their value.
       That evening, driving back to London in his old station-wagon with the two fabulous chairs tucked away snugly in the back, Mr Boggis had suddenly been struck by what seemed to him to be a most remarkable idea.
       Look here, he said. If there is good stuff in one farmhouse, then why not in others? Why shouldn’t he search for it? Why shouldn’t he comb the countryside? He could do it on Sundays. In that way, it wouldn’t interfere with his work at all. He never knew what to do with his Sundays.
       So Mr Boggis bought maps, large scale maps of all the counties around London, and with a fine pen he divided each of them up into a series of squares. Each of these squares covered an actual area of five miles by five, which was about as much territory, he estimated, as he could cope with on a single Sunday, were he to comb it thoroughly. He didn’t want the towns and the villages. It was the comparatively isolated places, the large farmhouses and the rather dilapidated country mansions, that he was looking for; and in this way, if he did one square each Sunday, fifty-two squares a year, he would gradually cover every farm and every country house in the home counties.
       But obviously there was a bit more to it than that. Country folk are a suspicious lot. So are the impoverished rich. You can’t go about ringing their bells and expecting them to show you around their houses just for the asking, because they won’t do it. That way you would never get beyond the front door. How then was he to gain admittance? Perhaps it would be best if he didn’t let them know he was a dealer at all. He could be the telephone man, the plumber, the gas inspector. He could even be a clergyman. . . .
       From this point on, the whole scheme began to take on a more practical aspect. Mr Boggis ordered a large quantity of superior cards on which the following legend was engraved :

THE REVEREND
CYRIL WINNINGTON BOGGIS

President of the Society

    In association with

for the Preservation of

The Victoria and

Rare Furniture

Albert Museum

       From now on, every Sunday, he was going to be a nice old parson spending his holiday travelling around on a labour of love for the “Society,” compiling an inventory of the treasures that lay hidden in the country homes of England. And who in the world was going to kick him out when they heard that one?
       Nobody.
       And then, once he was inside, if he happened to spot something he really wanted, well—he knew a hundred different ways of dealing with that.
       Rather to Mr Boggis’s surprise, the scheme worked. In fact, the friendliness with which he was received in one house after another through the countryside was, in the beginning, quite embarrassing, even to him. A slice of cold pie, a glass of port, a cup of tea, a basket of plums, even a full sit-down Sunday dinner with the family, such things were constantly being pressed upon him. Sooner or later, of course, there had been some bad moments and a number of unpleasant incidents, but then nine years is more than four hundred Sundays, and that adds up to a great quantity of houses visited. All in all, it had been an interesting, exciting, and lucrative business.
       And now it was another Sunday and Mr Boggis was operating in the county of Buckinghamshire, in one of the most northerly squares on his map, about ten miles from Oxford, and as he drove down the hill and headed for his first house, the dilapidated Queen Anne, he began to get the feeling that this was going to be one of his lucky days.
       He parked the car about a hundred yards from the gates and got out to walk the rest of the way. He never liked people to see his car until after a deal was completed. A dear old clergyman and a large station-wagon somehow never seemed quite right together. Also the short walk gave him time to examine the property closely from the outside and to assume the mood most likely to be suitable for the occasion.
       Mr Boggis strode briskly up the drive. He was a small fat-legged man with a belly. The face was round and rosy, quite perfect for the part, and the two large brown eyes that bulged out at you from this rosy face gave an impression of gentle imbecility. He was dressed in a black suit with the usual parson’s dog-collar round his neck, and on his head a soft black hat. He carried an old oak walking-stick which lent him, in his opinion, a rather rustic easy-going air.
       He approached the front door and rang the bell. He heard the sound of footsteps in the hall and the door opened and suddenly there stood before him, or rather above him, a gigantic woman dressed in riding-breeches. Even through the smoke of her cigarette he could smell the powerful odour of stables and horse manure that clung about her.
       “Yes?” she asked, looking at him suspiciously. “What is it you want?”
       Mr Boggis, who half expected her to whinny any moment, raised his hat, made a little bow, and handed her his card. “I do apologise for bothering you,” he said, and then he waited, watching her face as she read the message.
       “I don’t understand,” she said, handing back the card. “What is it you want?”
       Mr Boggis explained about the Society for the Preservation of Rare Furniture.
       “This wouldn’t by any chance be something to do with the Socialist Party?” she asked, staring at him fiercely from under a pair of pale bushy brows.
       From then on, it was easy. A Tory in riding-breeches, male or female, was always a sitting duck for Mr Boggis. He spent two minutes delivering an impassioned eulogy on the extreme Right Wing of the Conservative Party, then two more denouncing the Socialists. As a clincher, he made particular reference to the Bill that the Socialists had once introduced for the abolition of bloodsports in the country, and went on to inform his listener that his idea of heaven—“though you better not tell the bishop, my dear”—was a place where one could hunt the fox, the stag, and the hare with large packs of tireless hounds from morn till night every day of the week, including Sundays.
       Watching her as he spoke, he could see the magic beginning to do its work. The woman was grinning now, showing Mr Boggis a set of enormous, slightly yellow teeth. “Madam,” he cried, “I beg of you, please don’t get me started on Socialism.” At that point, she let out a great guffaw of laughter, raised an enormous red hand, and slapped him so hard on the shoulder that he nearly went over.
       “Come in!” she shouted. “I don’t know what the hell you want, but come on in!”
       Unfortunately, and rather surprisingly, there was nothing of any value in the whole house, and Mr Boggis, who never wasted time on barren territory, soon made his excuses and took his leave. The whole visit had taken less than fifteen minutes, and that, he told himself as he climbed back into his car and started off for the next place, was exactly as it should be.
       From now on, it was all farmhouses, and the nearest was about half a mile up the road. It was a large half-timbered brick building of considerable age, and there was a magnificent pear tree still in blossom covering almost the whole of the south wall.
       Mr Boggis knocked on the door. He waited, but no one came. He knocked again, but still there was no answer, so he wandered around the back to look for the farmer among the cowsheds. There was no one there either. He guessed that they must all still be in church, so he began peering in the windows to see if he could spot anything interesting. There was nothing in the dining-room. Nothing in the library either. He tried the next window, the living-room, and there, right under his nose, in the little alcove that the window made, he saw a beautiful thing, a semicircular card-table in mahogany, richly veneered, and in the style of Hepplewhite, built around 1780.
       “Ah-ha,” he said aloud, pressing his face hard against glass. “Well done, Boggis.”
       But that was not all. There was a chair there as well, a single chair, and if he were not mistaken it was of an even finer quality than the table. Another Hepplewhite, wasn’t it? And oh, what a beauty! The lattices on the back were finely carved with the honeysuckle, the husk, and the paterae, the caning on the seat was original, the legs were very gracefully turned and the two back ones had that peculiar outward splay that meant so much. It was an exquisite chair. “Before this day is done,” Mr Boggis said softly, “I shall have the pleasure of sitting down upon that lovely seat.” He never bought a chair without doing this. It was a favourite test of his, and it was always an intriguing sight to see him lowering himself delicately into the seat, waiting for the “give,” expertly gauging the precise but infinitesimal degree of shrinkage that the years had caused in the mortice and dovetail joints.
       But there was no hurry, he told himself. He would return here later. He had the whole afternoon before him.
       The next farm was situated some way back in the fields, and in order to keep his car out of sight, Mr Boggis had to leave it on the road and walk about six hundred yards along a straight track that led directly into the back yard of the farmhouse. This place, he noticed as he approached, was a good deal smaller than the last, and he didn’t hold out much hope for it. It looked rambling and dirty, and some of the sheds were clearly in bad repair.
       There were three men standing in a close group in a corner of the yard, and one of them had two large black greyhounds with him, on leashes. When the men caught sight of Mr Boggis walking forward in his black suit and parson’s collar, they stopped talking and seemed suddenly to stiffen and freeze, becoming absolutely still, motionless, three faces turned towards him, watching him suspiciously as he approached.
       The oldest of the three was a stumpy man with a wide frog mouth and small shifty eyes, and although Mr Boggis didn’t know it, his name was Rummins and he was the owner of the farm.
       The tall youth beside him, who appeared to have something wrong with one eye, was Bert, the son of Rummins.
       The shortish flat-faced man with a narrow corrugated brow and immensely broad shoulders was Claud. Claud had dropped in on Rummins in the hope of getting a piece of pork or ham out of him from the pig that had been killed the day before. Claud knew about the killing—the noise of it had carried far across the fields—and he also knew that a man should have a government permit to do that sort of thing, and that Rummins didn’t have one.
       “Good afternoon,” Mr Boggis said. “Isn’t it a lovely day?”
       None of the three men moved. At that moment they were all thinking precisely the same thing—that somehow or other this clergyman, who was certainly not the local fellow, had been sent to poke his nose into their business and to report what he found to the government.
       “What beautiful dogs,” Mr Boggis said. “I must say I’ve never been greyhound-racing myself, but they tell me it’s a fascinating sport.”
       Again the silence, and Mr Boggis glanced quickly from Rummins to Bert, then to Claud, then back again to Rummins, and he noticed that each of them had the same peculiar expression on his face, something between a jeer and a challenge, with a contemptuous curl to the mouth and a sneer around the nose.
       “Might I enquire if you are the owner?” Mr Boggis asked, undaunted, addressing himself to Rummins.
       “What is it you want?”
       “I do apologise for troubling you, especially on a Sunday.”
       Mr Boggis offered his card and Rummins took it and held it up close to his face. The other two didn’t move, but their eyes swivelled over to one side, trying to see.
       “And what exactly might you be wanting?” Rummins asked.
       For the second time that morning, Mr Boggis explained at some length the aims and ideals of the Society for the Preservation of Rare Furniture.
       “We don’t have any,” Rummins told him when it was over. “You’re wasting your time.”
       “Now, just a minute, sir,” Mr Boggis said, raising a finger. “The last man who said that to me was an old farmer down in Sussex, and when he finally let me into his house, d’you know what I found? A dirty-looking old chair in the corner of the kitchen, and it turned out to be worth four hundred pounds!. I showed him how to sell it, and he bought himself a new tractor with the money.”
       “What on earth are you talking about?” Claud said. “There ain’t no chair in the world worth four hundred pound.”
       “Excuse me,” Mr Boggis answered primly, “but there are plenty of chairs in England worth more than twice that figure. And you know where they are? They’re tucked away in the farms and cottages all over the country, with the owners using them as steps and ladders and standing on them with hobnailed boots to reach a pot of jam out of the top cupboard or to hang a picture. This is the truth I’m telling you, my friends.”
       Rummins shifted uneasily on his feet. “You mean to say all you want to do is go inside and stand there in the middle of the room and look around?”
       “Exactly,” Mr Boggis said. He was at last beginning to sense what the trouble might be. “I don’t want to pry into your cupboards or into your larder. I just want to look at the furniture to see if you happen to have any treasures here, and then I can write about them in our Society magazine.”
       “You know what I think?” Rummins said, fixing him with his small wicked eyes. “I think you’re after buying the stuff yourself. Why else would you be going to all this trouble?”
       “Oh, dear me. I only wish I had the money. Of course, if I saw something that I took a great fancy to, and it wasn’t beyond my means, I might be tempted to make an offer. But alas, that rarely happens.”
       “Well,” Rummins said, “I don’t suppose there’s any harm in your taking a look around if that’s all you want.” He led the way across the yard to the back door of the farmhouse, and Mr Boggis followed him; so did the son, Bert, and Claud with his two dogs. They went through the kitchen, where the only furniture was a cheap deal table with a dead chicken lying on it, and they emerged into a fairly large, exceedingly filthy living-room.
       And there it was! Mr Boggis saw it at once, and he stopped dead in his tracks and gave a little shrill gasp of shock. Then he stood there for five, ten, fifteen seconds at least, staring like an idiot, unable to believe, not daring to believe what he saw before him. It couldn’t be true, not possibly! But the longer he stared, the more true it began to seem. After all, there it was standing against the wall right in front of him, as real and as solid as the house itself. And who in the world could possibly make a mistake about a thing like that? Admittedly it was painted white, but that made not the slightest difference. Some idiot had done that. The paint could easily be stripped off. But good God! Just look at it! And in a place like this!
       At this point, Mr Boggis became aware of the three men, Rummins, Bert, and Claud, standing together in a group over by the fireplace, watching him intently. They had seen him stop and gasp and stare, and they must have seen his face turning red, or maybe it was white, but in any event they had seen enough to spoil the whole goddamn business if he didn’t do something about it quick. In a flash, Mr Boggis clapped one hand over his heart, staggered to the nearest chair, and collapsed into it, breathing heavily.
       “What’s the matter with you?” Claud asked.
       “It’s nothing,” he gasped. “I’ll be all right in a minute. Please—a glass of water. It’s my heart.”
       Bert fetched him the water, handed it to him, and stayed close beside him, staring down at him with a fatuous leer on his face.
       “I thought maybe you were looking at something,” Rummins said. The wide frog-mouth widened a fraction further into a crafty grin, showing the stubs of several broken teeth.
       “No, no,” Mr Boggis said. “Oh dear me, no. It’s just my heart. I’m so sorry. It happens every now and then. But it goes away quite quickly. I’ll be all right in a couple of minutes.”
       He must have time to think, he told himself. More important still, he must have time to compose himself thoroughly before he said another word. Take it gently, Boggis. And whatever you do, keep calm. These people may be ignorant, but they are not stupid. They are suspicious and wary and sly. And if it is really true—not it can’t be, it can’t be true . . .
       He was holding one hand up over his eyes in a gesture of pain, and now, very carefully, secretly, he made a little crack between two of the fingers and peeked through.
       Sure enough, the thing was still there, and on this occasion he took a good long look at it. Yes—he had been right the first time! There wasn’t the slightest doubt about it! It was really unbelievable!
       What he saw was a piece of furniture that any expert would have given almost anything to acquire. To a layman, it might not have appeared particularly impressive, especially when covered over as it was with dirty white paint, but to Mr Boggis it was a dealer’s dream. He knew, as does every other dealer in Europe and America, that among the most celebrated and coveted examples of eighteenth-century English furniture in existence are the three famous pieces known as “The Chippendale Commodes.” He knew their history backwards—that the first was “discovered” in 1920, in a house at Moreton-in-Marsh, and was sold at Sotheby’s the same year; that the other two turned up in the same auction rooms a year later, both coming out of Raynham Hall, Norfolk. They all fetched enormous prices. He couldn’t quite remember the exact figure for the first one, or even the second, but he knew for certain that the last one to be sold had fetched thirty-nine hundred guineas. And that was in 1921! Today the same piece would surely be worth ten thousand pounds. Some man, Mr Boggis couldn’t remember his name, had made a study of these commodes fairly recently and had proved that all three must have come from the same workshop, for the veneers were all from the same log, and the same set of templates had been used in the construction of each. No invoices had been found for any of them, but all the experts were agreed that these three commodes could have been executed only by Thomas Chippendale himself, with his own hands, at the most exalted period in his career.
       And here, Mr Boggis kept telling himself as he peered cautiously through the crack in his fingers, here was the fourth Chippendale Commode! And he had found it! He would be rich! He would also be famous! Each of the other three was known throughout the furniture world by a special name—The Chastleton Commode, The First Raynham Commode, The Second Raynham Commode. This one would go down in history as The Boggis Commode! Just imagine the faces of the boys up there in London when they got a look at it tomorrow morning! And the luscious offers coming in from the big fellows over in the West End—Frank Partridge, Mallett, Jetley, and the rest of them! There would be a picture of it in The Times, and it would say, “The very fine Chippendale Commode which was recently discovered by Mr Cyril Boggis, a London dealer. . . .” Dear God, what a stir he was going to make!
       This one here, Mr Boggis thought, was almost exactly similar to the Second Raynham Commode. (All three, the Chastleton and the two Raynhams, differed from one another in a number of small ways.) It was a most impressive handsome affair, built in the French rococo style of Chippendale’s Directoire period, a kind of large fat chest-of-drawers set upon four carved and fluted legs that raised it about a foot from the ground. There were six drawers in all, two long ones in the middle and two shorter ones on either side. The serpentine front was magnificently ornamented along the top and sides and bottom, and also vertically between each set of drawers, with intricate carvings of festoons and scrolls and clusters. The brass handles, although partly obscured by white paint, appeared to be superb. It was, of course, a rather “heavy” piece, but the design had been executed with such elegance and grace that the heaviness was in no way offensive.
       “How’re you feeling now?” Mr Boggis heard someone saying.
       “Thank you, thank you, I’m much better already. It passes quickly. My doctor says it’s nothing to worry about really so long as I rest for a few minutes whenever it happens. Ah yes,” he said, raising himself slowly to his feet. “That’s better. I’m all right now.”
       A trifle unsteadily, he began to move around the room examining the furniture, one piece at a time, commenting upon it briefly. He could see at once that apart from the commode it was a very poor lot.
       “Nice oak table,” he said. “But I’m afraid it’s not old enough to be of any interest. Good comfortable chairs, but quite modern, yes, quite modern. Now this cupboard, well, it’s rather attractive, but again, not valuable. This chest-of-drawers”—he walked casually past the Chippendale Commode and gave it a little contemptuous flip with his fingers—“worth a few pounds, I dare say, but no more. A rather crude reproduction, I’m afraid. Probably made in Victorian times. Did you paint it white?”
       “Yes,” Rummins said. “Bert did it.”
       “A very wise move. It’s considerably less offensive in white.”
       “That’s a strong piece of furniture,” Rummins said. “Some nice carving on it too.”
       “Machine-carved,” Mr Boggis answered superbly, bending down to examine the exquisite craftsmanship. “You can tell it a mile off. But still, I suppose it’s quite pretty in its way. It has its points.”
       He began to saunter off, then he checked himself and turned slowly back again. He placed the tip of one finger against the point of his chin, laid his head over to one side, and frowned as though deep in thought.
       “You know what?” he said, looking at the commode, speaking so casually that his voice kept trailing off. “I’ve just remembered . . . I’ve been wanting a set of legs something like that for a long time. I’ve got a rather curious table in my own little home, one of those low things that people put in front of the sofa, sort of a coffee-table, and last Michaelmas, when I moved house, the foolish movers damaged the legs in the most shocking way. I’m very fond of that table. I always keep my big Bible on it, and all my sermon notes.”
       He paused, stroking his chin with the finger. “Now I was just thinking. These legs on your chest-of-drawers might be very suitable. Yes, they might indeed. They could easily be cut off and fixed on to my table.”
       He looked around and saw the three men standing absolutely still, watching him suspiciously, three pairs of eyes, all different but equally mistrusting, small pig-eyes for Rummins, large slow eyes for Claud, and two odd eyes for Bert, one of them very queer and boiled and misty pale, with a little black dot in the centre, like a fish eye on a plate.
       Mr Boggis smiled and shook his head. “Come, come, what on earth am I saying? I’m talking as though I owned the piece myself. I do apologise.”
       “What you mean to say is you’d like to buy it,” Rummins said.
       “Well . . .” Mr Boggis glanced back at the commode, frowning. “I’m not sure. I might . . . and then again . . . on second thoughts . . . no . . . I think it might be a bit too much trouble. It’s not worth it. I’d better leave it.”
       “How much were you thinking of offering?” Rummins asked.
       “Not much, I’m afraid. You see, this is not a genuine antique. It’s merely a reproduction.”
       “I’m not so sure about that,” Rummins told him. “It’s been in here over twenty years, and before that it was up at the Manor House. I bought it there myself at auction when the old Squire died. You can’t tell me that thing’s new.”
       “It’s not exactly new, but it’s certainly not more than about sixty years old.”
       “It’s more than that,” Rummins said. “Bert, where’s that bit of paper you once found at the back of one of them drawers? That old bill.”
       The boy looked vacantly at his father.
       Mr Boggis opened his mouth, then quickly shut it again without uttering a sound. He was beginning literally to shake with excitement, and to calm himself he walked over to the window and stared out at a plump brown hen pecking around for stray grains of corn in the yard.
       “It was in the back of that drawer underneath all them rabbit-snares,” Rummins was saying. “Go on and fetch it out and show it to the parson.”
       When Bert went forward to the commode, Mr Boggis turned round again. He couldn’t stand not watching him. He saw him pull out one of the big middle drawers, and he noticed the beautiful way in which the drawer slid open. He saw Bert’s hand dipping inside and rummaging around among a lot of wires and strings.
       “You mean this?” Bert lifted out a piece of folded yellowing paper and carried it over to the father, who unfolded it and held it up close to his face.
       “You can’t tell me this writing ain’t bloody old,” Rummins said, and he held the paper out to Mr Boggis, whose whole arm was shaking as he took it. It was brittle and it crackled slightly between his fingers. The writing was in a long sloping copperplate hand:

Edward Montagu, Esq. Dr.
       To Thos. Chippendale
       A large mahogany Commode Table of exceeding fine wood, very rich carvd, set upon fluted legs, two very neat shapd long drawers in the middle part and two ditto on each side, with rich chasd Brass Handles and Ornaments, the whole completely finished in the most exquisite taste..........................................£87

