‘I think you should beat some sense into her,’ I said suddenly. He looked horrified. ‘I didn’t know you believed in corporal punishment,’ he said.
‘In extreme cases I do,’ I answered, ‘and this seems to be an extreme case. If it was my daughter, that’s what I’d do.’
I took my umbrella in my hands, sighting along it like a gun, and said, ‘She’s betrayed you, kicked you in the teeth. But that’s the younger generation for you. They’re like bonbons, mealy on the outside but hard on the inside.’
He smiled, for I had used a simile which he would understand. Deliberately.
‘Do you really think so?’ he said at last, almost in tears, his lips trembling. ‘But it’s true, you give them everything and they throw it back in your teeth. I slaved to make this shop what it is and it was all for her and she doesn’t care. She’s never served a customer and I, I have to do it all. I’ve even got books to study so that I can help her with her lessons. I’ve got the whole Encyclopaedia Britannica. What will I do? She says she’s going abroad. I gave her everything and her mother too, for five years when she was dying, I’m tired, so tired.’
Aren’t we all, I thought, aren’t we all.
Anyway, that was the last glimpse I had of him, his wet tremulous lips, his doglike expression, his low emotional voice.
The next part of this story is rather undignified, but I must tell it just the same, and the more so because it is undignified. I am not the sort of person who hides things just because they are unpleasant. On the contrary, I feel that the unpleasant things must be told. And I must justify myself too, especially in this situation, in this unprecedented situation.
I have lived in this town for many years now and people are always hiding their little pseudo-tragedies in holes and corners when, if they only knew it, their tragedies are comedies to the rest of us, and as clear as glass doors, too. But I know all about them. I could blackmail the lot of them if I wished, even the most important people in our town, though they sit at their dinners and lunches, among their glasses and champagne. Walking about the town – stopping here, stopping there, speaking to one person at one corner and to another at another corner – I hear many things. I am one of the sights of the town with my kid gloves and my hat. They all know me, but they don’t know how dangerous I am. After all Socrates told the truth and he was put to death.
However, let me continue, though it should rend me. One night, not long after my talk with the Lady, I was taking my walk out to the bay in the moonlight. I like the evening. Everything is so apparently innocent, the stars are beginning to shine, you can see the boats in the water lying on their own reflections, and you can hear the gentle movement of the sea. All is cool and gentle and without intrigue. Now and again as you pass some trees you may hear a rustle in the undergrowth, a desperate movement and perhaps a squeal, but that’s only rarely. The thing about animals is that they don’t wear gloves or hats, and they don’t gossip about each other.
Sometimes, as I walk along, I think of people and sometimes of books. I doff my hat carefully to people I know and glance equally carefully at people I don’t know.
Of course, things are noisier now than they used to be. Cars race past, youths craning their heads out of windows and shouting at the passers-by. And they are crammed full of girls, these sports cars. But I ignore them. I walk past the trees which line the road, and I glance now and again at the sea with its lights. I think of . . . Well, what does one think of?
Anyway, this evening I was walking along slowly, feeling benign and calm, and eventually I came to the bay. The sun was setting in its splendour of gold and red, and I sat down on a seat near the water. What is more beautiful and peaceful than that, watching the purple clouds and the pale moon, and the sun setting in barbaric splendour? The world was calm except for the twittering of birds. All round me was desolate and I was staring out towards the horizon where the sunset was turning the sky into, as they say, technicolour.
What beautiful thoughts we have at such moments! How good and guiltless we appear to ourselves, sitting there as if on thrones, hat on head, gloves on hands, and umbrella in case of a shower! We feel like gods, clean, urbane, without sorrow or guilt.
And as I was sitting there that evening, surrounded by rocks and sand, in the strange music of the sea birds, and confronting a sky of scarlet and purple, who should materialise – and I use the word advisedly – but Diane herself.
How beautiful she was, how young! I cannot describe it. Her face at first looked more peaceful and calm than I had ever seen it.
She spoke.
‘You told my father to beat me,’ she said, ‘didn’t you?’
Her voice was musical and low (where did I hear that before?).
Her eyes were green and she wore this mini-skirt of pure gold.
I tried to stand up in confusion, clutching my umbrella.
‘No,’ she said, ‘stay where you are. You look like a king sitting there.’ I can swear those were her exact words. But it was like a dream. You must remember the atmosphere: you have to remember that, the colours, the dreams.
Then she leaned down towards my right ear and she said, still in that dreamy voice,
‘Beat me then. You can if you want. My father never beats me, that’s why I despise him.
