The Case Of William Smith (15 page)

William woke up to the sound of the grandfather clock on the landing striking eight. It had a very deep, solemn note, and he must have waked just before the first stroke, because he found himself counting up to eight. He knew he hadn’t missed any of the strokes, because it always did a sort of whirring grunt before it started to strike, and that was the first thing he had heard. He was lying on his right side, with the curtains drawn back from the row of windows which looked towards the garden. Two of them were open. The sky was a slaty grey. He could see the upper branches of the cedar stretched out over the garden like black wings. It isn’t dark at eight o’clock in January, but it isn’t really light.

He turned and saw Katharine lying beside him with her hands together under her chin and her hair loose on the pillow. Perhaps it happened at that moment, or perhaps it had really happened when he was asleep — he didn’t know, and it didn’t matter — but, turning like that and seeing Katharine, he was aware that what he had called the blank wall no longer existed. William Smith remembered William Eversley, and William Eversley knew all about William Smith. The two halves of his memory had come together and merged into one. The only thing that wasn’t clear was being in the German hospital. He remembered everything right up to the time they were bombed, and he knew he had been in a German hospital, because he remembered coming out of it labelled William Smith, but the bit between was as vague as a last year’s dream. It had probably been very unpleasant, and he decided that he could do very well without it. Meanwhile there were a lot of things to be sorted out. He began on them methodically.

There was Katharine — but that had come all right. It mightn’t have, because of course she might have married someone else. But she hadn’t. They had married each other all over again. Then there was Eversleys. That wasn’t so easy. He wondered what Cyril and Brett had made of the war years and the difficult changeover. He had no very exalted opinion of either of them when it came to business. Cyril simply hadn’t got it in him, and Brett didn’t bother. He might have had to of course, but William didn’t feel very sanguine about it. He wondered what they were going to say when they knew that he had come back. The family side of them would be pleased of course, but he thought the business side was going to take a bit of a knock. It didn’t make it any easier his being the youngest of the three, and by a good many years. And then he thought about Miss Jones. She came sliding into his mind as he had seen her at six o’clock on the evening of December the sixth. There wasn’t the faintest shadow of a doubt that she had recognized him. Or was there? He thought about that. He could remember what he used to look like, and he could remember what he looked like yesterday when he was shaving. He really hadn’t changed enough to give Miss Jones the benefit of the doubt. She had known him for at least seven years before he went missing. Frank Abbott had recognized him after only seeing him once. Davies — that was old Davies he had blundered into in the street — he had known him again, just like that, all in a flash under a street-lamp. Miss Jones must certainly have known him.

He had got to the point where it occurred to him that being dead for seven years and then coming to life again is bound to complicate other people’s affairs as well as your own, when Katharine stirred, threw out a hand, and woke.

Just for a moment she didn’t know where she was. Then William was hugging her and saying, ‘Darling, wake up — wake up quickly! I’ve remembered!’

She couldn’t think of anything to say. She felt dazed, and happy, and safe, because it didn’t really matter about anything as long as William was there. She said,

‘I am awake.’

‘You’re not! But you’ve got to be! Kath, I’ve remembered!’

She woke right up then.

‘Oh, darling!’

‘Yes. And it’s a pretty kettle of fish, isn’t it — what with our being bigamists — ’

‘We’re not!’

‘My child, we are. A bigamist is someone who goes through a form of marriage whilst a previous husband or wife is alive. I’m a previous husband, and you’re a previous wife, and we’re both alive, so we’re bigamists.’

‘We’re not! It doesn’t matter how often you marry the same person. I found out in a roundabout sort of way.’

His voice changed.

‘Katharine, why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I wanted you to remember.’

‘Suppose I hadn’t?’

‘I would have told you today anyhow. Miss Silver said I must.’

‘Miss Silver? What did you tell her?’

‘Everything. She seemed to know most of it already.’

‘How could she?’

‘She puts things together. She said I’d got to tell you. And I was going to, only I hoped you’d remember first — and you have.’

There was a long pause before he said,

‘I didn’t really forget you.’

‘I know you didn’t.’

‘I loved you the minute you came into the shop. I hadn’t ever stopped loving you. It was there all the time, and then — you came — ’ His voice broke. ‘Katharine, why didn’t you tell me?’

She said very softly, ‘Silly! How could I walk into a shop and say to William Smith, “You don’t think you’ve ever seen me before, but I’m your wife”?’ She put her cheek against his. ‘What would Miss Cole have said!’

William thought of several things that Miss Cole might have said. They laughed together with the sort of laughter which comes like a ripple on the surface of emotion. It came, and it went. Katharine said,

‘I wanted you to fall in love with me all over again, and when you did I wanted you to marry me. I thought you would remember then, but you didn’t, and every day you didn’t it was harder to tell you. But I would have told you today. It wouldn’t have been fair to let you go on being William Smith.’

He said slowly, ‘No — it wouldn’t have been fair.’ And then, ‘I say, Kath, there’s going to be a bit of a mess to clear up. I’ve been thinking — ’

‘Don’t think too much.’

He gave his head the quick impatient shake which had always reminded her of a dog coming out of the water.