       Mr Boggis was holding on to himself tight and fighting to suppress the excitement that was spinning round inside him and making him dizzy. Oh God, it was wonderful! With the invoice, the value had climbed even higher. What in heaven’s name would it fetch now? Twelve thousand pounds? Fourteen? Maybe fifteen or even twenty? Who knows?
       Oh, boy!
       He tossed the paper contemptuously on to the table and said quietly, “It’s exactly what I told you, a Victorian reproduction. This is simply the invoice that the seller—the man who made it and passed it off as an antique—gave to his client. I’ve seen lots of them. You’ll notice that he doesn’t say he made it himself. That would give the game away.”
       “Say what you like,” Rummins announced, “but that’s an old piece of paper.”
       “Of course it is, my dear friend. It’s Victorian, late Victorian. About eighteen ninety. Sixty or seventy years old. I’ve seen hundreds of them. That was a time when masses of cabinet-makers did nothing else but apply themselves to faking the fine furniture of the century before.”
       “Listen, Parson,” Rummins said, pointing at him with a thick dirty finger, “I’m not saying as how you may not know a fair bit about this furniture business, but what I am saying is this: How on earth can you be so mighty sure it’s a fake when you haven’t even seen what it looks like underneath all that paint?”
       “Come here,” Mr Boggis said. “Come over here and I’ll show you.” He stood beside the commode and waited for them to gather round. “Now, anyone got a knife?”
       Claud produced a horn-handled pocket knife, and Mr Boggis took it and opened the smallest blade. Then, working with apparent casualness but actually with extreme care, he began chipping off the white paint from a small area on the top of the commode. The paint flaked away cleanly from the old hard varnish underneath, and when he had cleared away about three square inches, he stepped back and said, “Now, take a look at that!”
       It was beautiful—a warm little patch of mahogany, glowing like a topaz, rich and dark with the true colour of its two hundred years.
       “What’s wrong with it?” Rummins asked.
       “It’s processed! Anyone can see that!”
       “How can you see it, Mister? You tell us.”
       “Well, I must say that’s a trifle difficult to explain. It’s chiefly a matter of experience. My experience tells me that without the slightest doubt this wood has been processed with lime. That’s what they use for mahogany, to give it that dark aged colour. For oak, they use potash salts, and for walnut it’s nitric acid, but for mahogany it’s always lime.”
       The three men moved a little closer to peer at the wood. There was a slight stirring of interest among them now. It was always intriguing to hear about some new form of crockery or deception.
       “Look closely at the grain. You see that touch of orange in among the dark red-brown. That’s the sign of lime.”
       They leaned forward, their noses close to the wood, first Rummins, then Claud, then Bert.
       “And then there’s the patina,” Mr Boggins continued.
       “The what?”
       He explained to them the meaning of this word as applied to furniture.
       “My dear friends, you’ve no idea the trouble these rascals will go to to imitate the hard beautiful bronze-like appearance of genuine patina. It’s terrible, really terrible, and it makes me quite sick to speak of it!” He was spitting each word sharply off the tip of the tongue and making a sour mouth to show his extreme distaste. The men waited, hoping for more secrets.
       “The time and trouble that some mortals will go to in order to deceive the innocent!” Mr Boggis cried. “It’s perfectly disgusting! D’you know what they did here, my friends? I can recognise it clearly. I can almost see them doing it, the long, complicated ritual of rubbing the wood with linseed oil, coating it over with french polish that has been cunningly coloured, brushing it down with pumice-stone and oil, bees-waxing it with a wax that contains dirt and dust, and finally giving it the heat treatment to crack the polish so that it looks like two-hundred-year-old varnish! It really upsets me to contemplate such knavery!”
       The three men continued to gaze at the little patch of dark wood.
       “Feel it!” Mr Boggis ordered. “Put your fingers on it! There, how does it feel, warm or cold?”
       “Feels cold,” Rummins said.
       “Exactly, my friend! It happens to be a fact that faked patina is always cold to the touch. Real patina has a curiously warm feel to it.”
       “This feels normal,” Rummins said, ready to argue.
       “No, sir, it’s cold. But of course it takes an experienced and sensitive finger-tip to pass a positive judgement. You couldn’t really be expected to judge this any more than I could be expected to judge the quality of your barley. Everything in life, my dear sir, is experience.”
       The men were staring at this queer moon-faced clergyman with the bulging eyes, not quite so suspiciously now because he did seem to know a bit about his subject. But they were still a long way from trusting him.
       Mr Boggis bent down and pointed to one of the metal drawer-handles on the commode. “This is another place where the fakers go to work,” he said. “Old brass normally has a colour and character all of its own. Did you know that?”
       They stared at him, hoping for still more secrets.
       “But the trouble is that they’ve become exceedingly skilled at matching it. In fact it’s almost impossible to tell the difference between ‘genuine old’ and ‘faked old.’ I don’t mind admitting that it has me guessing. So there’s not really any point in our scraping the paint off these handles. We wouldn’t be any the wiser.”
       “How can you possibly make new brass look like old?” Claud said. “Brass doesn’t rust, you know.”
       “You are quite right, my friend. But these scoundrels have their own secret methods.”
       “Such as what?” Claud asked. Any information of this nature was valuable, in his opinion. One never knew when it might come in handy.
       “All they have to do,” Mr Boggis said, “is to place these handles overnight in a box of mahogany shavings saturated in sal ammoniac. The sal ammoniac turns the metal green, but if you rub off the green, you will find underneath it a fine soft silvery-warm lustre, a lustre identical to that which comes with very old brass. Oh, it is so bestial, the things they do! With iron they have another trick.”
       “What do they do with iron?” Claud asked, fascinated.
       “Iron’s easy,” Mr Boggis said. “Iron locks and plates and hinges are simply buried in common salt and they come out all rusted and pitted in no time.”
       “All right,” Rummins said. “So you admit you can’t tell about the handles. For all you know, they may be hundreds and hundreds of years old. Correct?”
       “Ah,” Mr Boggis whispered, fixing Rummins with two big bulging brown eyes. “That’s where you’re wrong. Watch this.”
       From his jacket pocket, he took out a small screwdriver. At the same time, although none of them saw him do it, he also took out a little brass screw which he kept well hidden in the palm of his hand. Then he selected one of the screws in the commode—there were four to each handle—and began carefully scraping all traces of white paint from its head. When he had done this, he started slowly to unscrew it.
       “If this is a genuine old brass screw from the eighteenth century,” he was saying, “the spiral will be slightly uneven and you’ll be able to see quite easily that it has been hand-cut with a file. But if this brasswork is faked from more recent times, Victorian or later, then obviously the screw will be of the same period. It will be a mass-produced, machine-made article. Anyone can recognise a machine-made screw. Well, we shall see.”
       It was not difficult, as he put his hands over the old screw and drew it out, for Mr Boggis to substitute the new one hidden in his palm. This was another little trick of his, and through the years it had proved a most rewarding one. The pockets of his clergyman’s jacket were always stocked with a quantity of cheap brass screws of various sizes.
       “There you are,” he said, handing the modern screw to Rummins. “Take a look at that. Notice the exact evenness of the spiral? See it? Of course you do. It’s just a cheap common little screw that you yourself could buy today in any iron-monger’s in the country.”
       The screw was handed round from the one to the other, each examining it carefully. Even Rummins was impressed now.
       Mr Boggis put the screwdriver back in his pocket together with the fine hand-cut screw that he’d taken from the commode, and then he turned and walked slowly past the three men towards the door.
       “My dear friends,” he said, pausing at the entrance to the kitchen, “it was so good of you to let me peep inside your little home—so kind. I do hope I haven’t been a terrible old bore.”
       Rummins glanced up from examining the screw. “You didn’t tell us what you were going to offer,” he said.
       “Ah,” Mr Boggis said. “That’s quite right. I didn’t, did I? Well, to tell you the honest truth, I think it’s all a bit too much trouble. I think I’ll leave it.”
       “How much would you give?”
       “You mean that you really wish to part with it?”
       “I didn’t say I wished to part with it. I asked you how much.”
       Mr Boggis looked across at the commode, and he laid his head first to one side, then to the other, and he frowned, and pushed out his lips, and shrugged his shoulders, and gave a little scornful wave of the hand as though to say the thing was hardly worth thinking about really, was it?
       “Shall we say . . . ten pounds. I think that would be fair.”
       “Ten pounds!” Rummins cried. “Don’t be so ridiculous, Parson, please!”
       “It’s worth more’n that for firewood!” Claud said, disgusted.
       “Look here at the bill!” Rummins went on, stabbing that precious document so fiercely with his dirty fore-finger that Mr Boggis became alarmed. “It tells you exactly what it cost! Eighty-seven pounds! And that’s when it was new. Now it’s antique it’s worth double!”
       “If you’ll pardon me, no, sir, it’s not. It’s a second-hand reproduction. But I’ll tell you what, my friend—I’m being rather reckless, I can’t help it—I’ll go up as high as fifteen pounds. How’s that?”
       “Make it fifty,” Rummins said.
       A delicious little quiver like needles ran all the way down the back of Mr Boggis’s legs and then under the soles of his feet. He had it now. It was his. No question about that. But the habit of buying cheap, as cheap as it was humanly possible to buy, acquired by years of necessity and practice, was too strong in him now to permit him to give in so easily.
       “My dear man,” he whispered softly, “I only want the legs. Possibly I could find some use for the drawers later on, but the rest of it, the carcass itself, as your friend so rightly said, it’s firewood, that’s all.”
       “Make it thirty-five,” Rummins said.
       “I couldn’t sir, I couldn’t! It’s not worth it. And I simply mustn’t allow myself to haggle like this about a price. It’s all wrong. I’ll make you one final offer, and then I must go. Twenty pounds.”
       “I’ll take it,” Rummins snapped. “It’s yours.”
       “Oh dear,” Mr Boggis said, clasping his hands. “There I go again. I should never have started this in the first place.”
       “You can’t back out now, Parson. A deal’s a deal.”
       “Yes, yes, I know.”
       “How’re you going to take it?”
       “Well, let me see. Perhaps if I were to drive my car up into the yard, you gentlemen would be kind enough to help me load it?”
       “In a car? This thing’ll never go in a car! You’ll need a truck for this!”
       “I don’t think so. Anyway, we’ll see. My car’s on the road. I’ll be back in a jiffy. We’ll manage it somehow, I’m sure.”
       Mr Boggis walked out into the yard and through the gate and then down the long track that led across the field towards the road. He found himself giggling quite uncontrollably, and there was a feeling inside him as though hundreds and hundreds of tiny bubbles were rising up from his stomach and bursting merrily in the top of his head; like sparkling-water. All the buttercups in the field were suddenly turning into golden sovereigns, glistening in the sunlight. The ground was littered with them, and he swung off the track on to the grass so that he could walk among them and tread on them and hear the little metallic tinkle they made as he kicked them around with his toes. He was finding it difficult to stop himself from breaking into a run. But clergymen never run; they walk slowly. Walk slowly, Boggis. Keep calm, Boggis. There’s no hurry now. The commode is yours! Yours for twenty pounds, and it’s worth fifteen or twenty thousand! The Boggis Commode! In ten minutes it’ll be loaded into your car—it’ll go in easily—and you’ll be driving back to London and singing all the way! Mr Boggis driving the Boggis Commode home in the Boggis car. Historic occasion. What wouldn’t a newspaperman give to get a picture of that! Should he arrange it? Perhaps he should. Wait and see. Oh, glorious day! Oh, lovely sunny summer day! Oh, glory be!
       Back in the farmhouse, Rummins was saying, “Fancy that old bastard giving twenty pound for a load of junk like this.”
       “You did very nicely, Mr Rummins,” Claud told him. “You think he’ll pay you?”
       “We don’t put it in the car till he do.”
       “And what if it won’t go in the car?” Claud asked. “You know what I think, Mr Rummins? You want my honest opinion? I think the bloody thing’s too big to go in the car. And then what happens? Then he’s going to say to hell with it and just drive off without it and you’ll never see him again. Nor the money either. He didn’t seem all that keen on having it, you know.”
       Rummins paused to consider this new and rather alarming prospect.
       “How can a thing like that possibly go in a car?” Claud went on relentlessly. “A parson never has a big car anyway. You ever seen a parson with a big car, Mr Rummins?”
       “Can’t say I have.”
       “Exactly! And now listen to me. I’ve got an idea. He told us, didn’t he, that it was only the legs he was wanting. Right? So all we’ve got to do is to cut ’em off quick right here on the spot before he comes back, then it’ll be sure to go in the car. All we’re doing is saving him the trouble of cutting them off himself when he gets home. How about it, Mr Rummins?” Claud’s flat bovine face glimmered with a mawkish pride.
       “It’s not such a bad idea at that,” Rummins said, looking at the commode. “In fact it’s a bloody good idea. Come on then, we’ll have to hurry. You and Bert carry it out into the yard. I’ll get the saw. Take the drawers out first.”
       Within a couple of minutes, Claud and Bert had carried the commode outside and had laid it upside down in the yard amidst the chicken droppings and cow dung and mud. In the distance, halfway across the field, they could see a small black figure striding along the path towards the road. They paused to watch. There was something rather comical about the way in which this figure was conducting itself. Every now and again it would break into a trot, then it did a kind of hop skip and jump, and once it seemed as though the sound of a cheerful song came rippling faintly to them from across the meadow.
       “I reckon he’s balmy,” Claud said, and Bert grinned darkly, rolling his misty eye slowly round in its socket.
       Rummins came waddling over from the shed, squat and froglike, carrying a long saw. Claud took the saw away from him and went to work.
       “Cut ’em close,” Rummins said. “Don’t forget he’s going to use ’em on another table.”
       The mahogany was hard and very dry, and as Claud worked, a fine red dust sprayed out from the edge of the saw and fell softly to the ground. One by one, the legs came off, and when they were all severed, Bert stooped down and arranged them carefully in a row.
       Claud stepped back to survey the results of his labour. There was a longish pause.
       “Just let me ask you one question, Mr Rummins,” he said slowly. “Even now, could you put that enormous thing into the back of a car?”
       “Not unless it was a van.”
       “Correct!” Claud cried. “And parsons don’t have vans, you know. All they’ve got usually is piddling little Morris Eights or Austin Sevens.”
       “The legs is all he wants,” Rummins said. “If the rest of it won’t go in, then he can leave it. He can’t complain. He’s got the legs.”
       “Now you know better’n that, Mr Rummins,” Claud said patiently. “You know damn well he’s going to start knocking the price if he don’t get every single bit of this into the car. A parson’s just as cunning as the rest of ’em when it comes to money, don’t you make any mistake about that. Especially this old boy. So why don’t we give him his firewood now and be done with it. Where d’you keep the axe?”
       “I reckon that’s fair enough,” Rummins said. “Bert, go fetch the axe.”
       Bert went into the shed and fetched a tall woodcutter’s axe and gave it to Claud. Claud spat on the palms of his hands and rubbed them together. Then, with a long-armed high-swinging action, he began fiercely attacking the legless carcase of the commode.
       It was hard work, and it took several minutes before he had the whole thing more or less smashed to pieces.
       “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, straightening up, wiping his brow. “That was a bloody good carpenter put this job together and I don’t care what the parson says.”
       “We’re just in time!” Rummins called out. “Here he comes!”

Mrs Bixby and the Colonel’s Coat

America is the land of opportunities for women. Already they own about eighty-five per cent of the wealth of the nation. Soon they will have it all. Divorce has become a lucrative process, simple to arrange and easy to forget; and ambitious females can repeat it as often as they please and parlay their winnings to astronomical figures. The husband’s death also brings satisfactory rewards and some ladies prefer to rely upon this method. They know that the waiting period will not be unduly protracted, for overwork and hypertension are bound to get the poor devil before long, and he will die at his desk with a bottle of benzedrines in one hand and a packet of tranquillizers in the other.
       Succeeding generations of youthful American males are not deterred in the slightest by this terrifying pattern of divorce and death. The higher the divorce rate climbs, the more eager they become. Young men marry like mice, almost before they have reached the age of puberty, and a large proportion of them have at least two ex-wives on the payroll by the time they are thirty-six years old. To support these ladies in the manner to which they are accustomed, the men must work like slaves, which is of course precisely what they are. But now at last, as they approach their premature middle age, a sense of disillusionment and fear begins to creep slowly into their hearts, and in the evenings they take to huddling together in little groups, in clubs and bars, drinking their whiskies and swallowing their pills, and trying to comfort one another with stories.
       The basic theme of these stories never varies. There are always three main characters—the husband, the wife, and the dirty dog. The husband is a decent clean-living man, working hard at his job. The wife is cunning, deceitful, and lecherous, and she is invariably up to some sort of jiggery-pokery with the dirty dog. The husband is too good a man even to suspect her. Things look black for the husband. Will the poor man ever find out? Must he be a cuckold for the rest of his life? Yes, he must. But wait! Suddenly, by a brilliant manoeuvre, the husband completely turns the tables on his monstrous spouse. The woman is flabbergasted, stupefied, humiliated, defeated. The audience of men around the bar smiles quietly to itself and takes a little comfort from the fantasy.
       There are many of these stories going around, these wonderful wishful-thinking dreamworld inventions of the unhappy male, but most of them are too fatuous to be worth repeating, and far too fruity to be put down on paper. There is one, however, that seems to be superior to the rest, particularly as it has the merit of being true. It is extremely popular with twice- or thrice-bitten males in search of solace, and if you are one of them, and if you haven’t heard it before, you may enjoy the way it comes out. The story is called “Mrs Bixby and the Colonel’s Coat,” and it goes something like this:
       Mr and Mrs Bixby lived in a smallish apartment somewhere in New York City. Mr Bixby was a dentist who made an average income. Mrs Bixby was a big vigorous woman with a wet mouth. Once a month, always on Friday afternoons, Mrs Bixby would board the train at Pennsylvania Station and travel to Baltimore to visit her old aunt. She would spend the night with the aunt and return to New York on the following day in time to cook supper for her husband. Mr Bixby accepted this arrangement good-naturedly. He knew that Aunt Maude lived in Baltimore, and that his wife was very fond of the old lady, and certainly it would be unreasonable to deny either of them the pleasure of a monthly meeting.
       “Just so long as you don’t ever expect me to accompany you,” Mr Bixby had said in the beginning.
       “Of course not, darling,” Mrs Bixby had answered. “After all, she is not your aunt. She’s mine.”
       So far so good.
       As it turned out, however, the aunt was little more than a convenient alibi for Mrs Bixby. The dirty dog, in the shape of a gentleman known as the Colonel, was lurking slyly in the background, and our heroine spent the greater part of her Baltimore time in this scoundrel’s company. The Colonel was exceedingly wealthy. He lived in a charming house on the outskirts of the town. No wife or family encumbered him, only a few discreet and loyal servants, and in Mrs Bixby’s absence he consoled himself by riding his horses and hunting the fox.
       Year after year, this pleasant alliance between Mrs Bixby and the Colonel continued without a hitch. They met so seldom—twelve times a year is not much when you come to think of it—that there was little or no chance of their growing bored with one another. On the contrary, the long wait between meetings only made the heart grow fonder, and each separate occasion became an exciting reunion.
       “Tally-ho!” the Colonel would cry each time he met her at the station in the big car. “My dear, I’d almost forgotten how ravishing you looked. Let’s go to earth.”
       Eight years went by.
       It was just before Christmas, and Mrs Bixby was standing on the station in Baltimore waiting for the train to take her back to New York. This particular visit which had just ended had been more than usually agreeable, and she was in a cheerful mood. But then the Colonel’s company always did that to her these days. The man had a way of making her feel that she was altogether a rather remarkable woman, a person of subtle and exotic talents, fascinating beyond measure; and what a very different thing that was from the dentist husband at home who never succeeded in making her feel that she was anything but a sort of eternal patient, someone who dwelt in the waiting-room, silent among the magazines, seldom if ever nowadays to be called in to suffer the finicky precise ministrations of those clean pink hands.
       “The Colonel asked me to give you this,” a voice beside her said. She turned and saw Wilkins, the Colonel’s groom, a small wizened dwarf with grey skin, and he was pushing a large flattish cardboard box into her arms.
       “Good gracious me!” she cried, all of a flutter. “My heavens, what an enormous box! What is it, Wilkins? Was there a message? Did he send me a message?”
       “No message,” the groom said, and he walked away.
       As soon as she was on the train, Mrs Bixby carried the box into the privacy of the Ladies’ Room and locked the door. How exciting this was! A Christmas present from the Colonel. She started to undo the string. “I’ll bet it’s a dress,” she said aloud. “It might even be two dresses. Or it might be a whole lot of beautiful underclothes. I won’t look. I’ll just feel around and try to guess what it is. I’ll try to guess the colour as well, and exactly what it looks like. Also how much it cost.”
       She shut her eyes tight and slowly lifted off the lid. Then she put one hand down into the box. There was some tissue paper on top; she could feel it and hear it rustling. There was also an envelope or a card of some sort. She ignored this and began burrowing underneath the tissue paper, the fingers reaching out delicately, like tendrils.
       “My God,” she cried suddenly. “It can’t be true!”
       She opened her eyes wide and stared at the coat. Then she pounced on it and lifted it out of the box. Thick layers of fur made a lovely noise against the tissue paper as they unfolded, and when she held it up and saw it hanging to its full length, it was so beautiful it took her breath away.
       Never had she seen mink like this before. It was mink, wasn’t it? Yes, of course it was. But what a glorious colour! The fur was almost pure black. At first she thought it was black; but when she held it closer to the window she saw that there was a touch of blue in it as well, a deep rich blue, like cobalt. Quickly she looked at the label. It said simply, WILD LABRADOR MINK. There was nothing else, no sign of where it had been bought or anything. But that, she told herself, was probably the Colonel’s doing. The wily old fox was making darn sure he didn’t leave any tracks. Good for him. But what in the world could it have cost? She hardly dared to think. Four, five, six thousand dollars? Possibly more.
       She just couldn’t take her eyes off it. Nor, for that matter, could she wait to try it on. Quickly she slipped off her own plain red coat. She was panting a little now, she couldn’t help it, and her eyes were stretched very wide. But oh God, the feel of that fur! And those huge wide sleeves with their thick turned-up cuffs! Who was it had once told her that they always used female skins for the arms and male skins for the rest of the coat? Someone had told her that. Joan Rutfield, probably; though how Joan would know anything about mink she couldn’t imagine.
       The great black coat seemed to slide onto her almost of its own accord, like a second skin. Oh boy! It was the queerest feeling! She glanced into the mirror. It was fantastic. Her whole personality had suddenly changed completely. She looked dazzling, radiant, rich, brilliant, voluptuous, all at the same time. And the sense of power that it gave her! In this coat she could walk into any place she wanted and people would come scurrying around her like rabbits. The whole thing was just too wonderful for words!
       Mrs Bixby picked up the envelope that was still lying in the box. She opened it and pulled out the Colonel’s letter:

I once heard you saying you were fond of mink so I got you this. I’m told it’s a good one. Please accept it with my sincere good wishes as a parting gift. For my own personal reasons I shall not be able to see you any more. Good-bye and good luck.

       Well!
       Imagine that!
       Right out of the blue, just when she was feeling so happy.
       No more Colonel.
       What a dreadful shock.
       She would miss him enormously.
       Slowly, Mrs Bixby began stroking the lovely soft black fur of the coat.
       What you lose on the swings you get back on the roundabouts.
       She smiled and folded the letter, meaning to tear it up and throw it out of the window, but in folding it she noticed that there was something written on the-other side:

P.S. Just tell them that nice generous aunt of yours gave it to you for Christmas.

