Memento Mori

Alec smiled into the fire knowing the remark was untrue, and that he did not care how old he looked, and that most people cared. ‘Where were you born?’ said Alec.

A policeman passed and swivelled his eyes towards the two old men without changing the rhythm of his tread. He was not surprised to see the nightwatchman’s superior-looking companion. He had seen plenty of odd old birds.

‘That young copper,’ said Alec, ‘is wondering what we’re up to.’

The watchman reached for his bottle of tea, and pulled out the cork.

‘Got any tips for tomorrow?’

‘Gunmetal for the two-thirty. They say Out of Reach for the four-fifteen. Tell me —’

‘Gunmetal’s even money,’ said the watchman. ‘Not worth your trouble.’

‘How long,’ said Alec, ‘do you sleep during the day?’

Charmian had been put to bed. Rough physical handling made her mind more lucid in some ways, more cloudy in others. She knew quite well at this moment that Mrs Anthony was not Taylor, and Mabel Pettigrew was Lisa Brooke’s former housekeeper, whom she disliked.

She lay and resented, and decided against, Mrs Pettigrew. The woman had had three weeks’ trial and had proved unsatisfactory.

Charmian also lay and fancied Mrs Pettigrew had wronged her, long ago in the past. This was not the case. In reality, it was Lisa Brooke who had blackmailed Charmian, so that she had been forced to pay and pay, although Lisa had not needed the money; she had been forced to lie awake worrying throughout long night hours, and in the end she had been forced to give up her lover Guy Leet, while Guy had secretly married Lisa to satisfy and silence her for Charmian’s sake. All this Charmian blamed upon Mrs Pettigrew, forgetting for the moment that her past tormentor had been Lisa; so bitter was the particular memory and so vicious was her new tormentor. For Mrs Pettigrew had wrenched Charmian’s arm while getting her dress off, had possibly bruised the arm with her hard impatient grasp. ‘What you need,’ Mrs Pettigrew had said, ‘is a nurse. I am not a nurse.

Charmian felt indignant at the suggestion that she needed a nurse.

She decided to give Mrs Pettigrew a month’s money in the morning and tell her to go. Before Mrs Pettigrew had switched out the light, Charmian had spoken sharply. ‘I think, Mrs Pettigrew —’

‘Oh, do call me Mabel and be friendly.’

‘I think, Mrs Pettigrew, it will not be necessary for you to come in to the drawing-room when I have visitors unless I ring.’

‘Good night,’ said Mrs Pettigrew and switched out the light.

Mrs Pettigrew descended to her sitting-room and switched on the television which had been installed at her request. Mrs Anthony had gone home. She took up her knitting and sat working at it while watching the screen. She wanted to loosen her stays but was not sure whether Godfrey would look in to see her. During the three weeks of her stay at the Colstons’ he had been in to see her on five evenings. He had not come in the night. Perhaps he would come tonight, and she did not wish to be caught untidy-looking. There was indeed a knock at the door, and she bade him come in.

On the first occasion it had been necessary for him to indicate his requirements to her. But now, she perfectly understood. Godfrey, with his thin face outstanding in the dim lamplight, and his excited eyes, placed on the low coffee table a pound note. He then stood, arms dangling and legs apart, like a stage rustic, watching her. Without shifting her posture she raised the hem of her skirt at one side until the top of her stocking and the tip of her suspender were visible. Then she went on knitting and watching the television screen. Godfrey gazed at the stocking-top and the glittering steel of the suspender-tip for the space of two minutes’ silence. Then he pulled back his shoulders as if recalling his propriety, and still in silence, walked out.

After the first occasion Mrs Pettigrew had imagined, almost with alarm, that his request was merely the preliminary to more daring explorations on his part, but by now she knew with an old woman’s relief that this was all he would ever desire, the top of her stocking and the tip of her suspender. She took the pound note off the table, put it in her black suede handbag and loosened her stays. She had plans for the future. Meantime a pound was a pound.

SIX

Miss Jean Taylor sat in the chair beside her bed. She never knew, when she sat in her chair, if it was the last time she would be able to sit out of bed. Her arthritis was gradually spreading and digging deep. She could turn her head slowly. So, and with difficulty, she did. Alec Warner shifted his upright chair a little to face her.

She said, ‘Are you tormenting Dame Lettie?’

The thought crossed his mind, among other thoughts, that Jean’s brain might be undergoing a softening process. He looked carefully at her eyes and saw the grey ring round the edge of the cornea, the arcus senilis. Nevertheless, it surrounded the main thing, a continuing intelligence amongst the ruins.

Miss Taylor perceived his scrutiny and thought, it is true he is a student of the subject but he is in many ways the same as the rest. How we all watch each other for signs of failure!

‘Come, Alec,’ she said, ‘tell me.’

‘Tormenting Lettie?’ he said.

She told him about the anonymous telephone calls, then said, ‘Stop studying me, Alec. I am not soft in the brain as yet.’

‘Lettie must be so,’ he said.

‘No, she isn’t, Alec.’

‘And supposing,’ he said, ‘she really has been receiving those telephone calls. Why do you suggest I am the culprit? I ask as a matter of interest.’

‘It seems to me likely, Alec. I may be wrong, but it is the sort of thing, isn’t it, that you would do for purposes of study? An experiment —’

‘It is the sort of thing,’ he said, ‘but in this case I doubt if I am the culprit.’