‘I’ve been thinking — that time I went to Eversleys and saw Miss Jones — she must have known me. Or do you think — ’

‘No, I don’t. You haven’t changed a bit. You never have, and I don’t suppose you ever will.’

Like an echo there came back out of the past her own voice saying on a note of anger, ‘It’s no use, William never changes!’ It was something she wanted to do and he wouldn’t let her. She couldn’t remember what it was, but she could remember being ten years old, and angry, and saying, ‘William never changes!’

She came back to Mr. Davies’ name.

‘Old Davies knew me — at least I suppose he did. He bumped into me in the street. He nearly dropped, and he asked me who I was.’

‘And you said William Smith, Tattlecombe’s Toy Bazaar, Ellery Street. And first he thought you were a ghost, and then he went and found a call-box and rang me up.’

‘He rang you up?’

She said, ‘That’s how I knew,’ and hid her face against him.

It was a little while before they got back to Miss Jones.

‘You know,’ Katharine said, ‘it was very odd her giving you such a late appointment. You signed your letter “William Smith”, and I can’t help thinking that she recognised the “William”. Not enough to be sure, but enough to make her give you that late appointment when practically everyone else would have gone. They shut at half-past five nominally. Mr. Davies used to hang about a bit. That evening he’d forgotten something and came back, poor old boy.’

‘Why poor old boy?’

‘He’s dead, William.’

‘How?’

‘He had a street accident on December the seventh.’

He repeated the date, ‘December the seventh — ’

‘The day after he saw you.’

‘The day after he recognized me?’

‘Yes.’

There was a pause. Then William said,

‘He did recognize me?’

‘Yes, He rang me up and said, “I’ve just seen Mr. William.”’

‘Do you think he said that to anyone else?’

‘I don’t know. He went to the office next day, and he went away in the evening. On the way home he was knocked down at a street-crossing and taken to hospital. He never recovered consciousness. I didn’t hear about it until ten days ago. Bunny told me. It was the day I had extra time off. I lunched with Cyril. Brett and Bunny were there. There had been a bit of a hold-up about my money and Bunny had come up to see about it. We went away together in a taxi, and he told me the money would be all right now, but to let him know if it wasn’t. They had been telling him Mr. Davies had muddled things up. William, I can’t forgive them for that.’

‘Katharine — what are you saying?’

‘They said he was past his work, and that he had muddled up the accounts. Bunny told me. And he told me that Mr. Davies was dead. I didn’t know till then. I went back to the flat and rang up Miss Jones. She told me about the accident, and when I pressed her I got the date. It was the seventh of December.’

There was a pause. Then he said,

‘Davies came to the office that day?’

‘Yes.’

He began, ‘Do you suppose — ’ and then broke off.

Katharine answered what he hadn’t said.

‘I don’t know. I wrote to say not to tell anyone about seeing you. He would have had my letter that evening, but he never got home. He went to the office on the seventh. Perhaps he didn’t tell anyone.’ She stopped. Then after quite a long time she said, ‘Perhaps he did.’

On the Saturday afternoon whilst William and Katharine were driving down to Ledstow Abigail Salt was having tea with Mr. Tattlecombe. He was half expecting that she would not come, and quite prepared to be in a huff about it. Influenza or no influenza, he didn’t see why she should dance attendance on Emily when her own flesh and blood with his leg only just out of a splint was expecting her. Human nature being what it is, he was almost disappointed when she turned up punctually to the moment and, taking off her coat and gloves, went into the little upstairs kitchen to make the tea — Mrs. Bastable having gone down to Ealing to see her husband’s eldest sister, who was a retired elementary schoolmistress.

Sipping his first cup, Abel reflected that it was extraordinary how much better the tea tasted, with the same water, the same tea-leaves, the same gas stove, and the same pot. Tea made by Abby was and probably always would be, superior to tea made by Mrs. Bastable. The same thing with coffee, with soup, with everything. He felt mollified and forgave her the sin of omission which, after all, she hadn’t committed. Emily had not been preferred, he himself had not been neglected. Abigail had made buttered toast of a very superlative kind. He remembered with a shudder that Mrs. Bastable had offered to make it before she went and leave it ‘keeping hot’. He had been rather firm with her about that, and she had departed sniffing.

He ate Abigail’s toast with a good deal of satisfaction whilst she explained how kind it was of Miss Simpson to come in and keep an eye on Emily. ‘She was round to enquire last night, and when I mentioned that you were expecting me today and I didn’t know quite what to do about it, she offered at once. Ellen Simpson’s a good friend, though I don’t say she hasn’t got trying ways sometimes, but I suppose we’re all like that. It isn’t everybody I could leave with Emily, even if she’s pretty much herself again — up yesterday and most of today, though she hasn’t been out. But I told her she’d better be lying down in her own room whilst I was out, and I gave her the wireless. If she wanted anything, I told her, Ellen would be just across the passage in the parlour and she’d bring her her tea, but better not try and talk too much — they might get disagreeing about something.’