       Mrs Bixby’s mouth, at that moment stretched wide in a silky smile, snapped back like a piece of elastic.
       “The man must be mad!” she cried. “Aunt Maude doesn’t have that sort of money. She couldn’t possibly give me this.”
       But if Aunt Maude didn’t give it to her, then who did?
       Oh God! In the excitement of finding the coat and trying it on, she had completely overlooked this vital aspect.
       In a couple of hours she would be in New York. Ten minutes after that she would be home, and the husband would be there to greet her; and even a man like Cyril, dwelling as he did in a dark phlegmy world of root canals, bicuspids, and caries, would start asking a few questions if his wife suddenly waltzed in from a week-end wearing a six-thousand-dollar mink coat.
       You know what I think, she told herself. I think that god-damn Colonel has done this on purpose just to torture me. He knew perfectly well Aunt Maude didn’t have enough money to buy this. He knew I wouldn’t be able to keep it.
       But the thought of parting with it now was more than Mrs Bixby could bear.
       “I’ve got to have this coat!” she said aloud. “I’ve got to have this coat! I’ve got to have this coat!”
       Very well, my dear. You shall have the coat. But don’t panic. Sit still and keep calm and start thinking. You’re a clever girl, aren’t you? You’ve fooled him before. The man never has been able to see much further than the end of his own probe, you know that. So just sit absolutely still and think. There’s lots of time.
       Two and a half hours later, Mrs Bixby stepped off the train at Pennsylvania Station and walked quickly to the exit. She was wearing her old red coat again now and carrying the cardboard box in her arms. She signalled for a taxi.
       “Driver,” she said, “would you know of a pawnbroker that’s still open around here?”
       The man behind the wheel raised his brows and looked back at her, amused.
       “Plenty along Sixth Avenue,” he answered.
       “Stop at the first one you see, then, will you please?” She got in and was driven away.
       Soon the taxi pulled up outside a shop that had three brass balls hanging over the entrance.
       “Wait for me, please,” Mrs Bixby said to the driver, and she got out of the taxi and entered the shop.
       There was an enormous cat crouching on the counter eating fishheads out of a white saucer. The animal looked up at Mrs Bixby with bright yellow eyes, then looked away again and went on eating. Mrs Bixby stood by the counter, as far away from the cat as possible, waiting for someone to come, staring at the watches, the shoe buckles, the enamel brooches, the old binoculars, the broken spectacles, the false teeth. Why did they always pawn their teeth, she wondered.
       “Yes?” the proprietor said, emerging from a dark place in the back of the shop.
       “Oh, good evening,” Mrs Bixby said. She began to untie the string around the box. The man went up to the cat and started stroking it along the top of its back, and the cat went on eating the fishheads.
       “Isn’t it silly of me?” Mrs Bixby said. “I’ve gone and lost my pocketbook, and this being Saturday, the banks are all closed until Monday and I’ve simply got to have some money for the week-end. This is quite a valuable coat, but I’m not asking much. I only want to borrow enough on it to tide me over till Monday. Then I’ll come back and redeem it.”
       The man waited, and said nothing. But when she pulled out the mink and allowed the beautiful thick fur to fall over the counter, his eyebrows went up and he drew his hand away from the cat and came over to look at it. He picked it up and held it out in front of him.
       “If only I had a watch on me or a ring,” Mrs Bixby said, “I’d give you that instead. But the fact is I don’t have a thing with me other than this coat.” She spread out her fingers for him to see.
       “It looks new,” the man said, fondling the soft fur.
       “Oh yes, it is. But, as I said, I only want to borrow enough to tide me over till Monday. How about fifty dollars?”
       “I’ll loan you fifty dollars.”
       “It’s worth a hundred times more than that, but I know you’ll take good care of it until I return.”
       The man went over to a drawer and fetched a ticket and placed it on the counter. The ticket looked like one of those labels you tie on to the handle of your suitcase, the same shape and size exactly, and the same stiff brownish paper. But it was perforated across the middle so that you could tear it in two, and both halves were identical.
       “Name?” he asked.
       “Leave that out. And the address.”
       She saw the man pause, and she saw the nib of the pen hovering over the dotted line, waiting.
       “You don’t have to put the name and address, do you?”
       The man shrugged and shook his head and the pen-nib moved on down to the next line.
       “It’s just that I’d rather not,” Mrs Bixby said. “It’s purely personal.”
       “You’d better not lose this ticket, then.”
       “I won’t lose it.”
       “You realise that anyone who gets hold of it can come in and claim the article?”
       “Yes, I know that.”
       “Simply on the number.”
       “Yes, I know.”
       “What do you want me to put for a description.”
       “No description either, thank you. It’s not necessary. Just put the amount I’m borrowing.”
       The pen-nib hesitated again, hovering over the dotted line beside the word ARTICLE.
       “I think you ought to put a description. A description is always a help if you want to sell the ticket. You never know, you might want to sell it sometime.”
       “I don’t want to sell it.”
       “You might have to. Lots of people do.”
       “Look,” Mrs Bixby said. “I’m not broke, if that’s what you mean. I simply lost my purse. Don’t you understand?”
       “You have it your own way then,” the man said. “It’s your coat.”
       At this point an unpleasant thought struck Mrs Bixby. “Tell me something,” she said. “If I don’t have a description on my ticket, how can I be sure you’ll give me back the coat and not something else when I return?”
       “It goes in the books.”
       “But all I’ve got is a number. So actually you could hand me any old thing you wanted, isn’t that so?”
       “Do you want a description or don’t you?” the man asked.
       “No,” she said. “I trust you.”
       The man wrote “fifty dollars” opposite the word VALUE on both sections of the ticket, then he tore it in half along the perforations and slid the lower portion across the counter. He took a wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and extracted five ten-dollar bills. “The interest is three per cent a month,” he said.
       “Yes, all right. And thank you. You’ll take good care of it, won’t you?”
       The man nodded but said nothing.
       “Shall I put it back in the box for you?”
       “No,” the man said.
       Mrs Bixby turned and went out of the shop on to the street where the taxi was waiting. Ten minutes later, she was home.
       “Darling,” she said as she bent over and kissed her husband. “Did you miss me?”
       Cyril Bixby laid down the evening paper and glanced at the watch on his wrist. “It’s twelve and a half minutes past six,” he said. “You’re a bit late, aren’t you?”
       “I know. It’s those dreadful trains. Aunt Maude sent you her love as usual. I’m dying for a drink, aren’t you?”
       The husband folded his newspaper into a neat rectangle and placed it on the arm of his chair. Then he stood up and crossed over to the sideboard. His wife remained in the centre of the room pulling off her gloves, watching him carefully, wondering how long she ought to wait. He had his back to her now, bending forward to measure the gin, putting his face right up close to the measurer and peering into it as though it were a patient’s mouth.
       It was funny how small he always looked after the Colonel. The Colonel was huge and bristly, and when you were near to him he smelled faintly of horseradish. This one was small and neat and bony and he didn’t really smell of anything at all, except peppermint drops, which he sucked to keep his breath nice for the patients.
       “See what I’ve bought for measuring the vermouth,” he said, holding up a calibrated glass beaker. “I can get it to the nearest milligram with this.”
       “Darling, how clever.”
       I really must try to make him change the way he dresses, she told herself. His suits are just too ridiculous for words. There had been a time when she thought they were wonderful, those Edwardian jackets with high lapels and six buttons down the front, but now they merely seemed absurd. So did the narrow stovepipe trousers. You had to have a special sort of face to wear things like that, and Cyril just didn’t have it. His was a long bony countenance with a narrow nose and a slightly prognathous jaw, and when you saw it coming up out of the top of one of those tightly fitting old-fashioned suits it looked like a caricature of Sam Weller. He probably thought it looked like Beau Brummel. It was a fact that in the office he invariably greeted female patients with his white coat unbuttoned so that they would catch a glimpse of the trappings underneath; and in some obscure way this was obviously meant to convey the impression that he was a bit of a dog. But Mrs Bixby knew better. The plumage was a bluff. It meant nothing. It reminded her of an ageing peacock strutting on the lawn with only half its feathers left. Or one of those fatuous self-fertilising flowers—like the dandelion. A dandelion never has to get fertilised for the setting of its seed, and all those brilliant yellow petals are just a waste of time, a boast, a masquerade. What’s the word the biologists use? Sub-sexual. A dandelion is subsexual. So, for that matter, are the summer broods of water fleas. It sounds a bit like Lewis Carroll, she thought—water fleas and dandelions and dentists.
       “Thank you, darling,” she said, taking the martini and seating herself on the sofa with her handbag on her lap. “And what did you do last night?”
       “I stayed on in the office and cast a few inlays. I also got my accounts up to date.”
       “Now really, Cyril, I think it’s high time you let other people do your donkey work for you. You’re much too important for that sort of thing. Why don’t you give the inlays to the mechanic?”
       “I prefer to do them myself. I’m extremely proud of my inlays.”
       “I know you are, darling, and I think they’re absolutely wonderful. They’re the best inlays in the whole world. But I don’t want you to burn yourself out. And why doesn’t that Pulteney woman do the accounts? That’s part of her job, isn’t it?”
       “She does do them. But I have to price everything up first. She doesn’t know who’s rich and who isn’t.”
       “This Martini is perfect,” Mrs Bixby said, setting down her glass on the side table. “Quite perfect.” She opened her bag and took out a handkerchief as if to blow her nose. “Oh look!” she cried, seeing the ticket. “I forgot to show you this! I found it just now on the seat of my taxi. It’s got a number on it, and I thought it might be a lottery ticket or something, so I kept it.”
       She handed the small piece of stiff brown paper to her husband, who took it in his fingers and began examining it minutely from all angles, as though it were a suspect tooth.
       “You know what this is?” he said slowly.
       “No dear, I don’t.”
       “It’s a pawn ticket.”
       “A what?”
       “A ticket from a pawnbroker. Here’s the name and address of the shop—somewhere on Sixth Avenue.”
       “Oh dear, I am disappointed. I was hoping it might be a ticket for the Irish Sweep.”
       “There’s no reason to be disappointed,” Cyril Bixby said. “As a matter of fact this could be rather amusing.”
       “Why could it be amusing, darling?”
       He began explaining to her exactly how a pawn ticket worked, with particular reference to the fact that anyone possessing the ticket was entitled to claim the article. She listened patiently until he had finished his lecture.
       “You think it’s worth claiming?” she asked.
       “I think it’s worth finding out what it is. You see this figure of fifty dollars that’s written here? You know what that means?”
       “No, dear, what does it mean?”
       “It means that the item in question is almost certain to be something quite valuable.”
       “You mean it’ll be worth fifty dollars?”
       “More like five hundred.”
       “Five hundred!”
       “Don’t you understand?” he said. “A pawnbroker never gives you more than about a tenth of the real value.”
       “Good gracious! I never knew that.”
       “There’s a lot of things you don’t know, my dear. Now you listen to me. Seeing that there’s no name and address of the owner . . .”
       “But surely there’s something to say who it belongs to?”
       “Not a thing. People often do that. They don’t want anyone to know they’ve been to a pawnbroker. They’re ashamed of it.”
       “Then you think we can keep it?”
       “Of course we can keep it. This is now our ticket.”
       “You mean my ticket,” Mrs Bixby said firmly. “I found it.”
       “My dear girl, what does it matter? The important thing is that we are now in a position to go and redeem it any time we like for only fifty dollars. How about that?”
       “Oh, what fun!” she cried. “I think it’s terribly exciting, especially when we don’t even know what it is. It could be anything, isn’t that right, Cyril? Absolutely anything!”
       “It could indeed, although it’s most likely to be either a ring or a watch.”
       “But wouldn’t it be marvellous if it was a real treasure? I mean something really old, like a wonderful old vase or a Roman statue.”
       “There’s no knowing what it might be, my dear. We shall just have to wait and see.”
       “I think it’s absolutely fascinating! Give me the ticket and I’ll rush over first thing Monday morning and find out!”
       “I think I’d better do that.”
       “Oh no!” she cried. “Let me do it!”
       “I think not. I’ll pick it up on my way to work.”
       “But it’s my ticket! Please let me do it, Cyril! Why should you have all the fun?”
       “You don’t know these pawnbrokers, my dear. You’re liable to get cheated.”
       “I wouldn’t get cheated, honestly I wouldn’t. Give it to me, please.”
       “Also you have to have fifty dollars,” he said, smiling. “You have to pay out fifty dollars in cash before they’ll give it to you.”
       “I’ve got that,” she said. “I think.”
       “I’d rather you didn’t handle it, if you don’t mind.”
       “But Cyril, I found it. It’s mine. Whatever it is, it’s mine, isn’t that right?”
       “Of course it’s yours, my dear. There’s no need to get so worked up about it.”
       “I’m not. I’m just excited, that’s all.”
       “I suppose it hasn’t occurred to you that this might be something entirely masculine—a pocket-watch, for example, or a set of shirt-studs. It isn’t only women that go to pawnbrokers, you know.”
       “In that case I’ll give it to you for Christmas,” Mrs Bixby said magnanimously. “I’ll be delighted. But if it’s a woman’s thing, I want it myself. Is that agreed?”
       “That sounds very fair. Why don’t you come with me when I collect it?”
       Mrs Bixby was about to say yes to this, but caught herself just in time. She had no wish to be greeted like an old customer by the pawnbroker in her husband’s presence.
       “No,” she said slowly. “I don’t think I will. You see, it’ll be even more thrilling if I stay behind and wait. Oh, I do hope it isn’t going to be something that neither of us wants.”
       “You’ve got a point there,” he said. “If I don’t think it’s worth fifty dollars, I won’t even take it.”
       “But you said it would be worth five hundred.”
       “I’m quite sure it will. Don’t worry.”
       “Oh, Cyril, I can hardly wait! Isn’t it exciting?”
       “It’s amusing,” he said, slipping the ticket into his waistcoat pocket. “There’s no doubt about that.”
       Monday morning came at last, and after breakfast Mrs Bixby followed her husband to the door and helped him on with his coat.
       “Don’t work too hard, darling,” she said.
       “No, all right.”
       “Home at six?”
       “I hope so.”
       “Are you going to have time to go to that pawnbroker?” she asked.
       “My God, I forgot all about it. I’ll take a cab and go there now. It’s on my way.”
       “You haven’t lost the ticket, have you?”
       “I hope not,” he said, feeling in his waistcoat pocket. “No, here it is.”
       “And you have enough money?”
       “Just about.”
       “Darling,” she said, standing close to him and straightening his tie, which was perfectly straight. “If it happens to be something nice, something you think I might like, will you telephone me as soon as you get to the office?”
       “If you want me to, yes.”
       “You know, I’m sort of hoping it’ll be something for you, Cyril. I’d much rather it was for you than for me.”
       “That’s very generous of you, my dear. Now I must run.”
       About an hour later, when the telephone rang, Mrs Bixby was across the room so fast she had the receiver off the hook before the first ring had finished.
       “I got it!” he said.
       “You did! Oh, Cyril, what was it? Was it something good?”
       “Good!” he cried. “It’s fantastic! You wait till you get your eyes on this! You’ll swoon!”
       “Darling, what is it? Tell me quick!”
       “You’re a lucky girl, that’s what you are.”
       “It’s for me, then?”
       “Of course it’s for you. Though how in the world it ever got to be pawned for only fifty dollars I’ll be damned if I know. Someone’s crazy.”
       “Cyril! Stop keeping me in suspense! I can’t bear it!”
       “You’ll go mad when you see it.”
       “What is it?”
       “Try to guess.”
       Mrs Bixby paused. Be careful, she told herself. Be very careful now.
       “A necklace,” she said.
       “Wrong.”
       “A diamond ring.”
       “You’re not even warm. I’ll give you a hint. It’s something you can wear.”
       “Something I can wear? You mean like a hat?”
       “No, it’s not a hat,” he said, laughing.
       “For goodness sake, Cyril! Why don’t you tell me?”
       “Because I want it to be a surprise. I’ll bring it home with me this evening.”
       “You’ll do nothing of the sort!” she cried. “I’m coming right down there to get know!”
       “I’d rather you didn’t do that.”
       “Don’t be so silly, darling. Why shouldn’t I come?”
       “Because I’m too busy. You’ll disorganise my whole morning schedule. I’m half an hour behind already.”
       “Then I’ll come in the lunch hour. All right?”
       “I’m not having a lunch hour. Oh well, come at one thirty then, while I’m having a sandwich. Good-bye.”
       At half past one precisely, Mrs Bixby arrived at Mr Bixby’s place of business and rang the bell. Her husband, in his white dentist’s coat, opened the door himself.
       “Oh, Cyril, I’m so excited!”
       “So you should be. You’re a lucky girl, did you know that?” He led her down the passage and into the surgery.
       “Go and have your lunch, Miss Pulteney,” he said to the assistant, who was busy putting instruments into the steriliser. “You can finish that when you come back.” He waited until the girl had gone, then he walked over to a closet that he used for hanging up his clothes and stood in front of it, pointing with his finger. “It’s in there,” he said. “Now—shut your eyes.”
       Mrs Bixby did as she was told. Then she took a deep breath and held it, and in the silence that followed she could hear him opening the cupboard door and there was a soft swishing sound as he pulled out a garment from among the other things hanging there.
       “All right! You can look!”
       “I don’t dare to,” she said, laughing.
       “Go on. Take a peek.”
       Coyly, beginning to giggle, she raised one eyelid a fraction of an inch, just enough to give her a dark blurry view of the man standing there in his white overalls holding something up in the air.
       “Mink!” he cried. “Real mink!”
       At the sound of the magic word she opened her eyes quick, and at the same time she actually started forward in order to clasp the coat in her arms.
       But there was no coat. There was only a ridiculous little fur neckpiece dangling from her husband’s hand.
       “Feast your eyes on that!” he said, waving it in front of her face.
       Mrs Bixby put a hand up to her mouth and started backing away. I’m going to scream, she told herself. I just know it. I’m going to scream.
       “What’s the matter, my dear? Don’t you like it?” He stopped waving the fur and stood staring at her, waiting for her to say something.
       “Why yes,” she stammered. “I . . . I . . . think it’s . . . it’s lovely . . . really lovely.”
       “Quite took your breath away for a moment there, didn’t it?”
       “Yes, it did.”
       “Magnificent quality,” he said. “Fine colour, too. You know something, my dear? I reckon a piece like this would cost you two or three hundred dollars at least if you had to buy it in a shop.”
       “I don’t doubt it.”
       There were two skins, two narrow mangy-looking skins with their heads still on them and glass beads in their eye sockets and little paws hanging down. One of them had the rear end of the other in its mouth, biting it.
       “Here,” he said. “Try it on.” He leaned forward and draped the thing around her neck, then stepped back to admire. “It’s perfect. It really suits you. It isn’t everyone who has mink, my dear.”
       “No, it isn’t.”
       “Better leave it behind when you go shopping or they’ll all think we’re millionaires and start charging us double.”
       “I’ll try to remember that, Cyril.”
       “I’m afraid you mustn’t expect anything else for Christmas. Fifty dollars was rather more than I was going to spend anyway.”
       He turned away and went over to the basin and began washing his hands. “Run along now, my dear, and buy yourself a nice lunch. I’d take you out myself but I’ve got old man Gorman in the waiting-room with a broken clasp on his denture.”
       Mrs Bixby moved towards the door.
       I’m going to kill that pawnbroker, she told herself. I’m going right back there to the shop this very minute and I’m going to throw this filthy neckpiece right in his face and if he refuses to give me back my coat I’m going to kill him.
       “Did I tell you I was going to be late home tonight?” Cyril Bixby said, still washing his hands.
       “No.”
       “It’ll probably be at least eight thirty the way things look at the moment. It may even be nine.”
       “Yes, all right. Good-bye.” Mrs Bixby went out, slamming the door behind her.
       At that precise moment, Miss Pulteney, the secretary-assistant, came sailing past her down the corridor on her way to lunch.
       “Isn’t it a gorgeous day?” Miss Pulteney said as she went by, flashing a smile. There was lilt in her walk, a little whiff of perfume attending her, and she looked like a queen, just exactly like a queen in the beautiful black mink coat that the Colonel had given to Mrs Bixby.

Royal Jelly

“It worries me to death, Albert, it really does,” Mrs Taylor said.
       She kept her eyes fixed on the baby who was now lying absolutely motionless in the crook of her left arm.
       “I just know there’s something wrong.”
       The skin on the baby’s face had a pearly translucent quality, and was stretched very tightly over the bones.
       “Try again,” Albert Taylor said.
       “It won’t do any good.”
       “You have to keep trying, Mabel,” he said.
       She lifted the bottle out of the saucepan of hot water and shook a few drops of milk on to the inside of her wrist, testing for temperature.
       “Come on,” she whispered. “Come on, my baby. Wake up and take a bit more of this.”
       There was a small lamp on the table close by that made a soft yellow glow all around her.
       “Please,” she said. “Take just a weeny bit more.”
       The husband watched her over the top of his magazine. She was half dead with exhaustion, he could see that, and the pale oval face, usually so grave and serene, had taken on a kind of pinched and desperate look. But even so, the drop of her head as she gazed down at the child was curiously beautiful.
       “You see,” she murmured. “It’s no good. She won’t have it.”
       She held the bottle up to the light, squinting at the calibrations.
       “One ounce again. That’s all she’s taken. No—it isn’t even that. It’s only three-quarters. It’s not enough to keep body and soul together, Albert, it really isn’t. It worries me to death.”
       “I know,” he said.
       “If only they could find out what was wrong.”
       “There’s nothing wrong, Mabel. It’s just a matter of time.”
       “Of course there’s something wrong.”
       “Dr Robinson says no.”
       “Look,” she said, standing up. “You can’t tell me it’s natural for a six-weeks-old child to weigh less, less by more than two whole pounds than she did when she was born! Just look at those legs! They’re nothing but skin and bone!”
       The tiny baby lay limply on her arm, not moving.
       “Dr Robinson said you was to stop worrying, Mabel. So did that other one.”
       “Ha!” she said. “Isn’t that wonderful! I’m to stop worrying!”
       “Now, Mabel.”
       “What does he want me to do? Treat it as some sort of a joke?”
       “He didn’t say that.”
       “I hate doctors! I hate them all!” she cried, and she swung away from him and walked quickly out of the room towards the stairs, carrying the baby with her.
       Albert Taylor stayed where he was and let her go.
       In a little while he heard her moving about in the bedroom directly over his head, quick nervous footsteps going tap tap tap on the linoleum above. Soon the footsteps would stop, and then he would have to get up and follow her, and when he went into the bedroom he would find her sitting beside the cot as usual, staring at the child and crying softly to herself and refusing to move.
       “She’s starving, Albert,” she would say.
       “Of course she’s not starving.”
       “She is starving. I know she is. And Albert?”
       “Yes?”
       “I believe you know it too, but you won’t admit it. Isn’t that right?”
       Every night now it was like this.
       Last week they had taken the child back to the hospital, and the doctor had examined it carefully and told them that there was nothing the matter.
       “It took us nine years to get this baby, Doctor,” Mabel had said. “I think it would kill me if anything should happen to her.”
       That was six days ago and since then it had lost another five ounces.
       But worrying about it wasn’t going to help anybody, Albert Taylor told himself. One simply had to trust the doctor on a thing like this. He picked up the magazine that was still lying on his lap and glanced idly down the list of contents to see what it had to offer this week:

AMONG THE BEES IN MAY
HONEY COOKERY
THE BEE FARMER AND THE B. PHARM.
EXPERIENCES IN THE CONTROL OF NOSEMA
THE LATEST ON ROYAL JELLY
THIS WEEK IN THE APIARY
THE HEALING POWER OF PROPOLIS
REGURGITATIONS
BRITISH BEEKEEPERS ANNUAL DINNER
ASSOCIATION NEWS

       All his life Albert Taylor had been fascinated by anything that had to do with bees. As a small boy he used often to catch them in his bare hands and go running with them into the house to show to his mother, and sometimes he would put them on his face and let them crawl about over his cheeks and neck, and the astonishing thing about it all was that he never got stung. On the contrary, the bees seemed to enjoy being with him. They never tried to fly away, and to get rid of them he would have to brush them off gently with his fingers. Even then they would frequently return and settle again on his arm or hand or knee, any place where the skin was bare.
       His father, who was a bricklayer, said there must be some witch’s stench about the boy, something noxious that came oozing out through the pores of the skin, and that no good would ever come of it, hypnotising insects like that. But the mother said it was a gift given him by God, and even went so far as to compare him with St Francis and the birds.
       As he grew older, Albert Taylor’s fascination with bees developed into an obsession, and by the time he was twelve he had built his first hive. The following summer he had captured his first swarm. Two years later, at the age of fourteen, he had no less than five hives standing neatly in a row against the fence in his father’s small back yard, and already—apart from the normal task of producing honey—he was practising the delicate and complicated business of rearing his own queens, grafting larvae into artificial cell cups, and all the rest of it.
       He never had to use smoke when there was work to do inside a hive, and he never wore gloves on his hands or a net over his head. Clearly there was some strange sympathy between this boy and the bees, and down in the village, in the shops and pubs, they began to speak about him with a certain kind of respect, and people started coming up to the house to buy his honey.
       When he was eighteen, he had rented one acre of rough pasture alongside a cherry orchard down the valley about a mile from the village, and there he had set out to establish his own business. Now, eleven years later, he was still in the same spot, but he had six acres of ground instead of one, two hundred and forty well-stocked hives, and a small house that he’d built mainly with his own hands. He had married at the age of twenty and that, apart from the fact that it had taken them over nine years to get a child, had also been a success. In fact, everything had gone pretty well for Albert until this strange little baby girl came along and started frightening them out of their wits by refusing to eat properly and losing weight every day.
       He looked up from the magazine and began thinking about his daughter.
       That evening, for instance, when she had opened her eyes at the beginning of the feed, he had gazed into them and seen something that frightened him to death—a kind of misty vacant stare, as though the eyes themselves were not connected to the brain at all but were just lying loose in their sockets like a couple of small grey marbles.
       Did those doctors really know what they were talking about?
       He reached for an ashtray and started slowly picking the ashes out from the bowl of his pipe with a matchstick.
       One could always take her along to another hospital, somewhere in Oxford perhaps. He might suggest that to Mabel when he went upstairs.
       He could still hear her moving around in the bedroom, but she must have taken off her shoes now and put on slippers because the noise was very faint.
       He switched his attention back to the magazine and went on with his reading. He finished an article called “Experiences in the Control of Nosema,” then turned over the page and began reading the next one, “The Latest on Royal Jelly.” He doubted very much whether there would be anything in this that he didn’t know already:

What is this wonderful substance called royal jelly?

