How lovely Margot was, Paul reflected, even in this absurd photograph, this grey-and-black smudge of ink! Even the most hardened criminal there—he was serving his third sentence for blackmail—laid down his cards for a moment and remarked upon how the whole carriage seemed to be flooded with the delectable savour of the Champs-Élysées in early June. “Funny,” he said. “I thought I smelt scent.” And that set them off talking about women.
Paul found another old friend at Egdon Heath Prison: a short, thickset, cheerful figure who stumped along in front of him on the way to chapel, making a good deal of noise with an artificial leg. “Here we are again, old boy!” he remarked during one of the responses. “I’m in the soup as per usual.”
“Didn’t you like the job?” Paul asked.
“Top hole,” said Grimes, “but the hell of a thing happened. Tell you later.”
That morning, complete with pickaxes, field-telephone and two armed and mounted warders, Paul and a little squad of fellow-criminals were led to the quarries. Grimes was in the party.
“I’ve been here a fortnight,” said Grimes as soon as they got an opportunity of talking, “and it seems too long already. I’ve always been a sociable chap, and I don’t like it. Three years is too long, old boy. Still, we’ll have God’s own beano when I get out. I’ve been thinking about that day and night.”
“I suppose it was bigamy?” said Paul.
“The same. I ought to have stayed abroad. I was arrested as soon as I landed. You see, Mrs. Grimes turned up at the shop, so off Grimes went. There are various sorts of hell, but that young woman can beat up a pretty lively one of her own.”
A warder passed them by, and they moved apart, banging industriously at the sandstone cliff before them.
“I’m not sure it wasn’t worth it, though,” said Grimes, “to see poor old Flossie in the box and my sometime father-in-law. I hear the old man’s shut down the school. Grimes gave the place a bad name. See anything of old Prendy ever?”
“He was murdered the other day.”
“Poor old Prendy! He wasn’t cut out for the happy life, was he? D’you know, I think I shall give up schoolmastering for good when I get out. It doesn’t lead anywhere.”
“It seems to have led us both to the same place.”
“Yes. Rather a coincidence, isn’t it? Damn, here’s that policeman again.”
Soon they were marched back to the prison. Except for the work in the quarries, life at Egdon was almost the same as at Blackstone.
“Slops outside,” chapel, privacy.
After a week, however, Paul became conscious of an alien influence at work. His first intimation of this came from the Chaplain.
“Your library books,” he said one day, popping cheerfully into Paul’s cell and handing him two new novels, still in their wrappers, and bearing inside them the label of a Piccadilly bookseller. “If you don’t like them I have several for you to choose from.” He showed him rather coyly the pile of gaily-bound volumes he carried under his arm. “I thought you’d like the new Virginia Woolf. It’s only been out two days.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Paul politely. Clearly the library of his new prison was run on a much more enterprising and extravagant plan than at Blackstone.
“Or there’s this book on Theatrical Design,” said the Chaplain, showing him a large illustrated volume that could hardly have cost less than three guineas. “Perhaps we might stretch a point and give you that as well as your ‘educational work.’ ”
“Thank you, sir,” said Paul.
“Let me know if you want a change,” said the Chaplain. “And, by the way, you’re allowed to write a letter now, you know. If, by any chance, you’re writing to Mrs. Beste-Chetwynde, do mention that you think the library good. She’s presenting a new pulpit to the chapel in carved alabaster,” he added irrelevantly, and popped out again to give Grimes a copy of Smiles’s Self-Help, out of which some unreceptive reader in the remote past had torn the last hundred and eight pages.
“People may think as they like about well-thumbed favourites,” thought Paul, “but there is something incomparably thrilling in first opening a brand-new book. Why should the Chaplain want me to mention the library to Margot?” he wondered.
That evening at supper Paul noticed without surprise that there were several small pieces of coal in his dripping: that kind of thing did happen now and then; but he was somewhat disconcerted, when he attempted to scrape them out, to find that they were quite soft. Prison food was often rather odd, it was a mistake to complain; but still. … He examined his dripping more closely. It had a pinkish tinge that should not have been there and was unusually firm and sticky under his knife. He tasted it dubiously. It was pâté de foie gras.
From then onwards there was seldom a day on which some small meteorite of this kind did not mysteriously fall from the outside world. One day he returned from the heath to find his
