and leave the country or something—I couldn’t think beyond giving her up.
Well, she was on the floor again, she’d tried to get out of bed, I suppose to go to the bathroom or to try to escape. Anyway I lifted her back to bed, she seemed to be half in a coma, she said some words but I couldn’t make them out and she didn’t understand anything I said.
I sat by her almost all night, some of the time I slept off. Twice she struggled to get out of bed again, it was no good, she hadn’t the strength of a flea. I said the same old things again, I said the doctor was coming and it seemed to calm her. Once she asked what day it was, and I lied, I said it was Monday (it was Wednesday) and she seemed a bit calmer then, too. She just said Monday, but you could tell it didn’t mean anything. It was like her brain was affected, too.
I knew she was dying then, I knew all that night, I could have told anyone.
I just sat there, listening to her breathing and muttering (she never seemed to sleep properly) and thinking about the way things turned out. Thinking about my rotten life and her life, and everything else.
Anyone there would see what it was like. I was truly and really in despair, although I say it myself. I couldn’t do anything, I wanted her to live so, and I couldn’t risk getting help, I was beaten, anyone would have seen it. All those days I knew I would never love another the same. There was only Miranda for ever. I knew it then.
Another thing was, she was the only one who knew I loved her. She knew what I really was. Not like anyone else could ever understand.
Well, it dawned, the last day came. Strange, it was a beauty, I don’t believe there was a cloud all day, one of those cold winter days when there’s no wind and the sky is very blue. It seemed specially arranged, most appropriate, seeing she passed away so peaceful. The last words she spoke were about ten when she said (I think), “the sun” (it was coming in the window), and she tried to sit up but she could not manage it.
She never said another word to be understood, she lingered on all the morning and afternoon and went with the sun. Her breathing had got very faint and (just to show what I was like) I even thought she had gone into a sleep at last. I don’t know exactly when she died, I know she was breathing about half past three when I went downstairs to do a bit of dusting and so on to take my mind off things, and when I came back about four, she was gone.
She was lying with her head to one side and it looked awful, her mouth was open and her eyes were staring white like she’d tried to see out of the window one last time. I felt her and she was cold, though her body was still warm. I ran and got a mirror. I knew that was the way and held it over her mouth but there was no mist. She was dead.
Well, I shut her mouth up and got the eyelids down. I didn’t know what to do then, I went and made myself a cup of tea.
When it was dark I got her dead body and carried it down to the cellar. I know you’re meant to wash dead bodies, but I didn’t like to, it didn’t seem right, so I put her on the bed and combed out her hair and cut a lock. I tried to arrange her face so it had a smile but I couldn’t. Anyway she looked very peaceful. Then I knelt and said a prayer, the only one I knew was Our Father, so I said some of that and God rest her soul, not that I believe in religion, but it seemed right. Then I went upstairs.
I don’t know why it was one little thing that did it; you’d think it would be seeing her dead or carrying her down the last time, but it wasn’t; it was when I saw her slippers in the room where she was upstairs. I picked them up and suddenly I knew she wouldn’t ever wear them again. I wouldn’t ever go down and draw the bolts again (funny, I had still bolted her in, though), and none of it would ever happen again, the good or the bad. I suddenly knew she was dead and dead means gone for ever, for ever and ever.
Those last days I had to be sorry for her (as soon as I knew it wasn’t acting), and I forgave her all the other business. Not while she was living, but when I knew she was dead, that was when I finally forgave her. All sorts of nice things came back. I remembered the beginning, the days in the Annexe just seeing her come out of the front door, or passing her the other side of the street, and I couldn’t understand how it all happened so that she was there below, dead.
It was like a joke mousetrap I once saw, the mouse just went on and things moved, it couldn’t ever turn back, but just on and on into cleverer and cleverer traps until the end.
I thought how happy I was, feelings I had those weeks I never had before and I wouldn’t ever have again.
The more I thought about it, the worse it seemed.
It came to midnight and I couldn’t sleep, I had to have all the lights on, I don’t believe in spirits but it seemed better with the lights.
I kept on thinking of her, thinking perhaps it was my fault after all that she did what she did and lost my respect, then I thought it was her fault, she asked for everything she got. Then I didn’t know what to think, my head seemed to go bang bang bang, and I knew I couldn’t live at Fosters any more. I wanted to drive away and never come back.
I thought, I could sell up and go out to Australia. But then there was all the covering up to do first. It was too much. The next thing was I got the police on the brain. I decided the best thing was to go to the police and tell them the lot. I even got my coat on to drive down.
I thought I was going mad, I kept on looking in the mirror and trying to see it in my face. I had this horrible idea, I was mad, everyone else could see it, only I couldn’t. I kept remembering how people in Lewes seemed to look at me sometimes, like the people in that doctor’s waiting-room. They all knew I was mad.
It came to two o'clock. I don’t know why, I began to think her being dead was all a mistake, perhaps she had just been asleep. So I had to go down to make sure. It was horrible. Soon as I went down in the outer cellar I started imagining things. Like she might step out of a corner with a hatchet. Or she would not be there—even though the door was bolted she would have vanished. Like in a horror-film.
She was there. Lying there, all in the silence. I touched her. She was so cold, so cold it gave me a shock. I still couldn’t understand it was true, how she’d been living only a few hours before, and just a few days back walking about, drawing, doing her knitting. And now this.
Then something moved at the other end of the cellar, back by the door. It must have been a draught. Something broke in me, I lost my head, I rushed out and fell up the stair in the outer cellar and out. I locked the door down double quick and got into the house and locked that door and all the bolts home.
After a while the shaking stopped, I calmed down. But all I could think was how this was the end. I couldn’t live with her down there like that.
It was then I got the idea. It kept on coming back, this feeling that she was lucky to be done with it all, no more worries, no more hiding, no more things you want to be and won’t ever be. But finished, the lot.
All I had to do was kill myself, then the others could think what they liked. The people in the waiting-room, the Annexe people, Aunt Annie and Mabel, all of them. I would be out of it.
I started thinking how I could do it, how I could go into Lewes as soon as the shops opened and get a lot of aspros and some flowers, chrysanths were her favourite. Then take the aspros and go down with the flowers and lie beside her. Post a letter first to the police. So they would find us down there together. Together in the Great Beyond.
We would be buried together. Like Romeo and Juliet.
It would be a real tragedy. Not sordid.
I would get some proper respect if I did it. If I destroyed the photos, that was all there was, people would see I never did anything nasty to her, it would be truly tragic.
I thought it out, and then I went and got the photos and the negatives, all ready to burn first thing in the morning.
It was like I had to have some definite plan. Anything, so long as it was definite.
There was the money, but I didn’t care any more. Aunt Annie and Mabel would get it. Miranda talked about the Save the Children fund, but she was already half off her rocker. All those charities are run by crooks. Save the Trustees, more like.
I wanted what money couldn’t buy. If I really had got a nasty mind I would not have gone to all the trouble I did, I would have just visited the women you read about on the boards in Paddington and Soho and done what I wanted. You can’t buy happiness. I must have heard Aunt Annie say that a hundred times. Ha ha, I always thought, just let’s have a try first. Well, I had my try.
Because what it is, it’s luck. It’s like the pools—worse, there aren’t even good teams and bad teams and