       He reached for the tin of tobacco on the table beside him and began filling his pipe, still reading.

Royal jelly is a glandular secretion produced by the nurse bees to feed the larvae immediately they have hatched from the egg. The pharyngeal glands of bees produce this substance in much the same way as the mammary glands of vertebrates produce milk. The fact is of great biological interest because no other insects in the world are known to have evolved such a process.

       All old stuff, he told himself, but for want of anything better to do, he continued to read.

Royal jelly is fed in concentrated form to all bee larvae for the first three days after hatching from the egg; but beyond that point, for all those who are destined to become drones or workers, this precious food is greatly diluted with honey and pollen. On the other hand, the larvae which are destined to become queens are fed throughout the whole of their larval period on a concentrated diet of pure royal jelly. Hence the name.

       Above him, up in the bedroom, the noise of the footsteps had stopped altogether. The house was quiet. He struck a match and put it to his pipe.

Royal jelly must be a substance of tremendous nourishing power, for on this diet alone, the honey-bee larva increases in weight fifteen hundred times in five days.

       That was probably about right, he thought, although for some reason it had never occurred to him to consider larval growth in terms of weight before.

This is as if a seven-and-a-half-pound baby should increase in that time to five tons.

       Albert Taylor stopped and read that sentence again. He read it a third time.

This is as if a seven-and-a-half-pound baby . . .

       “Mabel!” he cried, jumping up from his chair. “Mabel! Come here!”
       He went out into the hall and stood at the foot of the stairs calling for her to come down.
       There was no answer.
       He ran up the stairs and switched on the light on the landing. The bedroom door was closed. He crossed the landing and opened it and stood in the doorway looking into the dark room. “Mabel,” he said. “Come downstairs a moment, will you please? I’ve just had a bit of an idea. It’s about the baby.”
       The light from the landing behind him cast a faint glow over the bed and he could see her dimly now, lying on her stomach with her face buried in the pillow and her arms up over her head. She was crying again.
       “Mabel,” he said, going over to her, touching her shoulder. “Please come down a moment. This may be important.”
       “Go away,” she said. “Leave me alone.”
       “Don’t you want to hear about my idea?”
       “Oh, Albert, I’m tired,” she sobbed. “I’m so tired I don’t know what I’m doing any more. I don’t think I can go on. I don’t think I can stand it.”
       There was a pause. Albert Taylor turned away from her and walked slowly over to the cradle where the baby was lying, and peered in. It was too dark for him to see the child’s face, but when he bent down close he could hear the sound of breathing, very faint and quick. “What time is the next feed?” he asked.
       “Two o’clock, I suppose.”
       “And the one after that?”
       “Six in the morning.”
       “I’ll do them both,” he said. “You go to sleep.”
       She didn’t answer.
       “You get properly into bed, Mabel, and go straight to sleep, you understand? And stop worrying. I’m taking over completely for the next twelve hours. You’ll give yourself a nervous breakdown going on like this.”
       “Yes,” she said. “I know.”
       “I’m taking the nipper and myself and the alarm clock into the spare room this very moment, so you just lie down and relax and forget all about us. Right?” Already he was pushing the cradle out through the door.
       “Oh, Albert,” she sobbed.
       “Don’t you worry about a thing. Leave it to me.”
       “Albert . . .”
       “Yes?”
       “I love you, Albert.”
       “I love you too, Mabel. Now go to sleep.”
       Albert Taylor didn’t see his wife again until nearly eleven o’clock the next morning.
       “Good gracious me!” she cried, rushing down the stairs in dressing-gown and slippers. “Albert! Just look at the time! I must have slept twelve hours at least! Is everything all right? What happened?”
       He was sitting quietly in his armchair, smoking a pipe and reading the morning paper. The baby was in a sort of carry-cot on the floor at his feet, sleeping.
       “Hullo, dear,” he said, smiling.
       She ran over to the cot and looked in. “Did she take anything, Albert? How many times have you fed her? She was due for another one at ten o’clock, did you know that?”
       Albert Taylor folded the newspaper neatly into a square and put it away on the side table. “I fed her at two in the morning,” he said, “and she took about half an ounce, no more. I fed her again at six and she did a bit better that time, two ounces . . .”
       “Two ounces! Oh, Albert, that’s marvellous!”
       “And we just finished the last feed ten minutes ago. There’s the bottle on the mantelpiece. Only one ounce left. She drank three. How’s that?” He was grinning proudly, delighted with his achievement.
       The woman quickly got down on her knees and peered at the baby.
       “Don’t she look better?” he asked eagerly. “Don’t she look fatter in the face?”
       “It may sound silly,” the wife said, “but I actually think she does. Oh, Albert, you’re a marvel! How did you do it?”
       “She’s turning the corner,” he said. “That’s all it is. Just like the doctor prophesied, she’s turning the corner.”
       “I pray to God you’re right, Albert.”
       “Of course I’m right. From now on, you watch her go.”
       The woman was gazing lovingly at the baby.
       “You look a lot better yourself too, Mabel.”
       “I feel wonderful. I’m sorry about last night.”
       “Let’s keep it this way,” he said. “I’ll do all the night feeds in future. You do the day ones.”
       She looked up at him across the cot, frowning. “No,” she said. “Oh no, I wouldn’t allow you to do that.”
       “I don’t want you to have a breakdown, Mabel.”
       “I won’t, not now I’ve had some sleep.”
       “Much better we share it.”
       “No, Albert. This is my job and I intend to do it. Last night won’t happen again.”
       There was a pause. Albert Taylor took the pipe out of his mouth and examined the grain on the bowl. “All right,” he said. “In that case I’ll just relieve you of the donkey work, I’ll do all the sterilising and the mixing of the food and getting everything ready. That’ll help you a bit, anyway.”
       She looked at him carefully, wondering what could have come over him all of a sudden.
       “You see, Mabel, I’ve been thinking . . .”
       “Yes, dear.”
       “I’ve been thinking that up until last night I’ve never even raised a finger to help you with this baby.”
       “That isn’t true.”
       “Oh yes it is. So I’ve decided that from now on I’m going to do my share of the work. I’m going to be the feed-mixer and the bottle-steriliser. Right?”
       “It’s very sweet of you, dear, but I really don’t think it’s necessary . . .”
       “Come on!” he cried. “Don’t change the luck! I done it the last three times and just look what happened! When’s the next one? Two o’clock, isn’t it?”
       “Yes.”
       “It’s all mixed,” he said. “Everything’s all mixed and ready and all you’ve got to do when the time comes is to go out there to the larder and take it off the shelf and warm it up. That’s some help, isn’t it?”
       The woman got up off her knees and went over to him and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re such a nice man,” she said. “I love you more and more every day I know you.”
       Later, in the middle of the afternoon, when Albert was outside in the sunshine working among the hives, he heard her calling to him from the house.
       “Albert!” she shouted. “Albert, come here!” She was running through the buttercups towards him.
       He started forward to meet her, wondering what was wrong.
       “Oh, Albert! Guess what!”
       “What?”
       “I’ve just finished giving her the two-o’clock feed and she’s taken the whole lot!”
       “No!”
       “Every drop of it! Oh, Albert, I’m so happy! She’s going to be all right! She’s turned the corner just like you said!” She came up to him and threw her arms around his neck and hugged him, and he clapped her on the back and laughed and said what a marvellous little mother she was.
       “Will you come in and watch the next one and see if she does it again, Albert?”
       He told her he wouldn’t miss it for anything, and she hugged him again, then turned and ran back to the house, skipping over the grass and singing all the way.
       Naturally, there was a certain amount of suspense in the air as the time approached for the six-o’clock feed. By five thirty both parents were already seated in the living-room waiting for the moment to arrive. The bottle with the milk formula in it was standing in a saucepan of warm water on the mantelpiece. The baby was asleep in its carry-cot on the sofa.
       At twenty minutes to six it woke up and started screaming its head off.
       “There you are!” Mrs Taylor cried. “She’s asking for the bottle. Pick her up quick, Albert, and hand her to me here. Give me the bottle first.”
       He gave her the bottle, then placed the baby on the woman’s lap. Cautiously, she touched the baby’s lips with the end of the nipple. The baby seized the nipple between its gums and began to suck ravenously with a rapid powerful action.
       “Oh, Albert, isn’t it wonderful?” she said, laughing.
       “It’s terrific, Mabel.”
       In seven or eight minutes, the entire contents of the bottle had disappeared down the baby’s throat.
       “You clever girl,” Mrs Taylor said. “Four ounces again.”
       Albert Taylor was leaning forward in his chair, peering intently into the baby’s face. “You know what?” he said. “She even seems as though she’s put on a touch of weight already. What do you think?”
       The mother looked down at the child.
       “Don’t she seem bigger and fatter to you, Mabel, than she was yesterday?”
       “Maybe she does, Albert. I’m not sure. Although actually there couldn’t be any real gain in such a short time as this. The important thing is that she’s eating normally.”
       “She’s turned the corner,” Albert said. “I don’t think you need worry about her any more.”
       “I certainly won’t.”
       “You want me to go up and fetch the cradle back into our own bedroom, Mabel?”
       “Yes, please,” she said.
       Albert went upstairs and moved the cradle. The woman followed with the baby, and after changing its nappy, she laid it gently down on its bed. Then she covered it with sheet and blanket.
       “Doesn’t she look lovely, Albert?” she whispered. “Isn’t that the most beautiful baby you’ve ever seen in your entire life?”
       “Leave her be now, Mabel,” he said. “Come on downstairs and cook us a bit of supper. We both deserve it.”
       After they had finished eating, the parents settled themselves in armchairs in the living-room, Albert with his magazine and his pipe, Mrs Taylor with her knitting. But this was a very different scene from the one of the night before. Suddenly, all tensions had vanished. Mrs Taylor’s handsome oval face was glowing with pleasure, her cheeks were pink, her eyes were sparkling bright, and her mouth was fixed in a little dreamy smile of pure content. Every now and again she would glance up from her knitting and gaze affectionately at her husband. Occasionally, she would stop the clicking of her needles altogether for a few seconds and sit quite still, looking at the ceiling, listening for a cry or a whimper from upstairs. But all was quiet.
       “Albert,” she said after a while.
       “Yes, dear?”
       “What was it you were going to tell me last night when you came rushing up to the bedroom? You said you had an idea for the baby.”
       Albert Taylor lowered the magazine on to his lap and gave her a long sly look.
       “Did I?” he said.
       “Yes.” She waited for him to go on, but he didn’t.
       “What’s the big joke?” she asked. “Why are you grinning like that?”
       “It’s a joke all right,” he said.
       “Tell it to me, dear.”
       “I’m not sure I ought to,” he said. “You might call me a liar.”
       She had seldom seen him looking so pleased with himself as he was now, and she smiled back at him, egging him on.
       “I’d just like to see your face when you hear it, Mabel, that’s all.”
       “Albert, what is all this?”
       He paused, refusing to be hurried.
       “You do think the baby’s better, don’t you?” he asked.
       “Of course I do.”
       “You agree with me that all of a sudden she’s feeding marvellously and looking one-hundred-per-cent different?”
       “I do, Albert, yes.”
       “That’s good,” he said, the grin widening. “You see, it’s me that did it.”
       “Did what?”
       “I cured the baby.”
       “Yes, dear, I’m sure you did.” Mrs Taylor went right on with her knitting.
       “You don’t believe me, do you?”
       “Of course I believe you, Albert. I give you all the credit, every bit of it.”
       “Then how did I do it?”
       “Well,” she said, pausing a moment to think. “I suppose it’s simply that you’re a brilliant feed-mixer. Ever since you started mixing the feeds she’s got better and better.”
       “You mean there’s some sort of an art in mixing the feeds?”
       “Apparently there is.” She was knitting away and smiling quietly to herself, thinking how funny men were.
       “I’ll tell you a secret,” he said. “You’re absolutely right. Although, mind you, it isn’t so much how you mix it that counts. It’s what you put in. You realise that, don’t you, Mabel?”
       Mrs Taylor stopped knitting and looked up sharply at her husband. “Albert,” she said, “don’t tell me you’ve been putting things into that child’s milk?”
       He sat there grinning.
       “Well, have you or haven’t you?”
       “It’s possible,” he said.
       “I don’t believe it.”
       He had a strange fierce way of grinning that showed his teeth.
       “Albert,” she said. “Stop playing with me like this.”
       “Yes, dear, all right.”
       “You haven’t really put anything into her milk, have you? Answer me properly, Albert. This could be serious with such a tiny baby.”
       “The answer is yes, Mabel.”
       “Albert Taylor! How could you?”
       “Now don’t get excited,” he said. “I’ll tell you all about it if you really want me to, but for heaven’s sake keep your hair on.”
       “It was beer!” she cried. “I just know it was beer!”
       “Don’t be so daft, Mabel, please.”
       “Then what was it?”
       Albert laid his pipe down carefully on the table beside him and leaned back in his chair. “Tell me,” he said, “did you ever by any chance happen to hear me mentioning something called royal jelly?”
       “I did not.”
       “It’s magic,” he said. “Pure magic. And last night I suddenly got the idea that if I was to put some of this into the baby’s milk . . .”
       “How dare you!”
       “Now, Mabel, you don’t even know what it is yet.”
       “I don’t care what it is,” she said. “You can’t go putting foreign bodies like that into a tiny baby’s milk. You must be mad.”
       “It’s perfectly harmless, Mabel, otherwise I wouldn’t have done it. It comes from bees.”
       “I might have guessed that.”
       “And it’s so precious that practically no one can afford to take it. When they do, it’s only one little drop at a time.”
       “And how much did you give to our baby, might I ask?”
       “Ah,” he said, “that’s the whole point. That’s where the difference lies. I reckon that our baby, just in the last four feeds, has already swallowed about fifty times as much royal jelly as anyone else in the world has ever swallowed before. How about that?”
       “Albert, stop pulling my leg.”
       “I swear it,” he said proudly.
       She sat there staring at him, her brow wrinkled, her mouth slightly open.
       “You know what this stuff actually costs, Mabel, if you want to buy it? There’s a place in America advertising it for sale at this very moment for something like five hundred dollars a pound jar! Five hundred dollars! That’s more than gold, you know!”
       She hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about.
       “I’ll prove it,” he said, and he jumped up and went across to the large bookcase where he kept all his literature about bees. On the top shelf, the back numbers of The American Bee Journal were neatly stacked alongside those of The British Bee Journal, Beecraft, and other magazines. He took down the last issue of The American Bee Journal and turned to a page of small classified advertisements at the back.
       “Here you are,” he said. “Exactly as I told you. ‘We sell royal jelly—$480 per lb. jar wholesale.’ ”
       He handed her the magazine so she could read it herself.
       “Now do you believe me? This is an actual shop in New York, Mabel. It says so.”
       “It doesn’t say you can go stirring it into the milk of a practically new-born baby,” she said. “I don’t know what’s come over you, Albert, I really don’t.”
       “It’s curing her, isn’t it?”
       “I’m not so sure about that, now.”
       “Don’t be so damn silly, Mabel. You know it is.”
       “Then why haven’t other people done it with their babies?”
       “I keep telling you,” he said. “It’s too expensive. Practically nobody in the world can afford to buy royal jelly just for eating except maybe one or two multimillionaires. The people who buy it are the big companies that make women’s face creams and things like that. They’re using it as a stunt. They mix a tiny pinch of it into a big jar of face cream and it’s selling like hot cakes for absolutely enormous prices. They claim it takes out the wrinkles.”
       “And does it?”
       “Now how on earth would I know that, Mabel? Anyway,” he said, returning to his chair, “that’s not the point. The point is this. It’s done so much good to our little baby just in the last few hours that I think we ought to go right on giving it to her. Now don’t interrupt, Mabel. Let me finish. I’ve got two hundred and forty hives out there and if I turn over maybe a hundred of them to making royal jelly, we ought to be able to supply her with all she wants.”
       “Albert Taylor,” the woman said, stretching her eyes wide and staring at him. “Have you gone out of your mind?”
       “Just hear me through, will you please?”
       “I forbid it,” she said, “absolutely. You’re not to give my baby another drop of that horrid jelly, you understand?”
       “Now, Mabel . . .”
       “And quite apart from that, we had a shocking honey crop last year, and if you go fooling around with those hives now, there’s no telling what might not happen.”
       “There’s nothing wrong with my hives, Mabel.”
       “You know very well we had only half the normal crop last year.”
       “Do me a favour, will you?” he said. “Let me explain some of the marvellous things this stuff does.”
       “You haven’t even told me what it is yet.”
       “All right, Mabel. I’ll do that too. Will you listen? Will you give me a chance to explain it?”
       She sighed and picked up her knitting once more. “I suppose you might as well get it off your chest, Albert. Go on and tell me.”
       He paused, a bit uncertain now how to begin. It wasn’t going to be easy to explain something like this to a person with no detailed knowledge of apiculture at all.
       “You know, don’t you,” he said, “that each colony has only one queen?”
       “Yes.”
       “And that this queen lays all the eggs?”
       “Yes, dear. That much I know.”
       “All right. Now the queen can actually lay two different kinds of eggs. You didn’t know that, but she can. It’s what we call one of the miracles of the hive. She can lay eggs that produce drones, and she can lay eggs that produce workers. Now if that isn’t a miracle, Mabel, I don’t know what is.”
       “Yes, Albert, all right.”
       “The drones are the males. We don’t have to worry about them. The workers are all females. So is the queen, of course. But the workers are unsexed females, if you see what I mean. Their organs are completely undeveloped, whereas the queen is tremendously sexy. She can actually lay her own weight in eggs in a single day.”
       He hesitated, marshalling his thoughts.
       “Now what happens is this. The queen crawls around on the comb and lays her eggs in what we call cells. You know all those hundreds of little holes you see in a honeycomb? Well, a brood comb is just about the same except the cells don’t have honey in them, they have eggs. She lays one egg to each cell, and in three days each of these eggs hatches out into a tiny grub. We call it a larva.
       “Now, as soon as this larva appears, the nurse bees—they’re young workers—all crowd round and start feeding it like mad. And you know what they feed it on?”
       “Royal jelly,” Mabel answered patiently.
       “Right!” he cried. “That’s exactly what they do feed it on. They get this stuff out of a gland in their heads and they start pumping it into the cell to feed the larva. And what happens then?”
       He paused dramatically, blinking at her with his small watery-grey eyes. Then he turned slowly in his chair and reached for the magazine that he had been reading the night before.
       “You want to know what happens then?” he asked, wetting his lips.
       “I can hardly wait.”
       “ ‘Royal jelly,’ ” he read aloud, “ ‘must be a substance of tremendous nourishing power, for on this diet alone, the honey-bee larva increases in weight fifteen hundred times in five days!’ ”
       “How much?”
       “Fifteen hundred times, Mabel. And you know what that means if you put it in terms of a human being? It means,” he said, lowering his voice, leaning forward, fixing her with those small pale eyes, “it means that in five days a baby weighing seven and a half pounds to start off with would increase in weight to five tons!”
       For the second time, Mrs Taylor stopped knitting.
       “Now you mustn’t take that too literally, Mabel.”
       “Who says I mustn’t?”
       “It’s just a scientific way of putting it, that’s all.”
       “Very well, Albert. Go on.”
       “But that’s only half the story,” he said. “There’s more to come. The really amazing thing about royal jelly, I haven’t told you yet. I’m going to show you now how it can transform a plain dull-looking little worker bee with practically no sex organs at all into a great big beautiful fertile queen.”
       “Are you saying our baby is dull-looking and plain?” she asked sharply.
