The Collector (11 page)

“Are they nice?” I nodded, I couldn’t speak. I wanted to say something nice, a compliment.

“Would you like me to kiss you on the cheek?”

I didn’t say, but she put her hand on my shoulder and lifted up a bit and kissed my cheek. It must have seemed hot, I was red enough by that time to have started a bonfire.

Well, we had cold chicken and things; I opened the champagne and it was very nice, I was surprised. I wished I’d bought another bottle, it seemed easy to drink, not very intoxicating. Though we laughed a lot, she was really witty, talking with other people that weren’t there again and so on.

After supper we made coffee together in the kitchen (I kept a sharp eye open, of course) and took it through to the lounge and she put on jazz records I’d bought her. We actually sat on the sofa together.

Then we played charades; she acted things, syllables of words, and I had to guess what they were. I wasn’t any good at it, either acting or guessing. I remember one word she did was “butterfly.” She kept on doing it again and again and I couldn’t guess. I said aeroplane and all the birds I could think of and in the end she collapsed in a chair and said I was hopeless. Then it was dancing. She tried to teach me to jive and samba, but it meant touching her, I got so confused and I never got the time right. She must have thought I was really slow.

The next thing was she had to go away a minute. I didn’t like it, but I knew I couldn’t expect her to go downstairs. I had to let her go up and I stood on the stairs where I could see if she did any monkey business with the light (the planks weren’t up, I slipped there). The window was high, I knew she couldn’t get out without my hearing, and it was quite a drop. Anyhow she came right out, seeing me on the stairs.

“Can’t you trust me?” She was a bit sharp.

I said, yes, it’s not that.

We went back into the lounge.

“What is it, then?”

If you escaped now, you could still say I imprisoned you. But if I take you home, I can say I released you. I know it’s silly, I said. Of course I was acting it a bit. It was a very difficult situation.

Well, she looked at me, and then she said, “Let’s have a talk. Come and sit here beside me.”

I went and sat.

“What are you going to do when I’ve gone?”

I don’t think about it, I said.

“Will you want to go on seeing me?”

Of course I will.

“You’re definitely going to come and live in London? We’ll make you into someone really modern. Someone really interesting to meet.”

You’d be ashamed of me with all your friends.

It was all unreal. I knew she was pretending just like I was. I had a headache. It was all going wrong.

“I’ve got lots of friends. Do you know why? Because I’m never ashamed of them. All sorts of people. You aren’t the strangest by a long way. There’s one who’s very immoral. But he’s a beautiful painter so we forgive him. And he’s not ashamed. You’ve got to be the same. Not be ashamed. I’ll help you. It’s easy if you try.”

It seemed the moment. Anyway, I couldn’t stand it any longer.

Please marry me, I said. I had the ring in my pocket all ready.

There was a silence.

Everything I’ve got is yours, I said.

“Marriage means love,” she said.

I don’t expect anything, I said. I don’t expect you to do anything that you don’t want. You can do what you like, study art, etcetera. I won’t ask anything, anything of you, except to be my wife in name and live in the same house with me.

She sat staring at the carpet.

You can have your own bedroom and lock it every night, I said.

“But that’s horrible. It’s inhuman! We’ll never understand each other. We don’t have the same sort of heart.”

I’ve got a heart, for all that, I said.

“I just think of things as beautiful or not. Can’t you understand? I don’t think of good or bad. Just of beautiful or ugly. I think a lot of nice things are ugly and a lot of nasty things are beautiful.”

You’re playing with words, I said. All she did was stare at me, then she smiled and got up and stood by the fire, really beautiful. But all withdrawn. Superior.

I suppose you’re in love with that Piers Broughton, I said. I wanted to give her a jolt. She was really surprised, too.

“How do you know about him?”

I told her it was in the papers. It said you and him were unofficially engaged, I said.

I saw right off they weren’t. She just laughed. “He’s the last person I’d marry. I’d rather marry you.”

Then why can’t it be me?

“Because I can’t marry a man to whom I don’t feel I belong in all ways. My mind must be his, my heart must be his, my body must be his. Just as I must feel he belongs to me.”

I belong to you.

“But you don’t! Belonging’s two things. One who gives and one who accepts what’s given. You don’t belong to me because I can’t accept you. I can’t give you anything back.”

I don’t want much.

“I know you don’t. Only the things that I have to give anyway. The way I look and speak and move. But I’m other things. I have other things to give. And I can’t give them to you, because I don’t love you.”

I said, that changes everything then, doesn’t it. I stood up, my head was throbbing. She knew what I meant at once, I could see it in her face, but she pretended not to understand.

“What do you mean?”

You know what I mean, I said.

“I’ll marry you. I’ll marry you as soon as you like.”

Ha ha, I said.

“Isn’t that what you wanted me to say?”

I suppose you think I don’t know you don’t need witnesses and all, I said.

“Well?”

I don’t trust you half an inch, I said.

The way she was looking at me really made me sick. As if I wasn’t human hardly. Not a sneer. Just as if I was something out of outer space. Fascinating almost.

You think I don’t see through all the soft as soap stuff, I said.

She just said, “Ferdinand.” Like she was appealing. Another of her tricks.

Don’t you Ferdinand me, I said.

“You promised. You can’t break your promise.”

I can do what I like.

“But I don’t know what you want of me. How
can
I prove I’m your friend if you never give me a chance of doing so?”

Shut up, I said.

