The Collector - Страница 9

You can hear it’s a long way from anywhere, I said.

When the time was up (I had to pull her) we went in through the kitchen and dining-room and into the hall and up the stairs to the bathroom.

There’s no lock on the door, I said, you can’t shut it even, I’ve nailed a block in, but I shall respect your every privacy providing you keep your word. I shall be here.

I had a chair on the landing outside.

I am now going to take your hand-cords off if you give me your word you will keep the gag on. Nod your head.

Well, she did, so I untied her hands. She rubbed them a bit, just to get at me, I suppose, then went in the bathroom.

All went off without trouble, I heard her have her bath, splashing etcetera, quite natural, but I got a shock when she came out. She hadn’t got the gag on. That was one shock. The other was the way she was changed with the new clothes and her hair washed, it hung all wet and loose on her shoulders. It seemed to make her softer, even younger; not that she was ever hard or ugly. I must have looked stupid, looking angry because of the gag, and then not being able to be it because she looked so lovely.

She spoke very quick.

“Look, it began to hurt horribly. I’ve given you my word. I give it to you again. You can put this back on if you like — here. But I would have screamed by now if I’d wanted to.”

She handed me the gag and there was something in her look, I couldn’t put it on again. I said, the hands will do. She had on her green tunic, but with one of the shirts I bought and I guessed she had on the new underclothes underneath.

I did up her hands behind her back.

I’m sorry I’m so suspicious, I said. It’s just that you’re all I’ve got that makes life worth living. It was the wrong moment to say a thing like that, I know, but having her standing there like that, it was too much.

I said, if you went, I think I’d do myself in.

“You need a doctor.”

I just made a noise.

“I’d like to help you.”

You think I’m mad because of what I’ve done. I’m not mad. It’s just, well, I’ve got no one else. There’s never been anyone but you I’ve ever wanted to know.

“That’s the worst kind of illness,” she said. She turned round then, all this was while I was tying. She looked down. “I feel sorry for you.”

Then she changed, she said, “What about washing? I’ve washed some things. Can I hang them out? Or is there a laundry?”

I said, I’ll dry them in the kitchen. You can’t send anything to the laundry.

“What now?”

And she looked round. There was something mischievous about her sometimes, you could see she was looking for trouble, in a nice way. Teasing like.

“Aren’t you going to show me your house?”

She had a real smile on, the first I ever saw; I couldn’t do anything but smile back.

It’s late, I said.

“How old is it?” She spoke as if she didn’t hear me.

There’s a stone says 1621 over the door.

“This is the wrong-coloured carpet. You ought to have rush matting or something. And those pictures — horrible!”

She moved along the landing to see them. Cunning.

They cost enough, I said.

“It’s not money you go by.”

I can’t say how strange it was, us standing there. Her making criticisms like a typical woman.

“Can I look in the rooms?”

I wasn’t myself, I couldn’t resist the pleasure, so I stood with her in the doorways and showed them, the one ready for Aunt Annie, and Mabel’s, if they ever came, and mine. Miranda looked very close round each one. Of course the curtains were drawn, and I watched right next to her to see she didn’t try any funny business.

I got a firm to do it all, I said, when we were at the door of mine.

“You’re very neat.”

She saw some old pictures of butterflies I bought in an antique shop. I chose them, I said.

“They’re the only decent things here.”

Well, there we were, she was making compliments and I admit I was pleased.

Then she said, “How quiet it is. I’ve been listening for cars. I think it must be North Essex.” I knew it was a test, she was watching me.

You’ve guessed right, I said. Acting surprised.

Suddenly she said, “It’s funny, I should be shivering with fear. But I feel safe with you.”

I’ll never hurt you. Unless you force me to.

It was suddenly as I always hoped, we were getting to know each other, she was beginning to see me for what I really was.

She said, “That air was wonderful. You can’t imagine. Even this air. It’s free. It’s everything I’m not.”

And she walked away, so I had to follow her downstairs. At the bottom in the hall she said, “Can I look in here?” Hung for a sheep as well as a lamb, I thought, anyway the shutters were across and the curtains. She went in the lounge and looked round it, touring round and looking at everything with her hands behind her back, it was comic, really.