       “Now don’t go putting words into my mouth, Mabel, please. Just listen to this. Did you know that the queen bee and the worker bee, although they are completely different when they grow up, are both hatched out of exactly the same kind of egg?”
       “I don’t believe that,” she said.
       “It’s true as I’m sitting here, Mabel, honest it is. Any time the bees want a queen to hatch out of the egg instead of a worker, they can do it.”
       “How?”
       “Ah,” he said, shaking a thick forefinger in her direction. “That’s just what I’m coming to. That’s the secret of the whole thing. Now—what do you think it is, Mabel, that makes this miracle happen?”
       “Royal jelly,” she answered. “You already told me.”
       “Royal jelly it is!” he cried, clapping his hands and bouncing up on his seat. His big round face was glowing with excitement now, and two vivid patches of scarlet had appeared high up on each cheek.
       “Here’s how it works. I’ll put it very simply for you. The bees want a new queen. So they build an extra-large cell, a queen cell we call it, and they get the old queen to lay one of her eggs in there. The other one thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine eggs she lays in ordinary worker cells. Now. As soon as these eggs hatch into larvae, the nurse bees rally round and start pumping in the royal jelly. All of them get it, workers as well as queen. But here’s the vital thing, Mabel, so listen carefully. Here’s where the difference comes. The worker larvae only receive this special marvellous food for the first three days of their larval life. After that they have a complete change of diet. What really happens is they get weaned, except that it’s not like an ordinary weaning because it’s so sudden. After the third day they’re put straight away on to more or less routine bees’ food—a mixture of honey and pollen—and then about two weeks later they emerge from the cells as workers.
       “But not so the larva in the queen cell! This one gets royal jelly all the way through its larval life. The nurse bees simply pour it into the cell, so much so in fact that the little larva is literally floating in it. And that’s what makes it into a queen!”
       “You can’t prove it,” she said.
       “Don’t talk so damn silly, Mabel, please. Thousands of people have proved it time and time again, famous scientists in every country in the world. All you have to do is take a larva out of a worker cell and put it in a queen cell—that’s what we call grafting—and just so long as the nurse bees keep it well supplied with royal jelly, then presto!—it’ll grow up into a queen! And what makes it more marvellous still is the absolutely enormous difference between a queen and a worker when they grow up. The abdomen is a different shape. The sting is different. The legs are different. The . . .”
       “In what way are the legs different?” she asked, testing him.
       “The legs? Well, the workers have little pollen baskets on their legs for carrying the pollen. The queen has none. Now here’s another thing. The queen has fully developed sex organs. The workers don’t. And most amazing of all, Mabel, the queen lives for an average of four to six years. The worker hardly lives that many months. And all this difference simply because one of them got royal jelly and the other didn’t!”
       “It’s pretty hard to believe,”she said, “that a food can do all that.”
       “Of course it’s hard to believe. It’s another of the miracles of the hive. In fact it’s the biggest ruddy miracle of them all. It’s such a hell of a big miracle that it’s baffled the greatest men of science for hundreds of years. Wait a moment. Stay there. Don’t move.”
       Again he jumped up and went over to the bookcase and started rummaging among the books and magazines.
       “I’m going to find you a few of the reports. Here we are. Here’s one of them. Listen to this.” He started reading aloud from a copy of the American Bee Journal:
       “ ‘Living in Toronto at the head of a fine research laboratory given to him by the people of Canada in recognition of his truly great contribution to humanity in the discovery of insulin, Dr Frederick A. Banting became curious about royal jelly. He requested his staff to do a basic fractional analysis . . .’ ”
       He paused.
       “Well, there’s no need to read it all, but here’s what happened. Dr Banting and his people took some royal jelly from queen cells that contained two-day-old larvae, and then they started analysing it. And what d’you think they found?
       “They found,” he said, “that royal jelly contained phenols, sterols, glycerils, dextrose, and—now here it comes—and eighty to eighty-five per cent unidentified acids!”
       He stood beside the bookcase with the magazine in his hand, smiling a funny little furtive smile of triumph, and his wife watched him, bewildered.
       He was not a tall man; he had a thick plump pulpy-looking body that was built close to the ground on abbreviated legs. The legs were slightly bowed. The head was huge and round, covered with bristly short-cut hair, and the greater part of the face—now that he had given up shaving altogether—was hidden by a brownish yellow fuzz about an inch long. In one way and another, he was rather grotesque to look at, there was no denying that.
       “Eighty to eighty-five per cent,” he said, “unidentified acids. Isn’t that fantastic?” He turned back to the bookshelf and began hunting through the other magazines.
       “What does it mean, unidentified acids?”
       “That’s the whole point! No one knows! Not even Banting could find out. You’ve heard of Banting?”
       “No.”
       “He just happens to be about the most famous living doctor in the world today, that’s all.”
       Looking at him now as he buzzed around in front of the bookcase with his bristly head and his hairy face and his plump pulpy body, she couldn’t help thinking that somehow, in some curious way, there was a touch of the bee about this man. She had often seen women grow to look like the horses that they rode, and she had noticed that people who bred birds or bull terriers or pomeranians frequently resembled in some small but startling manner the creature of their choice. But up until now it had never occurred to her that her husband might look like a bee. It shocked her a bit.
       “And did Banting ever try to eat it,” she asked, “this royal jelly?”
       “Of course he didn’t eat it, Mabel. He didn’t have enough for that. It’s too precious.”
       “You know something?” she said, staring at him but smiling a little all the same. “You’re getting to look just a teeny bit like a bee yourself, did you know that?”
       He turned and looked at her.
       “I suppose it’s the beard mostly,” she said. “I do wish you’d stop wearing it. Even the colour is sort of bee-ish, don’t you think?”
       “What the hell are you talking about, Mabel?”
       “Albert,” she said. “Your language.”
       “Do you want to hear any more of this or don’t you?”
       “Yes, dear, I’m sorry. I was only joking. Do go on.”
       He turned away again and pulled another magazine out of the bookcase and began leafing through the pages. “Now just listen to this, Mabel. ‘In 1939, Heyl experimented with twenty-one-day-old rats, injecting them with royal jelly in varying amounts. As a result, he found a precocious follicular development of the ovaries directly in proportion to the quantity of royal jelly injected.’ ”
       “There!” she cried. “I knew it!”
       “Knew what?”
       “I knew something terrible would happen.”
       “Nonsense. There’s nothing wrong with that. Now here’s another, Mabel. ‘Still and Burdett found that a male rat which hitherto had been unable to breed, upon receiving a minute daily dose of royal jelly, became a father many times over.’ ”
       “Albert,” she cried, “this stuff is much too strong to give to a baby! I don’t like it at all.”
       “Nonsense, Mabel.”
       “Then why do they only try it out on rats, tell me that? Why don’t some of these famous scientists take it themselves? They’re too clever, that’s why. Do you think Dr Banting is going to risk finishing up with precious ovaries? Not him.”
       “But they have given it to people, Mabel. Here’s a whole article about it. Listen.” He turned the page and again began reading from the magazine. “ ‘In Mexico, in 1953, a group of enlightened physicians began prescribing minute doses of royal jelly for such things as cerebral neuritis, arthritis, diabetes, autointoxication from tobacco, impotence in men, asthma, croup, and gout. . . . There are stacks of signed testimonials . . . A celebrated stockbroker in Mexico City contracted a particularly stubborn case of psoriasis. He became physically unattractive. His clients began to forsake him. His business began to suffer. In desperation he turned to royal jelly—one drop with every meal—and presto!—he was cured in a fortnight. A waiter in the Café Jena, also in Mexico City, reported that his father, after taking minute doses of this wonder substance in capsule form, sired a healthy boy child at the age of ninety. A bullfight promoter in Acapulco, finding himself landed with a rather lethargic-looking bull, injected it with one gramme of royal jelly (an excessive dose) just before it entered the arena. Thereupon, the beast became so swift and savage that it promptly dispatched two picadors, three horses, and a matador, and finally . . .’ ”
       “Listen!” Mrs Taylor said, interrupting him. “I think the baby’s crying.”
       Albert glanced up from his reading. Sure enough, a lusty yelling noise was coming from the bedroom above.
       “She must be hungry,” he said.
       His wife looked at the clock. “Good gracious me!” she cried, jumping up. “It’s past her time again already! You mix the feed, Albert, quickly, while I bring her down! But hurry! I don’t want to keep her waiting.”
       In half a minute, Mrs Taylor was back, carrying the screaming infant in her arms. She was flustered now, still quite unaccustomed to the ghastly nonstop racket that a healthy baby makes when it wants its food. “Do be quick, Albert!” she called, settling herself in the armchair and arranging the child on her lap. “Please hurry!”
       Albert entered from the kitchen and handed her the bottle of warm milk. “It’s just right,” he said. “You don’t have to test it.”
       She hitched the baby’s head a little higher in the crook of her arm, then pushed the rubber teat straight into the wide-open yelling mouth. The baby grabbed the teat and began to suck. The yelling stopped. Mrs Taylor relaxed.
       “Oh, Albert, isn’t she lovely?”
       “She’s terrific, Mabel—thanks to royal jelly.”
       “Now, dear, I don’t want to hear another word about that nasty stuff. It frightens me to death.”
       “You’re making a big mistake,” he said.
       “We’ll see about that.”
       The baby went on sucking the bottle.
       “I do believe she’s going to finish the whole lot again, Albert.”
       “I’m sure she is,” he said.
       And a few minutes later, the milk was all gone.
       “Oh, what a good girl you are!” Mrs Taylor cried, as very gently she started to withdraw the nipple. The baby sensed what she was doing and sucked harder, trying to hold on. The woman gave a quick little tug, and plop, out it came.
       “Waa! Waa! Waa! Waa! Waa!” the baby yelled.
       “Nasty old wind,” Mrs Taylor said, hoisting the child on to her shoulder and patting its back.
       It belched twice in quick succession.
       “There you are, my darling, you’ll be all right now.”
       For a few seconds, the yelling stopped. Then it started again.
       “Keep belching her,” Albert said. “She’s drunk it too quick.”
       His wife lifted the baby back on to her shoulder. She rubbed its spine. She changed it from one shoulder to the other. She lay it on its stomach on her lap. She sat it up on her knee. But it didn’t belch again, and the yelling became louder and more insistent every minute.
       “Good for the lungs,” Albert Taylor said, grinning. “That’s the way they exercise their lungs, Mabel, did you know that?”
       “There, there, there,” the wife said, kissing it all over the face. “There, there, there.”
       They waited another five minutes, but not for one moment did the screaming stop.
       “Change the nappy,” Albert said. “It’s got a wet nappy, that’s all it is.” He fetched a clean one from the kitchen, and Mrs Taylor took the old one off and put the new one on.
       This made no difference at all.
       “Waa! Waa! Waa! Waa! Waa!” the baby yelled.
       “You didn’t stick the safety pin through the skin, did you, Mabel?”
       “Of course I didn’t,” she said, feeling under the nappy with her fingers to make sure.
       The parents sat opposite one another in their armchairs, smiling nervously, watching the baby on the mother’s lap, waiting for it to tire and stop screaming.
       “You know what?” Albert Taylor said at last.
       “What?”
       “I’ll bet she’s still hungry. I’ll bet all she wants is another swig at that bottle. How about me fetching her an extra lot?”
       “I don’t think we ought to do that, Albert.”
       “It’ll do her good,” he said, getting up from his chair. “I’m going to warm her up a second helping.”
       He went into the kitchen, and was away several minutes. When he returned he was holding a bottle brimful of milk.
       “I made her a double,” he announced. “Eight ounces. Just in case.”
       “Albert! Are you mad! Don’t you know it’s just as bad to overfeed as it is to underfeed?”
       “You don’t have to give her the lot, Mabel. You can stop any time you like. Go on,” he said, standing over her. “Give her a drink.”
       Mrs Taylor began to tease the baby’s upper lip with the end of the nipple. The tiny mouth closed like a trap over the rubber teat and suddenly there was silence in the room. The baby’s whole body relaxed and a look of absolute bliss came over its face as it started to drink.
       “There you are, Mabel! What did I tell you?”
       The woman didn’t answer.
       “She’s ravenous, that’s what she is. Just look at her suck.”
       Mrs Taylor was watching the level of the milk in the bottle. It was dropping fast, and before long three or four ounces out of the eight had disappeared.
       “There,” she said. “That’ll do.”
       “You can’t pull it away now, Mabel.”
       “Yes, dear. I must.”
       “Go on, woman. Give her the rest and stop fussing.”
       “But Albert . . .”
       “She’s famished, can’t you see that? Go on, my beauty,” he said. “You finish that bottle.”
       “I don’t like it, Albert,” the wife said, but she didn’t pull the bottle away.
       “She’s making up for lost time, Mabel, that’s all she’s doing.”
       Five minutes later the bottle was empty. Slowly, Mrs Taylor withdrew the nipple, and this time there was no protest from the baby, no sound at all. It lay peacefully on the mother’s lap, the eyes glazed with contentment, the mouth half open, the lips smeared with milk.
       “Twelve whole ounces, Mabel!” Albert Taylor said. “Three times the normal amount! Isn’t that amazing!”
       The woman was staring down at the baby. And now the old anxious tight-lipped look of the frightened mother was slowly returning to her face.
       “What’s the matter with you?” Albert asked. “You’re not worried by that, are you? You can’t expect her to get back to normal on a lousy four ounces, don’t be ridiculous.”
       “Come here, Albert,” she said.
       “What?”
       “I said come here.”
       He went over and stood beside her.
       “Take a good look and tell me if you see anything different.”
       He peered closely at the baby. “She seems bigger, Mabel, if that’s what you mean. Bigger and fatter.”
       “Hold her,” she ordered. “Go on, pick her up.”
       He reached out and lifted the baby up off the mother’s lap. “Good God!” he cried. “She weighs a ton!”
       “Exactly.”
       “Now isn’t that marvellous!” he cried, beaming. “I’ll bet she must be back to normal already!”
       “It frightens me, Albert. It’s too quick.”
       “Nonsense, woman.”
       “It’s that disgusting jelly that’s done it,” she said. “I hate the stuff.”
       “There’s nothing disgusting about royal jelly,” he answered, indignant.
       “Don’t be a fool, Albert! You think it’s normal for a child to start putting on weight at this speed?”
       “You’re never satisfied!” he cried. “You’re scared stiff when she’s losing and now you’re absolutely terrified because she’s gaining! What’s the matter with you, Mabel?”
       The woman got up from her chair with the baby in her arms and started towards the door. “All I can say is,” she said, “it’s lucky I’m here to see you don’t give her any more of it, that’s all I can say.” She went out, and Albert watched her through the open door as she crossed the hall to the foot of the stairs and started to ascend, and when she reached the third or fourth step she suddenly stopped and stood quite still for several seconds as though remembering something. Then she turned and came down again rather quickly and re-entered the room.
       “Albert,” she said.
       “Yes?”
       “I assume there wasn’t any royal jelly in this last feed we’ve just given her?”
       “I don’t see why you should assume that, Mabel.”
       “Albert!”
       “What’s wrong?” he asked, soft and innocent.
       “How dare you!” she cried.
       Albert Taylor’s great bearded face took on a pained and puzzled look. “I think you ought to be very glad she’s got another big dose of it inside her,” he said. “Honest I do. And this is a big dose, Mabel, believe you me.”
       The woman was standing just inside the doorway clasping the sleeping baby in her arms and staring at her husband with huge eyes. She stood very erect, her body absolutely stiff with fury, her face paler, more tight-lipped than ever.
       “You mark my words,” Albert was saying, “you’re going to have a nipper there soon that’ll win first prize in any baby show in the entire country. Hey, why don’t you weigh her now and see what she is? You want me to get the scales, Mabel, so you can weigh her?”
       The woman walked straight over to the large table in the centre of the room and laid the baby down and quickly started taking off its clothes. “Yes!” she snapped. “Get the scales!” Off came the little nightgown, then the undervest.
       Then she unpinned the nappy and she drew it away and the baby lay naked on the table.
       “But Mabel!” Albert cried. “It’s a miracle! She’s fat as a puppy!”
       Indeed, the amount of flesh the child had put on since the day before was astounding. The small sunken chest with the rib bones showing all over it was now plump and round as a barrel, and the belly was bulging high in the air. Curiously, though, the arms and legs did not seem to have grown in proportion. Still short and skinny, they looked like little sticks protruding from a ball of fat.
       “Look!” Albert said. “She’s even beginning to get a bit of fuzz on the tummy to keep her warm!” He put out a hand and was about to run the tips of his fingers over the powdering of silky yellowy-brown hairs that had suddenly appeared on the baby’s stomach.
       “Don’t you touch her!” the woman cried. She turned and faced him, her eyes blazing, and she looked suddenly like some kind of a little fighting bird with her neck arched over towards him as though she were about to fly at his face and peck his eyes out.
       “Now wait a minute,” he said, retreating.
       “You must be mad!” she cried.
       “Now wait just one minute, Mabel, will you please, because if you’re still thinking this stuff is dangerous . . . That is what you’re thinking, isn’t it? All right, then. Listen carefully. I shall now proceed to prove to you once and for all, Mabel, that royal jelly is absolutely harmless to human beings, even in enormous doses. For example—why do you think we had only half the usual honey crop last summer? Tell me that.”
       His retreat, walking backwards, had taken him three or four yards away from her, where he seemed to feel more comfortable.
       “The reason we had only half the usual crop last summer,” he said slowly, lowering his voice, “was because I turned one hundred of my hives over to the production of royal jelly.”
       “You what”
       “Ah,” he whispered. “I thought that might surprise you a bit. And I’ve been making it ever since right under your very nose.” His small eyes were glinting at her, and a slow sly smile was creeping around the corners of his mouth.
       “You’ll never guess the reason, either,” he said. “I’ve been afraid to mention it up to now because I thought it might . . . well . . . sort of embarrass you.”
       There was a slight pause. He had his hands clasped high in front of him, level with his chest, and he was rubbing one palm against the other, making a soft scraping noise.
       “You remember that bit I read you out of the magazine? That bit about the rat? Let me see now, how does it go? ‘Still and Burdett found that a male rat which hitherto had been unable to breed . . .’ ” He hesitated, the grin widening, showing his teeth.
       “You get the message, Mabel?”
       She stood quite still, facing him.
       “The very first time I ever read that sentence, Mabel, I jumped straight out of my chair and I said to myself if it’ll work with a lousy rat, I said, then there’s no reason on earth why it shouldn’t work with Albert Taylor.”
       He paused again, craning his head forward and turning one ear slightly in his wife’s direction, waiting for her to say something. But she didn’t.
       “And here’s another thing,” he went on. “It made me feel so absolutely marvellous, Mabel, and so sort of completely different to what I was before that I went right on taking it even after you’d announced the joyful tidings. Buckets of it I must have swallowed during the last twelve months.”
       The big heavy haunted-looking eyes of the woman were moving intently over the man’s face and neck. There was no skin showing at all on the neck, not even at the sides below the ears. The whole of it, to a point where it disappeared into the collar of the shirt, was covered all the way around with those shortish silky hairs, yellowy black.
       “Mind you,” he said, turning away from her, gazing lovingly now at the baby, “it’s going to work far better on a tiny infant than on a fully developed man like me. You’ve only got to look at her to see that, don’t you agree?”
       The woman’s eyes travelled slowly downward and settled on the baby. The baby was lying naked on the table, fat and white and comatose, like some gigantic grub that was approaching the end of its larval life and would soon emerge into the world complete with mandibles and wings.
       “Why don’t you cover her up, Mabel?” he said. “We don’t want our little queen to catch a cold.”