This was such a long speech for Abigail that Abel Tattlecombe began to feel very faintly disturbed. He was no more interested in Ellen Simpson than he was in Emily Salt. He didn’t mind which of them had been left to look after the other, and Abby knew it. He wouldn’t have cared if they had been on desert islands or at the North Pole. Ellen Simpson had eyebrows that met in the middle, and she always contradicted everybody flat. When after his wife died she had started agreeing with him, and Abby had begun asking her to meet him at tea, he had been very much alarmed, and he had spoken out. Abby couldn’t possibly think that he wanted to talk about Ellen Simpson.

He took another piece of buttered toast and said,

‘You’ve got something on your mind.’

Mrs. Salt’s fair, fresh-complexioned face remained impassive. The blue eyes which were so much like Abel’s maintained their quiet gaze. She lifted her cup, drank from it, and set it down before she answered him.

‘Well, I won’t say I’m not glad to find you alone.’

Abel wagged his head. He could do it quite comfortably now that the stiffness was gone.

‘You knew very well I was going to be alone. Mrs. Bastable has gone to see her sister-in-law at Ealing. She will come home in very low spirits because Miss Bastable always treats her as if she ought to be in the infants’ class. What have you got on your mind?’ Then, without waiting for a reply, ‘I suppose it’s Emily.’

‘Well, yes, it is.’

Abel grunted.

‘What’s she been doing?’

‘She has been having influenza. On Tuesday night she was very feverish. She wandered in her mind and talked a lot of nonsense. I was glad there wasn’t anyone there to hear her.’

‘What did she say?’

Abigail hesitated.

‘She was out of her head. You can’t take notice of what anyone says when they are in a fever.’

Abel’s bushy eyebrows twitched. Women — look at them! Look at Abby! Had she come here on purpose to tell him what Emily had said, or hadn’t she? Could she get it out without a lot of sticking and fussing? Not a bit of it! He said crossly,

‘Are you going to tell me what she said?’

There was an answering spark in the eyes that were so much like his own.

‘Yes, I am, but I won’t be bustled. I came here on purpose, but it isn’t an easy thing to say, and you’ve never liked poor Emily. I’ve had a duty to her and I’ve done my best. It hasn’t always been easy, and now I’ve come to the place where I’ve got to think about my duty to others, and that isn’t easy either — not after all these years of thinking about Emily first. I’ve come to where I’ve got to speak to someone, and you’re my brother and you’re mixed up with it.’

Abel Tattlecombe finished his piece of toast and reached for another. He wasn’t going to let Emily Salt put him off his tea. If the toast wasn’t eaten hot it would be spoiled, and it was much too good to spoil.

‘What did Emily say?’

Abby wasn’t eating at all. She folded her hands in her lap and looked at him.

‘I’m going to tell you. But you’ve got to make up your mind to look at it the way you would if it wasn’t Emily. You’ve got to judge righteous judgment, Abel, and not just think the way you want to. You’ve never liked Emily, but you’re a just man, and you’ve not got to let it weigh with you. You’ve got to judge the way you would if I was telling you this about somebody else.’

Abel wagged his head.

‘That’s not possible, Abby. You’ve got to judge people according to what you know about them. There’s things I know about Emily. If I’ve got to use my judgment about her, it’s no use telling me I’ve got to put those things out of my head, because I don’t believe the Lord means us to do that, and anyhow it can’t be done. But I’ll do my best to be fair.’

Abigail gave a quiet sigh. Abel always had been set in his ways. She said,

‘Well, I’ll tell you. And you mustn’t make too much of it, for she was clean out of her head. She woke up crying out, and when I went to her she didn’t know me — only stared and said, “I did it — I did it.” So I said, “I’ll get you a drink, my dear.” But when I came back with it she was talking nineteen to the dozen. All a lot of rubbish it sounded like.’

The picture came up in her mind as she spoke — Emily wild enough to frighten you, with her eyes fixed and burning, and a hot, shaking hand. She hadn’t been frightened at the time — she had known too many sick people for that — but when she looked back it frightened her a little more each time.

‘What did she say, Abby?’

She could give the words, but she could never give the horrid way they had come — sometimes in a cold whisper that chilled your blood, sometimes, and quite suddenly, in a scream which made you feel thankful there wasn’t anyone else in the house. Under that habitual look of calm Abigail Salt was deeply perturbed. She said in her quiet voice,

‘She was angry about your will.’

‘She had no call to know anything about it.’

Abigail nodded.

‘She heard you telling me. I couldn’t get her to see, that it was all right for me, and nothing to do with her. She’s got the kind of mind that takes hold of things and can’t let go. She got worked up to feel that William Smith was doing me an injury — and her.’

Abel continued to eat buttered toast. He said with angry contempt,

‘She’s crazy! You’re not telling me what she said.’

Abigail sighed again.

‘I’m trying to make you understand.’

He pushed over his cup, and she filled it. Even with the trouble she was in, she took care that it should be just to his liking. If it came to that, she wasn’t in any hurry to tell him what Emily had said. She wouldn’t be telling him at all if it wasn’t that her conscience wouldn’t let her hold it back.

He sipped from his newly filled cup, fixed his eyes upon her severely, and said,

‘Now, Abby.’