“It’s a lovely room. It’s wicked to fill it with all this shoddy stuff. Such muck!” She actually kicked one of the chairs. I suppose I looked like I felt (offended) because she said, “But you must see it’s wrong! Those terrible chichi wall-lamps and” — she suddenly caught sight of them — “not china wild duck!” She looked at me with real anger, then back at the ducks.

“My arms ache. Would you mind tying my hands in front of me for a change?”

I didn’t want to spoil the mood, as they say, I couldn’t see any harm, as soon as I had the cords off her hands (I was all ready for trouble) she turned and held her hands out in front for me to tie, which I did. Then she shocked me. She went up to the fireplace where the wild duck were, there were three hung up, thirty-bob each and before you could say Jack Knife she had them off the hook and bang crash on the hearth. In smithereens.

Thank you very much, I said, very sarcastic.

“A house as old as this has a soul. And you can’t do things like that to beautiful things like this old, old room so many people have lived in. Can’t you feel that?”

I haven’t any experience in furnishing, I said.

She just gave me a funny look and went past me into the room opposite, what I called the dining-room, though the furniture people called it the dual-purpose room, it was half fitted out for me to work in. There were my three cabinets, which she saw at once.

“Aren’t you going to show me my fellow-victims?”

Of course I wanted nothing better. I pulled out one or two of the most attractive drawers — members of the same genus drawers, nothing serious, just for show, really.

“Did you buy them?”

Of course not, I said. All caught or bred by me and set and arranged by me. The lot.

“They’re beautifully done.”

I showed her a drawer of Chalkhill and Adonis Blues, I have a beautiful var. ceroneus Adonis and some var. tithonus Chalkhills, and I pointed them out. The var. ceroneus is better than any they got in the N.H. Museum. I was proud to be able to tell her something. She had never heard of aberrations.

“They’re beautiful. But sad.”

Everything’s sad if you make it so, I said.

“But it’s you who make it so!” She was staring at me across the drawer. “How many butterflies have you killed?”

You can see.

“No, I can’t. I’m thinking of all the butterflies that would have come from these if you’d let them live. I’m thinking of all the living beauty you’ve ended.”

You can’t tell.

“You don’t even share it. Who sees these? You’re like a miser, you hoard up all the beauty in these drawers.”

I was really very disappointed, I thought all her talk was very silly. What difference would a dozen specimens make to a species?

“I hate scientists,” she said. “I hate people who collect things, and classify things and give them names and then forget all about them. That’s what people are always doing in art. They call a painter an impressionist or a cubist or something and then they put him in a drawer and don’t see him as a living individual painter any more. But I can see they’re beautifully arranged.”

She was trying to be nice again.

The next thing I said was, I do photography too.

I had some pictures of the woods behind the house, and some of the sea coming over the wall at Seaford, really nice ones, I enlarged them myself. I put them out on the table where she could see them.

She looked at them, she didn’t say anything.

They’re not much, I said. I haven’t been doing it long.

“They’re dead,” She gave me a funny look sideways. “Not these particularly. All photos. When you draw something it lives and when you photograph it it dies.”

It’s like a record, I said.

“Yes. All dry and dead.” Well I was going to argue, but she went on, she said, “These are clever. They’re good photographs as photographs go.”

After a bit I said, I’d like to take some pictures of you.

“Why?”

You’re what they call photogenic.

She looked down, then she looked up at me and said, “All right. If you want to. Tomorrow.”

That gave me a real thrill. Things were really changed.

I decided about then it was time she went down. She didn’t hardly object, just shrugged, let me tie the gag, and all went well as before.

Well, when we were down, she wanted a cup of tea (some special China she made me buy). I took the gag off and she came out in the outer cellar (her hands still bound) and looked at where I cooked her meals and all that. We didn’t say anything, it was nice. The kettle boiling and her there. Of course I kept a sharp eye on her. When it was made, I said, shall I be mother?