Georgy Porgy

Without in any way wishing to blow my own trumpet, I think that I can claim to being in most respects a moderately well-matured and rounded individual. I have travelled a good deal. I am adequately read. I speak Greek and Latin. I dabble in science. I can tolerate a mildly liberal attitude in the politics of others. I have compiled a volume of notes upon the evolution of the madrigal in the fifteenth century. I have witnessed the death of a large number of persons in their beds; and in addition, I have influenced, at least I hope I have, the lives of quite a few others by the spoken word delivered from the pulpit.
       Yet in spite of all this, I must confess that I have never in my life—well, how shall I put it?—I have never really had anything much to do with women.
       To be perfectly honest, up until three weeks ago I had never so much as laid a finger on one of them except perhaps to help her over a stile or something like that when the occasion demanded. And even then I always tried to ensure that I touched only the shoulder or the waist or some other place where the skin was covered, because the one thing I never could stand was actual contact between my skin and theirs. Skin touching skin, my skin, that is, touching the skin of a female, whether it were leg, neck, face, hand, or merely finger, was so repugnant to me that I invariably greeted a lady with my hands clasped firmly behind my back to avoid the inevitable handshake.
       I could go further than that and say that any sort of physical contact with them, even when the skin wasn’t bare, would disturb me considerably. If a woman stood close to me in a queue so that our bodies touched, or if she squeezed in beside me on a bus seat, hip to hip and thigh to thigh, my cheeks would begin burning like mad and little prickles of sweat would start coming out all over the crown of my head.
       This condition is all very well in a schoolboy who has just reached the age of puberty. With him it is simply Dame Nature’s way of putting on the brakes and holding the lad back until he is old enough to behave himself like a gentleman. I approve of that.
       But there was no reason on God’s earth why I, at the ripe old age of thirty-one, should continue to suffer a similar embarrassment. I was well trained to resist temptation, and I was certainly not given to vulgar passions.
       Had I been even the slightest bit ashamed of my own personal appearance, then that might possibly have explained the whole thing. But I was not. On the contrary, and though I say it myself, the fates had been rather kind to me in that regard. I stood exactly five and a half feet tall in my stockinged feet, and my shoulders, though they sloped downward a little from the neck, were nicely in balance with my small neat frame. (Personally, I’ve always thought that a little slope on the shoulder lends a subtle and faintly aesthetic air to a man who is not overly tall, don’t you agree?) My features were regular, my teeth were in excellent condition (protruding only a smallish amount from the upper jaw), and my hair, which was an unusually brilliant ginger-red, grew thickly all over my scalp. Good heavens above, I had seen men who were perfect shrimps in comparison with me displaying an astonishing aplomb in their dealings with the fairer sex. And oh, how I envied them! How I longed to do likewise—to be able to share in a few of those pleasant little rituals of contact that I observed continually taking place between men and women—the touching of hands, the peck on the cheek, the linking of arms, the pressure of knee against knee or foot against foot under the dining-table, and most of all, the full-blown violent embrace that comes when two of them join together on the floor—for a dance.
       But such things were not for me. Alas, I had to spend my time avoiding them instead. And this, my friends, was easier said than done, even for a humble curate in a small country region far from the fleshpots of the metropolis.
       My flock, you understand, contained an inordinate number of ladies. There were scores of them in the parish, and the unfortunate thing about it was that at least sixty per cent of them were spinsters, completely untamed by the benevolent influence of holy matrimony.
       I tell you I was jumpy as a squirrel.
       One would have thought that with all the careful training my mother had given me as a child, I should have been capable of taking this sort of thing well in my stride; and no doubt I would have done if only she had lived long enough to complete my education. But alas, she was killed when I was still quite young.
       She was a wonderful woman, my mother. She used to wear huge bracelets on her wrists, five or six-of them at a time, with all sorts of things hanging from them and tinkling against each other as she moved. It didn’t matter where she was, you could always find her by listening for the noise of those bracelets. It was better than a cowbell. And in the evenings she used to sit on the sofa in her black trousers with her feet tucked up underneath her, smoking endless cigarettes from a long black holder. And I’d be crouching on the floor, watching her.
       “You want to taste my martini, George?” she used to ask.
       “Now stop it, Clare,” my father would say. “If you’re not careful you’ll stunt the boy’s growth.”
       “Go on,” she said. “Don’t be frightened of it. Drink it.”
       I always did everything my mother told me.
       “That’s enough,” my father said. “He only has to know what it tastes like.”
       “Please don’t interfere, Boris. This is very important.”
       My mother had a theory that nothing in the world should be kept secret from a child. Show him everything. Make him experience it.
       “I’m not going to have any boy of mine going around whispering dirty secrets with other children and having to guess about this thing and that simply because no one will tell him.”
       Tell him everything. Make him listen.
       “Come over here, George, and I’ll tell you what there is to know about God.”
       She never read stories to me at night before I went to bed; she just “told” me things instead. And every evening it was something different.
       “Come over here, George, because now I’m going to tell you about Mohammed.”
       She would be sitting on the sofa in her black trousers with her legs crossed and her feet tucked up underneath her, and she’d beckon to me in a queer languorous manner with the hand that held the long black cigarette-holder, and the bangles would start jingling all the way up her arm.
       “If you must have a religion I suppose Mohammedanism is as good as any of them. It’s all based on keeping healthy. You have lots of wives, and you mustn’t ever smoke or drink.”
       “Why mustn’t you smoke or drink, Mummy?”
       “Because if you’ve got lots of wives you have to keep healthy and virile.”
       “What is virile?”
       “I’ll go into that tomorrow, my pet. Let’s deal with one subject at a time. Another thing about the Mohammedan is that he never never gets constipated.”
       “Now, Clare,” my father would say, looking up from his book. “Stick to the facts.”
       “My dear Boris, you don’t know anything about it. Now if only you would try bending forward and touching the ground with your forehead morning, noon, and night every day, facing Mecca, you might have a bit less trouble in that direction yourself.”
       I used to love listening to her, even though I could only understand about half of what she was saying. She really was telling me secrets, and there wasn’t anything more exciting than that.
       “Come over here, George, and I’ll tell you precisely how your father makes his money.”
       “Now, Clare, that’s quite enough.”
       “Nonsense, darling. Why make a secret out of it with the child? He’ll only imagine something much much worse.”
       I was exactly ten years old when she started giving me detailed lectures on the subject of sex. This was the biggest secret of them all, and therefore the most enthralling.
       “Come over here, George, because now I’m going to tell you how you came into this world, right from the very beginning.”
       I saw my father glance up quietly, and open his mouth wide the way he did when he was going to say something vital, but my mother was already fixing him with those brilliant shining eyes of hers, and he went slowly back to his book without uttering a sound.
       “Your poor father is embarrassed,” she said, and she gave me her private smile, the one that she gave nobody else, only to me—the one-sided smile where just one corner of her mouth lifted slowly upward until it made a lovely long wrinkle that stretched right up to the eye itself, and became a sort of wink-smile instead.
       “Embarrassment, my pet, is the one thing that I want you never to feel. And don’t think for a moment that your father is embarrassed only because of you.”
       My father started wriggling about in his chair.
       “My God, he’s even embarrassed about things like that when he’s alone with me, his own wife.”
       “About things like what?” I asked.
       At that point my father got up and quietly left the room.
       I think it must have been about a week after this that my mother was killed. It may possibly have been a little later, ten days or a fortnight, I can’t be sure. All I know is that we were getting near the end of this particular series of “talks” when it happened; and because I myself was personally involved in the brief chain of events that led up to her death, I can still remember every single detail of that curious night just as clearly as if it were yesterday. I can switch it on in my memory any time I like and run it through in front of my eyes exactly as though it were the reel of a cinema film; and it never varies. It always ends at precisely the same place, no more and no less, and it always begins in the same peculiarly sudden way, with the screen in darkness, and my mother’s voice somewhere above me, calling my name:
       “George! Wake up, George, wake up!”
       And then there is a bright electric light dazzling in my eyes, and right from the very centre of it, but far away, the voice is still calling me:
       “George, wake up and get out of bed and put your dressing-gown on! Quickly! You’re coming downstairs. There’s something I want you to see. Come on, child, come on! Hurry up! And put your slippers on. We’re going outside.”
       “Outside?”
       “Don’t argue with me, George. Just do as you’re told.” I am so sleepy I can hardly see to walk, but my mother takes me firmly by the hand and leads me downstairs and out through the front door into the night where the cold air is like a sponge of water in my face, and I open my eyes wide and see the lawn all sparkling with frost and the cedar tree with its tremendous arms standing black against a thin small moon. And overhead a great mass of stars is wheeling up into the sky.
       We hurry across the lawn, my mother and I, her bracelets all jingling like mad and me having to trot to keep up with her. Each step I take I can feel the crisp frosty grass crunching softly underfoot.
       “Josephine has just started having her babies,” my mother says. “It’s a perfect opportunity. You shall watch the whole process.”
       There is a light burning in the garage when we get there, and we go inside. My father isn’t there, nor is the car, and the place seems huge and bare, and the concrete floor is freezing cold through the soles of my bedroom slippers. Josephine is reclining on a heap of straw inside the low wire cage in one corner of the room—a large blue rabbit with small pink eyes that watch us suspiciously as we go towards her. The husband, whose name is Napoleon, is now in a separate cage in the opposite corner, and I notice that he is standing up on his hind legs scratching impatiently at the netting.
       “Look!” my mother cries. “She’s just having the first one! It’s almost out!”
       We both creep closer to Josephine, and I squat down beside the cage with my face right up against the wire. I am fascinated. Here is one rabbit coming out of another. It is magical and rather splendid. It is also very quick.
       “Look how it comes out all neatly wrapped up in its own little cellophane bag!” my mother is saying.
       “And just look how she’s taking care of it now! The poor darling doesn’t have a face-flannel, and even if she did she couldn’t hold it in her paws, so she’s washing it with her tongue instead.”
       The mother rabbit rolls her small pink eyes anxiously in our direction, and then I see her shifting position in the straw so that her body is between us and the young one.
       “Come round the other side,” my mother says. “The silly thing has moved. I do believe she’s trying to hide her baby from us.”
       We go round the other side of the cage. The rabbit follows us with her eyes. A couple of yards away the buck is prancing madly up and down, clawing at the wire.
       “Why is Napoleon so excited?” I ask.
       “I don’t know, dear. Don’t you bother about him. Watch Josephine. I expect she’ll be having another one soon. Look how carefully she’s washing that little baby! She’s treating it just like a human mother treats hers! Isn’t it funny to think that I did almost exactly the same sort of thing to you once?” The big blue doe is still watching us, and now, again, she pushes the baby away with her nose and rolls slowly over to face the other way. Then she goes on with her licking and cleaning.
       “Isn’t it wonderful how a mother knows instinctively just what she has to do?” my mother says. “Now you just imagine, my pet, that that baby is you, and Josephine is me—wait a minute, come back over here again so you can get a better look.”
       We creep back around the cage to keep the baby in view.
       “See how she’s fondling it and kissing it all over! There! She’s really kissing it now, isn’t she! Exactly like me and you!”
       I peer closer. It seems a queer way of kissing to me.
       “Look!” I scream. “She’s eating it!”
       And sure enough, the head of the baby rabbit is now disappearing swiftly into the mother’s mouth.
       “Mummy! Quick!”
       But almost before the sound of my scream has died away, the whole of that tiny pink body has vanished down the mother’s throat.
       I swing quickly around, and the next thing I know I’m looking straight into my own mother’s face, not six inches above me, and no doubt she is trying to say something or it may be that she is too astonished to say anything, but all I see is the mouth, the huge red mouth opening wider and wider until it is just a great big round gaping hole with a black centre, and I scream again, and this time I can’t stop. Then suddenly out come her hands, and I can feel her skin touching mine, the long cold fingers closing tightly over my fists, and I jump back and jerk myself free and rush blindly out into the night. I run down the drive and through the front gates, screaming all the way, and then, above the noise of my own voice I can hear the jingle of bracelets coming up behind me in the dark, getting louder and louder as she keeps gaining on me all the way down the long hill to the bottom of the lane and over the bridge on to the main road where the cars are streaming by at sixty miles an hour with headlights blazing.
       Then somewhere behind me I hear a screech of tyres skidding on the road surface, and then there is silence, and I notice suddenly that the bracelets aren’t jingling behind me any more.
       Poor Mother.
       If only she could have lived a little longer.
       I admit that she gave me a nasty fright with those rabbits, but it wasn’t her fault, and anyway queer things like that were always happening between her and me. I had come to regard them as a sort of toughening process that did me more good than harm. But if only she could have lived long enough to complete my education, I’m sure I should never have had all that trouble I was telling you about a few minutes ago.
       I want to get on with that now. I didn’t mean to begin talking about my mother. She doesn’t have anything to do with what I originally started out to say. I won’t mention her again.
       I was telling you about the spinsters in my parish. It’s an ugly word, isn’t it—spinster? It conjures up the vision either of a stringy old hen with a puckered mouth or of a huge ribald monster shouting around the house in riding-breeches. But these were not like that at all. They were a clean, healthy, well-built group of females, the majority of them highly bred and surprisingly wealthy, and I feel sure that the average unmarried man would have been gratified to have them around.
       In the beginning, when I first came to the vicarage, I didn’t have too bad a time. I enjoyed a measure of protection, of course, by reason of my calling and my cloth. In addition, I myself adopted a cool dignified attitude that was calculated to discourage familiarity. For a few months, therefore, I was able to move freely among my parishioners, and no one took the liberty of linking her arm in mine at a charity bazaar, or of touching my fingers with hers as she passed me the cruet at suppertime. I was very happy. I was feeling better than I had in years. Even that little nervous habit I had of flicking my earlobe with my forefinger when I talked began to disappear.
       This was what I call my first period, and it extended over approximately six months. Then came trouble.
       I suppose I should have known that a healthy male like myself couldn’t hope to evade embroilment indefinitely simply by keeping a fair distance between himself and the ladies. It just doesn’t work. If anything it has the opposite effect.
       I would see them eyeing me covertly across the room at a whist drive, whispering to one another, nodding, running their tongues over their lips, sucking at their cigarettes, plotting the best approach, but always whispering, and sometimes I overheard snatches of their talk—“What a shy person . . . he’s just a trifle nervous, isn’t he . . . he’s much too tense . . . he needs companionship . . . he wants loosening up . . . we must teach him how to relax.” And then slowly, as the weeks went by, they began to stalk me. I knew they were doing it. I could feel it happening although at first they did nothing definite to give themselves away.
       That was my second period. It lasted for the best part of a year and was very trying indeed. But it was paradise compared with the third and final phase.
       For now, instead of sniping at me sporadically from far away, the attackers suddenly came charging out of the wood with bayonets fixed. It was terrible, frightening. Nothing is more calculated to unnerve a man than the swift unexpected assault. Yet I am not a coward. I will stand my ground against any single individual of my own size under any circumstances. But this onslaught, I am now convinced, was conducted by vast numbers operating as one skilfully co-ordinated unit.
       The first offender was Miss Elphinstone, a large woman with moles. I had dropped in on her during the afternoon to solicit a contribution towards a new set of bellows for the organ, and after some pleasant conversation in the library she had graciously handed me a cheque for two guineas. I told her not to bother to see me to the door and I went out into the hall to get my hat. I was about to reach for it when all at once—she must have come tip-toeing up behind me—all at once I felt a bare arm sliding through mine, and one second later her fingers were entwined in my own, and she was squeezing my hand hard, in out, in out, as though it were the bulb of a throat-spray.
       “Are you really so Very Reverend as you’re always pretending to be?” she whispered.
       Well!
       All I can tell you is that when that arm of hers came sliding in under mine, it felt exactly as though a cobra was coiling itself around my wrist. I leaped away, pulled open the front door, and fled down the drive without looking back.
       The very next day we held a jumble sale in the village hall (again to raise money for the new bellows), and towards the end of it I was standing in a corner quietly drinking a cup of tea and keeping an eye on the villagers crowding round the stalls when all of a sudden I heard a voice beside me saying, “Dear me, what a hungry look you have in those eyes of yours.” The next instant a long curvaceous body was leaning up against mine and a hand with red fingernails was trying to push a thick slice of coconut cake into my mouth.
       “Miss Prattley,” I cried. “Please!”
       But she’d got me up against the wall, and with a teacup in one hand and a saucer in the other I was powerless to resist. I felt the sweat breaking out all over me and if my mouth hadn’t quickly become full of the cake she was pushing into it, I honestly believe I would have started to scream.
       A nasty incident, that one; but there was worse to come.
       The next day it was Miss Unwin. Now Miss Unwin happened to be a close friend of Miss Elphinstone’s and of Miss Prattley’s, and this of course should have been enough to make me very cautious. Yet who would have thought that she of all people, Miss Unwin, that quiet gentle little mouse who only a few weeks before had presented me with a new hassock exquisitely worked in needlepoint with her own hands, who would have thought that she would ever have taken a liberty with anyone? So when she asked me to accompany her down to the crypt to show her the Saxon murals, it never entered my head that there was devilry afoot. But there was.
       I don’t propose to describe that encounter; it was too painful. And the ones which followed were no less savage. Nearly every day from then on, some new outrageous incident would take place. I became a nervous wreck. At times I hardly knew what I was doing. I started reading the burial service at young Glady’s Pitcher’s wedding. I dropped Mrs Harris’s new baby into the font during the christening and gave it a nasty ducking. An uncomfortable rash that I hadn’t had in over two years reappeared on the side of my neck, and that annoying business with my earlobe came back worse than ever before. Even my hair began coming out in my comb. The faster I retreated, the faster they came after me. Women are like that. Nothing stimulates them quite so much as a display of modesty or shyness in a man. And they become doubly persistent if underneath it all they happen to detect—and here I have a most difficult confession to make—if they happen to detect, as they did in me, a little secret gleam of longing shining in the backs of the eyes.
       You see, actually I was mad about women.
       Yes, I know. You will find this hard to believe after all that I have said, but it was perfectly true. You must understand that it was only when they touched me with their fingers or pushed up against me with their bodies that I became alarmed. Providing they remained at a safe distance, I could watch them for hours on end with the same peculiar fascination that you yourself might experience in watching a creature you couldn’t bear to touch—an octopus, for example, or a long poisonous snake. I loved the smooth white look of a bare arm emerging from a sleeve, curiously naked like a peeled banana. I could get enormously excited just from watching a girl walk across the room in a tight dress; and I particularly enjoyed the back view of a pair of legs when the feet were in rather high heels—the wonderful braced-up look behind the knees, with the legs themselves very taut as though they were made of strong elastic stretched out almost to breaking-point, but not quite. Sometimes, in Lady Birdwell’s drawing-room, sitting near the window on a summer’s afternoon, I would glance over the rim of my teacup towards the swimming pool and become agitated beyond measure by the sight of a little patch of sunburned stomach bulging between the top and bottom of a two-piece bathing-suit.
       There is nothing wrong in having thoughts like these. All men harbour them from time to time. But they did give me a terrible sense of guilt. Is it me, I kept asking myself, who is unwittingly responsible for the shameless way in which these ladies are now behaving? Is it the gleam in my eye (which I cannot control) that is constantly rousing their passions and egging them on? Am I unconsciously giving them what is sometimes known as the come-hither signal every time I glance their way? Am I?
       Or is this brutal conduct of theirs inherent in the very nature of the female?
       I had a pretty fair idea of the answer to this question, but that was not good enough for me. I happen to possess a conscience that can never be consoled by guesswork; it has to have proof. I simply had to find out who was really the guilty party in this case—me or them, and with this object in view, I now decided to perform a simple experiment of my own invention, using Snelling’s rats.
       A year or so previously I had had some trouble with an objectionable choirboy named Billy Snelling. On three consecutive Sundays this youth had brought a pair of white rats into church and had let them loose on the floor during my sermon. In the end I had confiscated the animals and carried them home and placed them in a box in the shed at the bottom of the vicarage garden. Purely for humane reasons I had then proceeded to feed them, and as a result, but without any further encouragement from me, the creatures began to multiply very rapidly. The two became five, and the five became twelve.
       It was at this point that I decided to use them for research purposes. There were exactly equal numbers of males and females, six of each, so that conditions were ideal.
       I first isolated the sexes, putting them into two separate cages, and I left them like that for three whole weeks. Now a rat is a very lascivious animal, and any zoologist will tell you that for them this is an inordinately long period of separation. At a guess I would say that one week of enforced celibacy for a rat is equal to approximately one year of the same treatment for someone like Miss Elphinstone or Miss Prattley; so you can see that I was doing a pretty fair job in reproducing actual conditions.
       When the three weeks were up, I took a large box that was divided across the centre by a little fence, and I placed the females on one side and the males on the other. The fence consisted of nothing more than three single strands of naked wire, one inch apart, but there was a powerful electric current running through the wires.
       To add a touch of reality to the proceedings, I gave each female a name. The largest one, who also had the longest whiskers, was Miss Elphinstone. The one with a short thick tail was Miss Prattley. The smallest of them all was Miss Unwin, and so on. The males, all six of them, were ME.
       I now pulled up a chair and sat back to watch the result.
       All rats are suspicious by nature, and when I first put the two sexes together in the box with only the wire between them, neither side made a move. The males stared hard at the females through the fence. The females stared back, waiting for the males to come forward. I could see that both sides were tense with yearning. Whiskers quivered and noses twitched and occasionally a long tail would flick sharply against the wall of the box.
       After a while, the first male detached himself from his group and advanced gingerly towards the fence, his belly close to the ground. He touched a wire and was immediately electrocuted. The remaining eleven rats froze, motionless.
       There followed a period of nine and a half minutes during which neither side moved; but I noticed that while all the males were now staring at the dead body of their colleague, the females had eyes only for the males.
       Then suddenly Miss Prattley with the short tail could stand it no longer. She came bounding forward, hit the wire, and dropped dead.
       The males pressed their bodies closer to the ground and gazed thoughtfully at the two corpses by the fence. The females also seemed to be quite shaken, and there was another wait, with neither side moving.
       Now it was Miss Unwin who began to show signs of impatience. She snorted audibly and twitched a pink mobile nose-end from side to side, then suddenly she started jerking her body quickly up and down as though she were doing pushups. She glanced round at her remaining four companions, raised her tail high in the air as much as to say, “Here I go, girls,” and with that she advanced briskly to the wire, pushed her head through it, and was killed.
       Sixteen minutes later, Miss Foster made her first move. Miss Foster was a woman in the village who bred cats, and recently she had had the effrontery to put up a large sign outside her house in the High Street, saying FOSTER’S CATTERY. Through long association with the creatures she herself seemed to have acquired all their most noxious characteristics, and whenever she came near me in a room I could detect, even through the smoke of her Russian cigarette, a faint but pungent aroma of cat. She had never struck me as having much control over her baser instincts, and it was with some satisfaction, therefore, that I watched her now as she foolishly took her own life in a last desperate plunge towards the masculine sex.
       A Miss Montgomery-Smith came next, a small determined woman who had once tried to make me believe that she had been engaged to a bishop. She died trying to creep on her belly under the lowest wire, and I must say I thought this a very fair reflection upon the way in which she lived her life.
       And still the five remaining males stayed motionless, waiting.
       The fifth female to go was Miss Plumley. She was a devious one who was continually slipping little messages addressed to me into the collection bag. Only the Sunday before, I had been in the vestry counting the money after morning service and had come across one of them tucked inside a folded ten-shilling note. Your poor throat sounded hoarse today during the sermon, it said. Let me bring you a bottle of my own cherry pectoral to soothe it down. Most affectionately, Eunice Plumley.
       Miss Plumley ambled slowly up to the wire, sniffed the centre strand with the tip of her nose, came a fraction too close, and received two hundred and forty volts of alternating current through her body.
       The five males stayed where they were, watching the slaughter.
       And now only Miss Elphinstone remained on the feminine side.
       For a full half-hour neither she nor any of the others made a move. Finally one of the males stirred himself slightly, took a step forward, hesitated, thought better of it, and slowly sank back into a crouch on the floor.
       This must have frustrated Miss Elphinstone beyond measure, for suddenly, with eyes blazing, she rushed forward and took a flying leap at the wire. It was a spectacular jump and she nearly cleared it; but one of her hind legs grazed the top strand, and thus she also perished with the rest of her sex.
       I cannot tell you how much good it did me to watch this simple and, though I say it myself, this rather ingenious experiment. In one stroke I had laid open the incredibly lascivious, stop-at-nothing nature of the female. My own sex was vindicated; my own conscience was cleared. In a trice, all those awkward little flashes of guilt from which I had continually been suffering flew out of the window. I felt suddenly very strong and serene in the knowledge of my own innocence.
       For a few moments I toyed with the absurd idea of electrifying the black iron railings that ran around the vicarage garden; or perhaps just the gate would be enough. Then I would sit back comfortably in a chair in the library and watch through the window as the real Misses Elphinstone and Prattley and Unwin came forward one after the other and paid the final penalty for pestering an innocent male.
       Such foolish thoughts!
       What I must actually do now, I told myself, was to weave around me a sort of invisible electric fence constructed entirely out of my own personal moral fibre. Behind this I would sit in perfect safety while the enemy, one after another, flung themselves against the wire.
       I would begin by cultivating a brusque manner. I would speak crisply to all women, and refrain from smiling at them. I would no longer step back a pace when one of them advanced upon me. I would stand my ground and glare at her, and if she said something that I considered suggestive, I would make a sharp retort.
       It was in this mood that I set off the very next day to attend Lady Birdwell’s tennis party.
       I was not a player myself, but her ladyship had graciously invited me to drop in and mingle with the guests when play was over at six o’clock. I believe she thought that it lent a certain tone to a gathering to have a clergyman present, and she was probably hoping to persuade me to repeat the performance I gave the last time I was there, when I sat at the piano for a full hour and a quarter after supper and entertained the guests with a detailed description of the evolution of the madrigal through the centuries.
       I arrived at the gates on my cycle promptly at six o’clock and pedalled up the long drive towards the house. This was the first week of June, and the rhododendrons were massed in great banks of pink and purple all the way along on either side. I was feeling unusually blithe and dauntless. The previous day’s experiment with the rats had made it impossible now for anyone to take me by surprise. I knew exactly what to expect and I was armed accordingly. All around me the little fence was up.
       “Ah, good evening, Vicar,” Lady Birdwell cried, advancing upon me with both arms outstretched.
       I stood my ground and looked her straight in the eye. “How’s Birdwell?” I said. “Still up in the city?”
       I doubt whether she had ever before in her life heard Lord Birdwell referred to thus by someone who had never even met him. It stopped her dead in her tracks. She looked at me queerly and didn’t seem to know how to answer.
       “I’ll take a seat if I may,” I said, and walked past her towards the terrace where a group of nine or ten guests were settled comfortably in cane chairs, sipping their drinks. They were mostly women, the usual crowd, all of them dressed in white tennis clothes, and as I strode in among them, my own sober black suiting seemed to give me, I thought, just the right amount of separateness for the occasion.
       The ladies greeted me with smiles. I nodded to them and sat down in a vacant chair, but I didn’t smile back.
       “I think perhaps I’d better finish my story another time,” Miss Elphinstone was saying. “I don’t believe the vicar would approve.” She giggled and gave me an arch look. I knew she was waiting for me to come out with my usual little nervous laugh and to say my usual little sentence about how broad-minded I was; but I did nothing of the sort. I simply raised one side of my upper lip until it shaped itself into a tiny curl of contempt (I had practised in the mirror that morning), and then I said sharply, in a loud voice, “Mens sana in corpore sano.”
       “What’s that?” she cried. “Come again, Vicar.”
       “A clean mind in a healthy body,” I answered. “It’s a family motto.”
       There was an odd kind of silence for quite a long time after this. I could see the women exchanging glances with one another, frowning, shaking their heads.
       “The vicar’s in the dumps,” Miss Foster announced. She was the one who bred cats. “I think the vicar needs a drink.”
       “Thank you,” I said, “but I never imbibe. You know that.”
       “Then do let me fetch you a nice cooling glass of fruit cup?”
       This last sentence came softly and rather suddenly from someone just behind me, to my right, and there was a note of such genuine concern in the speaker’s voice that I turned round.
       I saw a lady of singular beauty whom I had met only once before, about a month ago. Her name was Miss Roach, and I remembered that she had struck me then as being a person far out of the usual run. I had been particularly impressed by her gentle and reticent nature; and the fact that I had felt comfortable in her presence proved beyond doubt that she was not the sort of person who would try to impinge herself upon me in any way.
       “I’m sure you must be tired after cycling all that distance,” she was saying now.
       I swivelled right round in my chair and looked at her carefully. She was certainly a striking person—unusually muscular for a woman, with broad shoulders and powerful arms and a huge calf bulging on each leg. The flush of the afternoon’s exertions was still upon her, and her face glowed with a healthy red sheen.
       “Thank you so much, Miss Roach,” I said, “but I never touch alcohol in any form. Maybe a small glass of lemon squash . . .”
       “The fruit cup is only made of fruit, Padre.”
       How I loved a person who called me “Padre.” The word has a military ring about it that conjures up visions of stern discipline and officer rank.
       “Fruit cup?” Miss Elphinstone said. “It’s harmless.”
       “My dear man, it’s nothing but vitamin C,” Miss Foster said.
       “Much better for you than fizzy lemonade,” Lady Birdwell said. “Carbon dioxide attacks the lining of the stomach.”
       “I’ll get you some,” Miss Roach said, smiling at me pleasantly. It was a good open smile, and there wasn’t a trace of guile or mischief from one corner of the mouth to the other.
       She stood up and walked over to the drink table. I saw her slicing an orange, then an apple, then a cucumber, then a grape, and dropping the pieces into a glass. Then she poured in a large quantity of liquid from a bottle whose label I couldn’t quite read without my spectacles, but I fancied that I saw the name JIM on it, or TIM, or PIM, or some such word.
       “I hope there’s enough left,” Lady Birdwell called out. “Those greedy children of mine do love it so.”
       “Plenty,” Miss Roach answered, and she brought the drink to me and set it on the table.
       Even without tasting it I could easily understand why children adored it. The liquid itself was dark amber-red and there were great hunks of fruit floating around among the ice cubes; and on top of it all, Miss Roach had placed a sprig of mint. I guessed that the mint had been put there specially for me, to take some of the sweetness away and to lend a touch of grown-upness to a concoction that was otherwise so obviously for youngsters.
       “Too sticky for you, Padre?”
       “It’s delectable,” I said, sipping it. “Quite perfect.”
       It seemed a pity to gulp it down quickly after all the trouble Miss Roach had taken to make it, but it was so refreshing I couldn’t resist.
       “Do let me make you another?”
       I liked the way she waited until I had set the glass on the table, instead of trying to take it out of my hand.
       “I wouldn’t eat the mint if I were you,” Miss Elphinstone said.
       “I’d better get another bottle from the house,” Lady Birdwell called out. “You’re going to need it, Mildred.”
       “Do that,” Miss Roach replied. “I drink gallons of the stuff myself,” she went on, speaking to me. “And I don’t think you’d say that I’m exactly what you might call emaciated.”
       “No indeed,” I answered fervently. I was watching her again as she mixed me another brew, noticing how the muscles rippled under the skin of the arm that raised the bottle. Her neck also was uncommonly fine when seen from behind; not thin and stringy like the necks of a lot of these so-called modern beauties, but thick and strong with a slight ridge running down either side where the sinews bulged. It wasn’t easy to guess the age of a person like this, but I doubted whether she could have been more than forty-eight or nine.
       I had just finished my second big glass of fruit cup when I began to experience a most peculiar sensation. I seemed to be floating up out of my chair, and hundreds of little warm waves came washing in under me, lifting me higher and higher. I felt as buoyant as a bubble, and everything around me seemed to be bobbing up and down and swirling gently from side to side. It was all very pleasant, and I was overcome by an almost irresistible desire to break into song.
       “Feeling happy?” Miss Roach’s voice sounded miles and miles away, and when I turned to look at her, I was astonished to see how near to me she really was. She, also, was bobbing up and down.
       “Terrific,” I answered. “I’m feeling absolutely terrific.”
       Her face was large and pink, and it was so close to me now that I could see the pale carpet of fuzz covering both her cheeks, and the way the sunlight caught each tiny separate hair and made it shine like gold. All of a sudden I found myself wanting to put out a hand and stroke those cheeks of hers with my fingers. To tell the truth, I wouldn’t have objected in the least if she had tried to do the same to me.
       “Listen,” she said softly. “How about the two of us taking a little stroll down the garden to see the lupins?”
       “Fine,” I answered. “Lovely. Anything you say.”
       There is a small Georgian summer-house alongside the croquet lawn in Lady Birdwell’s garden, and the very next thing I knew, I was sitting inside it on a kind of chaise longue and Miss Roach was beside me. I was still bobbing up and down, and so was she, and so, for that matter, was the summer-house, but I was feeling wonderful. I asked Miss Roach if she would like me to give her a song.
       “Not now,” she said, encircling me with her arms and squeezing my chest against hers so hard that it hurt.
       “Don’t,” I said, melting.
       “That’s better,” she kept saying. “That’s much better, isn’t it?”
       Had Miss Roach or any other female tried to do this sort of thing to me an hour before, I don’t quite know what would have happened. I think I would probably have fainted. I might even have died. But here I was now, the same old me, actually relishing the contact of those enormous bare arms against my body! Also—and this was the most amazing thing of all—I was beginning to feel the urge to reciprocate.
       I took the lobe of her left ear between my thumb and fore-finger, and tugged it playfully.
       “Naughty boy,” she said.
       I tugged harder and squeezed it a bit at the same time. This roused her to such a pitch that she began to grunt and snort like a hog. Her breathing became loud and stertorous.
       “Kiss me,” she ordered.
       “What?” I said.
       “Come on, kiss me.”
       At that moment, I saw her mouth. I saw this great mouth of hers coming slowly down on top of me, starting to open, and coming closer and closer, and opening wider and wider; and suddenly my whole stomach began to roll right over inside me and I went stiff with terror.
       “No!” I shrieked. “Don’t! Don’t, Mummy, don’t!”
       I can only tell you that I had never in all my life seen anything more terrifying than that mouth. I simply could not stand it coming at me like that. Had it been a red-hot iron someone was pushing into my face I wouldn’t have been nearly so petrified, I swear I wouldn’t. The strong arms were around me, pinning me down so that I couldn’t move, and the mouth kept getting larger and larger, and then all at once it was right on top of me, huge and wet and cavernous, and the next second—I was inside it.
       I was right inside this enormous mouth, lying on my stomach along the length of the tongue, with my feet somewhere around the back of the throat; and I knew instinctively that unless I got myself out again at once I was going to be swallowed alive—just like that baby rabbit. I could feel my legs being drawn down the throat by some kind of suction, and quickly I threw up my arms and grabbed hold of the lower front teeth and held on for dear life. My head was near the mouth-entrance, and I could actually look right out between the lips and see a little patch of the world outside—sunlight shining on the polished wooden floor of the summer-house, and on the floor itself a gigantic foot in a white tennis shoe.
       I had a good grip with my fingers on the edge of the teeth, and in spite of the suction, I was managing to haul myself up slowly towards the daylight when suddenly the upper teeth came down on my knuckles and started chopping away at them so fiercely I had to let go. I went sliding back down the throat, feet first, clutching madly at this and that as I went, but everything was so smooth and slippery I couldn’t get a grip. I glimpsed a bright flash of gold on the left as I slid past the last of the molars, and then three inches farther on I saw what must have been the uvula above me, dangling like a thick red stalactite from the roof of the throat. I grabbed at it with both hands but the thing slithered through my fingers and I went on down.
       I remember screaming for help, but I could barely hear the sound of my own voice above the noise of the wind that was caused by the throat-owner’s breathing. There seemed to be a gale blowing all the time, a queer erratic gale that blew alternately very cold (as the air came in) and very hot (as it went out again).
       I managed to get my elbows hooked over a sharp fleshy ridge—I presume the epiglottis—and for a brief moment I hung there, defying the suction and scrabbling with my feet to find a foothold on the wall of the larynx; but the throat gave a huge swallow that jerked me away, and down I went again.
       From then on, there was nothing else for me to catch hold of, and down and down I went until soon my legs were dangling below me in the upper reaches of the stomach, and I could feel the slow powerful pulsing of peristalsis dragging away at my ankles, pulling me down and down and down . . .
       Far above me, outside in the open air, I could hear the distant babble of women’s voices:
       “It’s not true . . .”
       “But my dear Mildred, how awful . . .”
       “The man must be mad . . .”
       “Your poor mouth, just look at it . . .”
       “A sex maniac . . .”
       “A sadist . . .”
       “Someone ought to write to the bishop . . .”
       And then Miss Roach’s voice, louder than the others, swearing and screeching like a parakeet:
       “He’s damn lucky I didn’t kill him, the little bastard! . . . I said to him, listen, I said, if ever I happen to want any of my teeth extracted, I’ll go to a dentist, not to a goddam vicar. . . It isn’t as though I’d given him any encouragement either! . . .”
       “Where is he now, Mildred?”
       “God knows. In the bloody summer-house, I suppose.”
       “Hey girls, let’s go and root him out!”