Then suddenly she acted, I knew it was coming, I was ready for it, what I wasn’t ready for was the sound of a car outside. Just as it came up to the house, she reached with her foot like to warm it, but all of a sudden she kicked a burning log out of the hearth on to the carpet, at the same moment screamed and ran for the window, then seeing they were padlocked, for the door. But I got her first. I didn’t get the chloroform which was in a drawer, speed was the thing. She turned and scratched and clawed at me, still screaming, but I wasn’t in the mood to be gentle, I beat down her arms and got my hand over her mouth. She tore at it and bit and kicked, but I was in a panic by then. I got her round the shoulders and pulled her where the drawer was with the plastic box. She saw what it was, she tried to twist away, her head side to side, but I got the pad out and let her have it. All the time listening, of course. And watching the log, it was smouldering badly, the room was full of smoke. Well, soon as she was under good and proper, I let her go and went and put the fire out, I poured the water from a vase over it. I had to act really fast, I decided to get her down while I had time, which I did, laid her on her bed, then upstairs again to make sure the fire was really out and no one about.

I opened the front door very casual, there was no one there, so it was O.K.

Well, then I went down again.

She was still out, on the bed. She looked a sight, the dress all off one shoulder. I don’t know what it was, it got me excited, it gave me ideas, seeing her lying there right out. It was like I’d showed who was really the master. The dress was right off her shoulder, I could see the top of one stocking. I don’t know what reminded me of it, I remembered an American film I saw once (or was it a magazine) about a man who took a drunk girl home and undressed her and put her to bed, nothing nasty, he just did that and no more and she woke up in his pyjamas.

So I did that. I took off her dress and her stockings and left on certain articles, just the brassiere and the other so as not to go the whole hog. She looked a real picture lying there with only what Aunt Annie called strips of nothing on. (She said it was why more women got cancer.) Like she was wearing a bikini.

It was my chance I had been waiting for. I got the old camera and took some photos, I would have taken more, only she started to move a bit, so I had to pack up and get out quick.

I started the developing and printing right away. They came out very nice. Not artistic, but interesting.

I never slept that night, I got in such a state. There were times I thought I would go down and give her the pad again and take other photos, it was as bad as that. I am not really that sort and I was only like it that night because of all that happened and the strain I was under. Also the champagne had a bad effect on me. And everything she said. It was what they call a culmination of circumstances.

Things were never the same again, in spite of all that happened. Somehow it proved we could never come together, she could never understand me, I suppose she would say I never could have understood her, or would have, anyhow.

About what I did, undressing her, when I thought after, I saw it wasn’t so bad; not many would have kept control of themselves, just taken photos, it was almost a point in my favour.

I considered what to do, I decided a letter was best. This is what I wrote:

I didn’t put any beginning. I couldn’t decide what to call her: Dear Miranda seemed familiar.

Well, I went down and took in her breakfast. It was just like I thought. She was sitting in her chair, staring at me. I said good morning, she didn’t reply. I said something—do you want krispies or corn flakes?—she just stared. So I just left her breakfast with the letter on the tray and waited outside and when I went back nothing was touched, the letter was unopened, and she was still sitting there staring at me. I knew it was no good talking, she had it in for me good and proper.

She kept it up several days. So far as I know all she had was some water. At least once a day, when I took in the food she always refused, I tried to argue with her. I took in the letter again and she read it this time, at least it was torn up, so she touched it. I tried everything: I spoke gentle, I pretended I was angry, bitter, I begged her, but it was all no use. Mostly she just sat with her back to me as if she didn’t hear me. I got special things like continental chocolate, caviare, the best food money could buy (in Lewes) but it was never touched.

I was beginning to get really worried. But then one morning when I went in she was standing by her bed with her back to me; however, she turned as soon as I came in and said good morning. But in a funny tone. Full of spite.

Good morning. I said. It’s nice to hear your voice again.

“Is it? It won’t be. You’ll wish you never heard it.”

That remains to be seen, I answered.

“I’m going to kill you. I realize you’d let me starve to death. Just the thing you would do.”

I suppose I never brought you any food these last days?

She couldn’t answer that one, she just started at me in the old style.

“You’re not keeping
me
prisoner any more. You’re keeping death prisoner.”

Have some breakfast anyhow, I said.

Well, from that time on she ate normally, but it wasn’t like before. She hardly spoke, if she did it was always sharp and sarcastic, she was so bad-tempered there was no staying with her. If I was ever there more than a minute when it wasn’t necessary she used to spit at me to get out. One day soon after, I brought in a plate of perfectly nice baked beans on toast and she just picked it up and hurled it straight at me. I felt like giving her a good clip over the earhole. About this time I was fed up with the whole thing, there didn’t seem any point in it, I tried everything, but she would keep on holding that evening against me. It was like we had reached a dead end.

Then one day she actually asked for something. I got in the habit of leaving at once after supper before she could shout at me, but this time she said, stop a minute.

“I want a bath.”

It’s not convenient tonight, I said. I wasn’t ready for that.

“Tomorrow?”

Don’t see why not. With parole.

“I’ll give my parole.” She said it in a nasty hard voice. I knew what her parole was worth.

“And I want to walk in the cellar.” She pushed forward her hands, and I tied them up. It was the first time I touched her for days. Well, as usual I went and sat on the steps to the outer door and she walked up and down in the funny way she had. It was very windy, you could hear it down there, just the sound of her feet and the wind above. She didn’t speak for quite a time, I don’t know why but I knew she wanted to.

“Are you enjoying life?” she suddenly came out with.

Not much, I answered. Cautious.