Oh dear, oh dear. Looking back on it all now, some three weeks later, I don’t know how I ever came through the nightmare of that awful afternoon without taking leave of my senses.
       A gang of witches like that is a very dangerous thing to fool around with, and had they managed to catch me in the summer-house right then and there when their blood was up, they would likely as not have torn me limb from limb on the spot.
       Either that, or I should have been frog-marched down to the police station with Lady Birdwell and Miss Roach leading the procession through the main street of the village.
       But of course they didn’t catch me.
       They didn’t catch me then, and they haven’t caught me yet, and if my luck continues to hold, I think I’ve got a fair chance of evading them altogether—or anyway for a few months, until they forget about the whole affair.
       As you might guess, I am having to keep entirely to myself and to take no part in public affairs or social life. I find that writing is a most salutary occupation at a time like this, and I spend many hours each day playing with sentences. I regard each sentence as a little wheel, and my ambition lately has been to gather several hundred of them together at once and to fit them all end to end, with the cogs interlocking, like gears, but each wheel a different size, each turning at a different speed. Now and again I try to put a really big one right next to a very small one in such a way that the big one, turning slowly, will make the small one spin so fast that it hums. Very tricky, that.
       I also sing madrigals in the evenings, but I miss my own harpsichord terribly.
       All the same, this isn’t such a bad place, and I have made myself as comfortable as I possibly can. It is a small chamber situated in what is almost certainly the primary section of the duodenal loop, just before it begins to run vertically downward in front of the right kidney. The floor is quite level—indeed it was the first level place I came to during that horrible descent down Miss Roach’s throat—and that’s the only reason I managed to stop at all. Above me, I can see a pulpy sort of opening that I take to be the pylorus, where the stomach enters the small intestine (I can still remember some of those diagrams my mother used to show me), and below me, there is a funny little hole in the wall where the pancreatic duct enters the lower section of the duodenum.
       It is all a trifle bizarre for a man of conservative tastes like myself. Personally I prefer oak furniture and parquet flooring. But there is anyway one thing here that pleases me greatly, and that is the walls. They are lovely and soft, like a sort of padding, and the advantage of this is that I can bounce up against them as much as I wish without hurting myself.
       There are several other people about, which is rather surprising, but thank God they are every one of them males. For some reason or other, they all wear white coats, and they bustle around pretending to be very busy and important. In actual fact, they are an uncommonly ignorant bunch of fellows. They don’t even seem to realise where they are. I try to tell them, but they refuse to listen. Sometimes I get so angry and frustrated with them that I lose my temper and start to shout; and then a sly mistrustful look comes over their faces and they begin backing slowly away, and saying, “Now then. Take it easy. Take it easy, Vicar, there’s a good boy. Take it easy.”
       What sort of talk is that?
       But there is one oldish man—he comes in to see me every morning after breakfast—who appears to live slightly closer to reality than the others. He is civil and dignified, and I imagine he is lonely because he likes nothing better than to sit quietly in my room and listen to me talk. The only trouble is that whenever we get on to the subject of our whereabouts, he starts telling me that he’s going to help me to escape. He said it again this morning, and we had quite an argument about it.
       “But can’t you see,” I said patiently, “I don’t want to escape.”
       “My dear Vicar, why ever not?”
       “I keep telling you—because they’re all searching for me outside.”
       “Who?”
       “Miss Elphinstone and Miss Roach and Miss Prattley and all the rest of them.”
       “What nonsense.”
       “Oh yes they are! And I imagine they’re after you as well, but you won’t admit it.”
       “No, my friend, they are not after me.”
       “Then may I ask precisely what you are doing down here?”
       A bit of a stumper for him, that one. I could see he didn’t know how to answer it.
       “I’ll bet you were fooling around with Miss Roach and got yourself swallowed up just the same as I did. I’ll bet that’s exactly what happened, only you’re ashamed to admit it,”
       He looked suddenly so wan and defeated when I said this that I felt sorry for him.
       “Would you like me to sing you a song?” I asked.
       But he got up without answering and went quietly out into the corridor.
       “Cheer up,” I called after him. “Don’t be depressed. There is always some balm in Gilead.”

Genesis and Catastrophe

A True Story

“Everything is normal,” the doctor was saying. “Just lie back and relax.” His voice was miles away in the distance and he seemed to be shouting at her. “You have a son.”
       “What?”
       “You have a fine son. You understand that, don’t you? A fine son. Did you hear him crying?”
       “Is he all right, Doctor?”
       “Of course he is all right.”
       “Please let me see him.”
       “You’ll see him in a moment.”
       “You are certain he is all right?”
       “I am quite certain.”
       “Is he still crying?”
       “Try to rest. There is nothing to worry about.”
       “Why has he stopped crying, Doctor? What happened?”
       “Don’t excite yourself, please. Everything is normal.”
       “I want to see him. Please let me see him.”
       “Dear lady,” the doctor said, patting her hand. “You have a fine strong healthy child. Don’t you believe me when I tell you that?”
       “What is the woman over there doing to him?”
       “Your baby is being made to look pretty for you,” the doctor said. “We are giving him a little wash, that is all. You must spare us a moment or two for that.”
       “You swear he is all right?”
       “I swear it. Now lie back and relax. Close your eyes. Go on, close your eyes. That’s right. That’s better. Good girl . . .”
       “I have prayed and prayed that he will live, Doctor.”
       “Of course he will live. What are you talking about?”
       “The others didn’t.”
       “What?”
       “None of my other ones lived, Doctor.”
       The doctor stood beside the bed looking down at the pale exhausted face of the young woman. He had never seen her before today. She and her husband were new people in the town. The innkeeper’s wife, who had come up to assist in the delivery, had told him that the husband worked at the local customs-house on the border and that the two of them had arrived quite suddenly at the inn with one trunk and one suitcase about three months ago. The husband was a drunkard, the innkeeper’s wife had said, an arrogant, overbearing, bullying little drunkard, but the young woman was gentle and religious. And she was very sad. She never smiled. In the few weeks that she had been here, the innkeeper’s wife had never once seen her smile. Also there was a rumour that this was the husband’s third marriage, that one wife had died and that the other had divorced him for unsavoury reasons. But that was only a rumour.
       The doctor bent down and pulled the sheet up a little higher over the patient’s chest. “You have nothing to worry about,” he said gently. “This is a perfectly normal baby.”
       “That’s exactly what they told me about the others. But I lost them all, Doctor. In the last eighteen months I have lost all three of my children, so you mustn’t blame me for being anxious.”
       “Three?”
       “This is my fourth . . . in four years.”
       The doctor shifted his feet uneasily on the bare floor.
       “I don’t think you know what it means, Doctor, to lose them all, all three of them, slowly, separately, one by one. I keep seeing them. I can see Gustav’s face now as clearly as if he were lying here beside me in the bed. Gustav was a lovely boy, Doctor. But he was always ill. It is terrible when they are always ill and there is nothing you can do to help them.”
       “I know.”
       The woman opened her eyes, stared up at the doctor for a few seconds, then closed them again.
       “My little girl was called Ida. She died a few days before Christmas. That is only four months ago. I just wish you could have seen Ida, Doctor.”
       “You have a new one now.”
       “But Ida was so beautiful.”
       “Yes,” the doctor said. “I know.”
       “How can you know?” she cried.
       “I am sure that she was a lovely child. But this new one is also like that.” The doctor turned away from the bed and walked over to the window and stood there looking out. It was a wet grey April afternoon, and across the street he could see the red roofs of the houses and the huge raindrops splashing on the tiles.
       “Ida was two years old, Doctor . . . and she was so beautiful I was never able to take my eyes off her from the time I dressed her in the morning until she was safe in bed again at night. I used to live in holy terror of something happening to that child. Gustav had gone and my little Otto had also gone and she was all I had left. Sometimes I used to get up in the night and creep over to the cradle and put my ear close to her mouth just to make sure that she was breathing.”
       “Try to rest,” the doctor said, going back to the bed. “Please try to rest.” The woman’s face was white and bloodless, and there was a slight bluish-grey tinge around the nostrils and the mouth. A few strands of damp hair hung down over her forehead, sticking to the skin.
       “When she died . . . I was already pregnant again when that happened, Doctor. This new one was a good four months on its way when Ida died. ‘I don’t want it!’ I shouted after the funeral. ‘I won’t have it! I have buried enough children!’ And my husband . . . he was strolling among the guests with a big glass of beer in his hand . . . he turned around quickly and said, ‘I have news for you, Klara, I have good news.’ Can you imagine that, Doctor? We have just buried our third child and he stands there with a glass of beer in his hand and tells me that he has good news. ‘Today I have been posted to Braunau,’ he says, ‘so you can start packing at once. This will be a new start for you, Klara,’ he says. ‘It will be a new place and you can have a new doctor. . . .’ ”
       “Please don’t talk any more.”
       “You are the new doctor, aren’t you, Doctor?”
       “That’s right.”
       “And here we are in Braunau.”
       “Yes.”
       “I am frightened, Doctor.”
       “Try not to be frightened.”
       “What chance can the fourth one have now?”
       “You must stop thinking like that.”
       “I can’t help it. I am certain there is something inherited that causes my children to die in this way. There must be.”
       “That is nonsense.”
       “Do you know what my husband said to me when Otto was born, Doctor? He came into the room and he looked into the cradle where Otto was lying and he said, ‘Why do all my children have to be so small and weak?’ ”
       “I am sure he didn’t say that.”
       “He put his head right into Otto’s cradle as though he were examining a tiny insect and he said, ‘All I am saying is why can’t they be better specimens? That’s all I am saying.’ And three days after that, Otto was dead. We baptised him quickly on the third day and he died the same evening. And then Gustav died. And then Ida died. All of them died, Doctor . . . and suddenly the whole house was empty . . .”
       “Don’t think about it now.”
       “Is this one so very small?”
       “He is a normal child.”
       “But small?”
       “He is a little small, perhaps. But the small ones are often a lot tougher than the big ones. Just imagine, Frau Hitler, this time next year he will be almost learning how to walk. Isn’t that a lovely thought?”
       She didn’t answer this.
       “And two years from now he will probably be talking his head off and driving you crazy with his chatter. Have you settled on a name for him yet?”
       “A name?”
       “Yes.”
       “I don’t know. I’m not sure. I think my husband said that if it was a boy we were going to call him Adolfus.”
       “That means he would be called Adolf.”
       “Yes. My husband likes Adolf because it has a certain similarity to Alois. My husband is called Alois.”
       “Excellent.”
       “Oh no!” she cried, starting up suddenly from the pillow. “That’s the same question they asked me when Otto was born! It means he is going to die! You are going to baptise him at once!”
       “Now, now,” the doctor said, taking her gently by the shoulders. “You are quite wrong. I promise you you are wrong. I was simply being an inquisitive old man, that is all. I love talking about names. I think Adolphus is a particularly fine name. It is one of my favourites. And look—here he comes now.”
       The innkeeper’s wife, carrying the baby high up on her enormous bosom, came sailing across the room towards the bed. “Here is the little beauty!” she cried, beaming. “Would you like to hold him, my dear? Shall I put him beside you?”
       “Is he well wrapped?” the doctor asked. “It is extremely cold in here.”
       “Certainly he is well wrapped.”
       The baby was tightly swaddled in a white woollen shawl, and only the tiny pink head protruded. The innkeeper’s wife placed him gently on the bed beside the mother. “There you are,” she said. “Now you can lie there and look at him to your heart’s content.”
       “I think you will like him,” the doctor said, smiling. “He is a fine little baby.”
       “He has the most lovely hands!” the innkeeper’s wife exclaimed. “Such long delicate fingers!”
       The mother didn’t move. She didn’t even turn her head to look.
       “Go on!” cried the innkeeper’s wife. “He won’t bite you!”
       “I am frightened to look. I don’t dare to believe that I have another baby and that he is all right.”
       “Don’t be so stupid.”
       Slowly, the mother turned her head and looked at the small, incredibly serene face that lay on the pillow beside her.
       “Is this my baby?”
       “Of course.”
       “Oh . . . oh . . . but he is beautiful.”
       The doctor turned away and went over to the table and began putting his things into his bag. The mother lay on the bed gazing at the child and smiling and touching him and making little noises of pleasure. “Hello, Adolfus,” she whispered. “Hello, my little Adolf . . .”
       “Ssshh!” said the innkeeper’s wife. “Listen! I think your husband is coming.”
       The doctor walked over to the door and opened it and looked out into the corridor.
       “Herr Hitler!”
       “Yes.”
       “Come in, please.”
       A small man in a dark-green uniform stepped softly into the room and looked around him.
       “Congratulations,” the doctor said. “You have a son.”
       The man had a pair of enormous whiskers meticulously groomed after the manner of the Emperor Franz Josef, and he smelled strongly of beer. “A son?”
       “Yes.”
       “How is he?”
       “He is fine. So is your wife.”
       “Good.” The father turned and walked with a curious little prancing stride over to the bed where his wife was lying. “Well, Klara,” he said, smiling through his whiskers. “How did it go?” He bent down to take a look at the baby. Then he bent lower. In a series of quick jerky movements, he bent lower and lower until his face was only about twelve inches from the baby’s head. The wife lay sideways on the pillow, staring up at him with a kind of supplicating look.
       “He has the most marvellous pair of lungs,” the innkeeper’s wife announced. “You should have heard him screaming just after he came into this world.”
       “But my God, Klara . . .”
       “What is it, dear?”
       “This one is even smaller than Otto was!”
       The doctor took a couple of quick paces forward. “There is nothing wrong with that child,” he said.
       Slowly, the husband straightened up and turned away from the bed and looked at the doctor. He seemed bewildered and stricken. “It’s no good lying, Doctor,” he said. “I know what it means. It’s going to be the same all over again.”
       “Now you listen to me,” the doctor said.
       “But do you know what happened to the others, Doctor?”
       “You must forget about the others, Herr Hitler. Give this one a chance.”
       “But so small and weak!”
       “My dear sir, he has only just been born.”
       “Even so . . .”
       “What are you trying to do?” cried the innkeeper’s wife. “Talk him into his grave?”
       “That’s enough!” the doctor said sharply.
       The mother was weeping now. Great sobs were shaking her body.
       The doctor walked over to the husband and put a hand on his shoulder. “Be good to her,” he whispered. “Please. It is very important.” Then he squeezed the husband’s shoulder hard and began pushing him forward surreptitiously to the edge of the bed. The husband hesitated. The doctor squeezed harder, signalling to him urgently through fingers and thumb. At last, reluctantly, the husband bent down and kissed his wife lightly on the cheek.
       “All right, Klara,” he said. “Now stop crying.”
       “I have prayed so hard that he will live, Alois.”
       “Yes.”
       “Every day for months I have gone to the church and begged on my knees that this one will be allowed to live.”
       “Yes, Klara, I know.”
       “Three dead children is all that I can stand, don’t you realise that?”
       “Of course.”
       “He must live, Alois. He must, he must . . Oh God, be merciful unto him now . . .”

Edward the Conqueror

Louisa, holding a dishcloth in her hand, stepped out of the kitchen door at the back of the house into the cool October sunshine.
       “Edward!” she called. “Ed-ward! Lunch is ready!”
       She paused a moment, listening; then she strolled out onto the lawn and continued across it—a little shadow attending her—skirting the rose bed and touching the sundial lightly with one finger as she went by. She moved rather gracefully for a woman who was small and plump, with a lilt in her walk and a gentle swinging of the shoulders and the arms. She passed under the mulberry tree on to the brick path, then went all the way along the path until she came to the place where she could look down into the dip at the end of this large garden.
       “Edward! Lunch!”
       She could see him now, about eighty yards away, down in the dip on the edge of the wood—the tallish narrow figure in khaki slacks and dark-green sweater, working beside a big bonfire with a fork in his hands, pitching brambles on to the top of the fire. It was blazing fiercely, with orange flames and clouds of milky smoke, and the smoke was drifting back over the garden with a wonderful scent of autumn and burning leaves.
       Louisa went down the slope towards her husband. Had she wanted, she could easily have called again and made herself heard, but there was something about a first-class bonfire that impelled her towards it, right up close so she could feel the heat and listen to it burn.
       “Lunch,” she said, approaching.
       “Oh, hello. All right—yes. I’m coming.”
       “What a good fire.”
       “I’ve decided to clear this place right out,” her husband said. “I’m sick and tired of all these brambles.” His long face was wet with perspiration. There were small beads of it clinging all over his moustache like dew, and two little rivers were running down his throat onto the turtleneck of the sweater.
       “You better be careful you don’t overdo it, Edward.”
       “Louisa, I do wish you’d stop treating me as though I were eighty. A bit of exercise never did anyone any harm.”
       “Yes, dear, I know. Oh, Edward! Look! Look!”
       The man turned and looked at Louisa, who was pointing now to the far side of the bonfire.
       “Look, Edward! The cat!”
       Sitting on the ground, so close to the fire that the flames sometimes seemed actually to be touching it, was a large cat of a most unusual colour. It stayed quite still, with its head on one side and its nose in the air, watching the man and woman with a cool yellow eye.
       “It’ll get burnt!” Louisa cried, and she dropped the dishcloth and darted swiftly in and grabbed it with both hands, whisking it away and putting it on the grass well clear of the flames.
       “You crazy cat,” she said, dusting off her hands. “What’s the matter with you?”
       “Cats know what they’re doing,” the husband said. “You’ll never find a cat doing something it doesn’t want. Not cats.”
       “Whose is it? You ever seen it before?”
       “No, I never have. Damn peculiar colour.”
       The cat had seated itself on the grass and was regarding them with a sidewise look. There was a veiled inward expression about the eyes, something curiously omniscient and pensive, and around the nose a most delicate air of contempt, as though the sight of these two middle-aged persons—the one small, plump, and rosy, the other lean and extremely sweaty—were a matter of some surprise but very little importance. For a cat, it certainly had an unusual colour—a pure silvery grey with no blue in it at all—and the hair was very long and silky.
       Louisa bent down and stroked its head. “You must go home,” she said. “Be a good cat now and go on home to where you belong.”
       The man and wife started to stroll back up the hill towards the house. The cat got up and followed, at a distance first, but edging closer and closer as they went along. Soon it was alongside them, then it was ahead, leading the way across the lawn to the house, and walking as though it owned the whole place, holding its tail straight up in the air, like a mast.
       “Go home,” the man said. “Go on home. We don’t want you.”
       But when they reached the house, it came in with them, and Louisa gave it some milk in the kitchen. During lunch, it hopped up onto the spare chair between them and sat through the meal with its head just above the level of the table, watching the proceedings with those dark-yellow eyes which kept moving slowly from the woman to the man and back again.
       “I don’t like this cat,” Edward said.
       “Oh, I think it’s a beautiful cat. I do hope it stays a little while.”
       “Now, listen to me, Louisa. The creature can’t possibly stay here. It belongs to someone else. It’s lost. And if it’s still trying to hang around this afternoon, you’d better take it to the police. They’ll see it gets home.”
       After lunch, Edward returned to his gardening. Louisa, as usual, went to the piano. She was a competent pianist and a genuine music-lover, and almost every afternoon she spent an hour or so playing for herself. The cat was now lying on the sofa, and she paused to stroke it as she went by. It opened its eyes, looked at her a moment, then closed them again and went back to sleep.
       “You’re an awfully nice cat,” she said. “And such a beautiful colour. I wish I could keep you.” Then her fingers, moving over the fur on the cat’s head, came into contact with a small lump, a little growth just above the right eye.
       “Poor cat,” she said. “You’ve got bumps on your beautiful face. You must be getting old.”
       She went over and sat down on the long piano stool but she didn’t immediately start to play. One of her special little pleasures was to make every day a kind of concert day, with a carefully arranged programme which she worked out in detail before she began. She never liked to break her enjoyment by having to stop while she wondered what to play next. All she wanted was a brief pause after each piece while the audience clapped enthusiastically and called for more. It was so much nicer to imagine an audience, and now and again while she was playing—on the lucky days, that is—the room would begin to swim and fade and darken, and she would see nothing but row upon row of seats and a sea of white faces up-turned towards her, listening with a rapt and adoring concentration.
       Sometimes she played from memory, sometimes from music. Today she would play from memory; that was the way she felt. And what should the programme be? She sat before the piano with her small hands clasped on her lap, a plump rosy little person with a round and still quite pretty face, her hair done up in a neat bun at the back of her head. By looking slightly to the right, she could see the cat curled up asleep on the sofa, and its silvery-grey coat was beautiful against the purple of the cushion. How about some Bach to begin with? Or, better still, Vivaldi. The Bach adaptation for organ of the D minor Concerto Grosso. Yes—that first. Then perhaps a little Schumann. Carnaval? That would be fun. And after that—well, a touch of Liszt for a change. One of the Petrarch Sonnets. The second one—that was the loveliest—the E major. Then another Schumann, another of his gay ones—Kinderscenen. And lastly, for the encore, a Brahms waltz, or maybe two of them if she felt like it.
       Vivaldi, Schumann, Liszt, Schumann, Brahms. A very nice programme, one that she could play easily without the music. She moved herself a little closer to the piano and paused a moment while someone in the audience—already she could feel that this was one of the lucky days—while someone in the audience had his last cough; then, with the slow grace that accompanied nearly all her movements, she lifted her hands to the keyboard and began to play.
       She wasn’t, at that particular moment, watching the cat at all—as a matter of fact she had forgotten its presence—but as the first deep notes of the Vivaldi sounded softly in the room, she became aware, out of the corner of one eye, of a sudden flurry, a flash of movement on the sofa to her right. She stopped playing at once. “What is it?” she said, turning to the cat. “What’s the matter?”
       The animal, who a few seconds before had been sleeping peacefully, was now sitting bolt upright on the sofa, very tense, the whole body aquiver, ears up and eyes wide open, staring at the piano.
       “Did I frighten you?” she asked gently. “Perhaps you’ve never heard music before.”
       No, she told herself. I don’t think that’s what it is. On second thought, it seemed to her that the cat’s attitude was not one of fear. There was no shrinking or backing away. If anything, there was a leaning forward, a kind of eagerness about the creature, and the face—well, there was rather an odd expression on the face, something of a mixture between surprise and shock. Of course, the face of a cat is a small and fairly expressionless thing, but if you watch carefully the eyes and ears working together, and particularly that little area of mobile skin below the ears and slightly to one side, you can occasionally see the reflection of very powerful emotions. Louisa was watching the face closely now, and because she was curious to see what would happen a second time, she reached out her hands to the keyboard and began again to play the Vivaldi.
       This time the cat was ready for it, and all that happened to begin with was a small extra tensing of the body. But as the music swelled and quickened into that first exciting rhythm of the introduction to the fugue, a strange look that amounted almost to ecstasy began to settle upon the creature’s face. The ears, which up to then had been pricked up straight, were gradually drawn back, the eyelids drooped, the head went over to one side, and at that moment Louisa could have sworn that the animal was actually appreciating the work.
       What she saw (or thought she saw) was something she had noticed many times on the faces of people listening very closely to a piece of music. When the sound takes complete hold of them and drowns them in itself, a peculiar, intensely ecstatic look comes over them that you can recognise as easily as a smile. So far as Louisa could see, the cat was now wearing almost exactly this kind of look.
       Louisa finished the fugue, then played the siciliana, and all the way through she kept watching the cat on the sofa. The final proof for her that the animal was listening came at the end, when the music stopped. It blinked, stirred itself a little, stretched a leg, settled into a more comfortable position, took a quick glance round the room, then looked expectantly in her direction. It was precisely the way a concert-goer reacts when the music momentarily releases him in the pause between two movements of a symphony. The behaviour was so thoroughly human it gave her a queer agitated feeling in the chest.
       “You like that?” she asked. “You like Vivaldi?”
       The moment she’d spoken, she felt ridiculous, but not—and this to her was a trifle sinister—not quite so ridiculous as she knew she should have felt.
       Well, there was nothing for it now except to go straight ahead with the next number on the programme, which was Carnaval. As soon as she began to play, the cat again stiffened and sat up straighter; then, as it became slowly and blissfully saturated with the sound, it relapsed into that queer melting mood of ecstasy that seemed to have something to do with drowning and with dreaming. It was really an extravagant sight—quite a comical one, too—to see this silvery cat sitting on the sofa and being carried away like this. And what made it more screwy than ever, Louisa thought, was the fact that this music, which the animal seemed to be enjoying so much, was manifestly too difficult, too classical, to be appreciated by the majority of humans in the world.
       Maybe, she thought, the creature’s not really enjoying it at all. Maybe it’s a sort of hypnotic reaction, like with snakes. After all, if you can charm a snake with music, then why not a cat? Except that millions of cats hear the stuff every day of their lives, on radio and gramophone and piano, and, as far as she knew, there’d never yet been a case of one behaving like this. This one was acting as though it were following every single note. It was certainly a fantastic thing.
       But was it not also a wonderful thing? Indeed it was. In fact, unless she was much mistaken, it was a kind of miracle, one of those animal miracles that happen about once every hundred years.
       “I could see you loved that one,” she said when the piece was over. “Although I’m sorry I didn’t play it any too well today. Which did you like best—the Vivaldi or the Schumann?”
       The cat made no reply, so Louisa, fearing she might lose the attention of her listener, went straight into the next part of the programme—Liszt’s second Petrarch Sonnet.
       And now an extraordinary thing happened. She hadn’t played more than three or four bars when the animal’s whiskers began perceptibly to twitch. Slowly it drew itself up to an extra height, laid its head on one side, then on the other, and stared into space with a kind of frowning concentrated look that seemed to say, “What’s this? Don’t tell me. I know it so well, but just for the moment I don’t seem to be able to place it.” Louisa was fascinated, and with her little mouth half open and half smiling, she continued to play, waiting to see what on earth was going to happen next.
       The cat stood up, walked to one end of the sofa, sat down again, listened some more; then all at once it bounded to the floor and leaped up onto the piano stool beside her. There it sat, listening intently to the lovely sonnet, not dreamily this time, but very erect, the large yellow eyes fixed upon Louisa’s fingers.
       “Well!” she said as she struck the last chord. “So you came up to sit beside me, did you? You like this better than the sofa? All right, I’ll let you stay, but you must keep still and not jump about.” She put out a hand and stroked the cat softly along the back, from head to tail. “That was Liszt,” she went on. “Mind you, he can sometimes be quite horribly vulgar, but in things like this he’s really charming.”
       She was beginning to enjoy this odd animal pantomime, so she went straight on into the next item on the programme, Schumann’s Kinderscenen.
       She hadn’t been playing for more than a minute or two when she realised that the cat had again moved, and was now back in its old place on the sofa. She’d been watching her hands at the time, and presumably that was why she hadn’t even noticed its going; all the same, it must have been an extremely swift and silent move. The cat was still staring at her, still apparently attending closely to the music, and yet it seemed to Louisa that there was not now the same rapturous enthusiasm there’d been during the previous piece, the Liszt. In addition, the act of leaving the stool and returning to the sofa appeared in itself to be a mild but positive gesture of disappointment.
       “What’s the matter?” she asked when it was over. “What’s wrong with Schumann? What’s so marvellous about Liszt?” The cat looked straight back at her with those yellow eyes that had small jet-black bars lying vertically in their centres.
       This, she told herself, is really beginning to get interesting—a trifle spooky, too, when she came to think of it. But one look at the cat sitting there on the sofa, so bright and attentive, so obviously waiting for more music, quickly reassured her.
       “All right,” she said. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to alter my programme specially for you. You seem to like Liszt so much, I’ll give you another.”
       She hesitated, searching her memory for a good Liszt; then softly she began to play one of the twelve little pieces from Der Weihnachtsbaum. She was now watching the cat very closely, and the first thing she noticed was that the whiskers again began to twitch. It jumped down to the carpet, stood still a moment, inclining its head, quivering with excitement, and then, with a slow, silky stride, it walked around the piano, hopped up on the stool, and sat down beside her.
       They were in the middle of all this when Edward came in from the garden.
       “Edward!” Louisa cried, jumping up. “Oh, Edward, darling! Listen to this! Listen what’s happened!”
       “What is it now?” he said. “I’d like some tea.” He had one of those narrow, sharp-nosed, faintly magenta faces, and the sweat was making it shine as though it were a long wet grape.
       “It’s the cat!” Louisa cried, pointing to it sitting quietly on the piano stool. “Just wait till you hear what’s happened!”
       “I thought I told you to take it to the police.”
       “But, Edward, listen to me. This is terribly exciting. This is a musical cat.”
       “Oh, yes?”
       “This cat can appreciate music, and it can understand it too.”
       “Now stop this nonsense, Louisa, and for God’s sake let’s have some tea. I’m hot and tired from cutting brambles and building bonfires.” He sat down in an armchair, took a cigarette from a box beside him, and lit it with an immense patent lighter that stood near the box.
       “What you don’t understand,” Louisa said, “is that something extremely exciting has been happening here in our own house while you were out, something that may even be . . . well . . . almost momentous.”
       “I’m quite sure of that.”
       “Edward, please!”
       Louisa was standing by the piano, her little pink face pinker than ever, a scarlet rose high up on each cheek. “If you want to know,” she said, “I’ll tell you what I think.”
       “I’m listening, dear.”
       “I think it might be possible that we are at this moment sitting in the presence of—” She stopped, as though suddenly sensing the absurdity of the thought.
       “Yes?”
       “You may think it silly, Edward, but it’s honestly what I think.”
       “In the presence of whom, for heaven’s sake?”
       “Of Franz Liszt himself!”
       Her husband took a long slow pull at his cigarette and blew the smoke up at the ceiling. He had the tight-skinned, concave cheeks of a man who has worn a full set of dentures for many years, and every time he sucked at a cigarette, the cheeks went in even more, and the bones of his face stood out like a skeleton’s. “I don’t get you,” he said.
       “Edward, listen to me. From what I’ve seen this afternoon with my own eyes, it really looks as though this might be some sort of a reincarnation.”
       “You mean this lousy cat?”
       “Don’t talk like that, dear, please.”
       “You’re not ill, are you, Louisa?”
       “I’m perfectly all right, thank you very much. I’m a bit confused—I don’t mind admitting it, but who wouldn’t be after what’s just happened? Edward, I swear to you—”
       “What did happen, if I may ask?”
       Louisa told him, and all the while she was speaking, her husband lay sprawled in the chair with his legs stretched out in front of him, sucking at his cigarette and blowing the smoke up at the ceiling. There was a thin cynical smile on his mouth.
       “I don’t see anything very unusual about that,” he said when it was over. “All it is—it’s a trick cat. It’s been taught tricks, that’s all.”
       “Don’t be so silly, Edward. Every time I play Liszt, he gets all excited and comes running over to sit on the stool beside me. But only for Liszt, and nobody can teach a cat the difference between Liszt and Schumann. You don’t even know it yourself. But this one can do it every single time. Quite obscure Liszt, too.”
       “Twice,” the husband said. “He’s only done it twice.”
       “Twice is enough.”
       “Let’s see him do it again. Come on.”
       “No,” Louisa said. “Definitely not. Because if this is Liszt, as I believe it is, or anyway the soul of Liszt or whatever it is that comes back, then it’s certainly not right or even very kind to put him through a lot of silly undignified tests.”
       “My dear woman! This is a cat—a rather stupid grey cat that nearly got its coat singed by the bonfire this morning in the garden. And anyway, what do you know about reincarnation?”
       “If his soul is there, that’s enough for me,” Louisa said firmly. “That’s all that counts.”
       “Come on, then. Let’s see him perform. Let’s see him tell the difference between his own stuff and someone else’s.”
       “No, Edward. I’ve told you before, I refuse to put him through any more silly circus tests. He’s had quite enough of that for one day. But I’ll tell you what I will do. I’ll play him a little more of his own music.”
       “A fat lot that’ll prove.”
       “You watch. And one thing is certain—as soon as he recognises it, he’ll refuse to budge off that stool where he’s sitting now.”
       Louisa went to the music shelf, took down a book of Liszt, thumbed through it quickly, and chose another of his finer compositions—the B minor Sonata. She had meant to play only the first part of the work, but once she got started and saw how the cat was sitting there literally quivering with pleasure and watching her hands with that rapturous concentrated look, she didn’t have the heart to stop. She played it all the way through. When it was finished, she glanced up at her husband and smiled. “There you are,” she said. “You can’t tell me he wasn’t absolutely loving it.”
       “He just likes the noise, that’s all.”
       “He was loving it. Weren’t you, darling?” she said, lifting the cat in her arms. “Oh, my goodness, if only he could talk. Just think of it, dear—he met Beethoven in his youth! He knew Schubert and Mendelssohn and Schumann and Berlioz and Grieg and Delacroix and Ingres and Heine and Balzac. And let me see . . . My heavens, he was Wagner’s father-in-law! I’m holding Wagner’s father-in-law in my arms!”
       “Louisa!” her husband said sharply, sitting up straight. “Pull yourself together.” There was a new edge to his voice now, and he spoke louder.
       Louisa glanced up quickly. “Edward, I do believe you’re jealous!”
       “Of a miserable grey cat!”
       “Then don’t be so grumpy and cynical about it all. If you’re going to behave like this, the best thing you can do is to go back to your gardening and leave the two of us together in peace. That will be best for all of us, won’t it, darling?” she said, addressing the cat, stroking its head. “And later on this evening, we shall have some more music together, you and I, some more of your own work. Oh, yes,” she said kissing the creature several times on the neck, “and we might have a little Chopin, too. You needn’t tell me—I happen to know you adore Chopin. You used to be great friends with him, didn’t you, darling? As a matter of fact—if I remember rightly—it was in Chopin’s apartment that you met the great love of your life, Madame Something-or-Other. Had three illegitimate children by her, too, didn’t you? Yes, you did, you naughty thing, and don’t go trying to deny it. So you shall have some Chopin,” she said, kissing the cat again, “and that’ll probably bring back all sorts of lovely memories to you, won’t it?”
       “Louisa, stop this at once!”
       “Oh, don’t be so stuffy, Edward.”
       “You’re behaving like a perfect idiot, woman. And anyway, you forget we’re going out this evening, to Bill and Betty’s for canasta.”
       “Oh, but I couldn’t possibly go out now. There’s no question of that.”
       Edward got up slowly from his chair, then bent down and stubbed his cigarette hard into the ashtray. “Tell me something,” he said quietly. “You don’t really believe this—this twaddle you’re talking, do you?”
       “But of course I do. I don’t think there’s any question about it now. And, what’s more, I consider that it puts a tremendous responsibility upon us, Edward—upon both of us. You as well.”
       “You know what I think,” he said. “I think you ought to see a doctor. And damn quick, too.”
       With that, he turned and stalked out of the room, through the french windows, back into the garden.
       Louisa watched him striding across the lawn towards his bonfire and his brambles, and she waited until he was out of sight before she turned and ran to the front door, still carrying the cat.
       Soon she was in the car, driving to town.
       She parked in front of the library, locked the cat in the car, hurried up the steps into the building, and headed straight for the reference room. There she began searching the cards for books on two subjects—REINCARNATION and LISZT.
       Under REINCARNATION she found something called Recurring Earth-Lives—How and Why, by a man called F. Milton Willis, published in 1921. Under LISZT she found two biographical volumes. She took out all three books, returned to the car, and drove home.
       Back in the house, she placed the cat on the sofa, sat herself down beside it with her three books, and prepared to do some serious reading. She would begin, she decided, with Mr F. Milton Willis’s work. The volume was thin and a trifle soiled, but it had a good heavy feel to it, and the author’s name had an authoritative ring.
       The doctrine of reincarnation, she read, states that spiritual souls pass from higher to higher forms of animals. “A man can, for instance, no more be reborn as an animal than an adult can re-become a child.”
       She read this again. But how did he know? How could he be so sure? He couldn’t. No one could possibly be certain about a thing like that. At the same time, the statement took a good deal of the wind out of her sails.
       “Around the centre of consciousness of each of us, there are, besides the dense outer body, four other bodies, invisible to the eye of flesh, but perfectly visible to people whose faculties of perception of superphysical things have undergone the requisite development. . . .”
       She didn’t understand that one at all, but she read on, and soon she came to an interesting passage that told how long a soul usually stayed away from the earth before returning in someone else’s body. The time varied according to type, and Mr Willis gave the following breakdown:

Drunkards and the unemployable

40/50

YEARS

Unskilled labourers

60/100

”

Skilled workers

100/200

”