The Case Of William Smith (2 page)

Abel Tattlecombe sat propped up in bed with a cushion and two pillows at his back and a grey and white knitted shawl about his shoulders. The cushion had been brought up by his sister, Mrs. Salt, from the parlour where it belonged. If it had been anyone but Abel, they might have whistled for it. Not that Mrs. Salt would have demeaned herself to use such an expression, but the cushion would have remained on the parlour sofa. Being Abel, it formed, as you might say, a foundation for her two largest feather pillows, and a very solid foundation at that. Constructed of strong canvas, and worked all over in cross-stitch in a pattern of enormous red roses on a purple ground, it had retained to an almost aggressive degree its robust colouring and its even robuster form. Plump, cheerful, and compact, it held the pillows in place and made a comfortable back for Mr. Tattlecombe.

He looked out of his very blue eyes at his assistant, William Smith, and said,

‘I’ve been making my will.’

William didn’t quite know what to say. If he didn’t say anything at all, Mr. Tattlecombe would jump to the conclusion that William thought he was dying. If he said, ‘Oh, yes,’ or words to that effect, it would amount to very much the same thing. If he said, ‘Oh, I’m sure there’s no need to do that,’ he would be going against his principles. Because of course people ought to make their wills, if they have anyone to provide for and anything to leave. William hadn’t. He returned Mr. Tattlecombe’s gaze, thought he had never seen him looking better, and said,

‘Well, I daresay it’s a good thing to get it off your mind.’

Abel shook his head solemnly, not intending any disagreement, but imparting a shade of philosophic doubt. He was an old man with a fresh complexion, a thatch of curly grey hair, and those very blue eyes. He said with a pleasant country accent,

‘That’s as may be, but I’ve done it.’

There didn’t seem to be any more to be said.

Abel heaved a sigh.

‘If the Lord wants me He’ll call me. Such things as the making of wills or not making them, ’tisn’t in reason they’d make any difference to Him.’

The solemnity of the tone was embarrassing. William said,

‘No, of course not.’

Mr. Tattlecombe went through another slow motion of shaking his head.

‘I didn’t see it that way, but it’s come to me. There’s not so much time for thinking in the shop, but lying here with nothing else to do, it came over me powerful that I’d be called upon to give an account of my stewardship. It was a nice little business till the war came along, and I looked forward to leaving it to Ernie, but it wasn’t to be. When I got the news he’d died in the prison camp I lost heart. What with the bombing, and everything so scarce and no turnover to speak of, I couldn’t seem to take any interest. And when the war stopped I couldn’t seem to get going. It isn’t so easy to start again when everything’s different and you’re getting on in years. Well, you know how it was, that day you came along and told me you’d been with Ernie in the camp — it meant a lot to me to hear how he’d talked about me and about the shop. And then you brought out those toys of yours and asked me what I thought of ’em. Do you remember what I said?’

William gave the wide, attractive grin which showed how strong and white his teeth were.

‘You said, “It isn’t what I think about them, young man, it’s what the public thinks. Put ’em in the window and see.” ’

‘And they were all sold out in half an hour. That’s what the public thought of them, and that’s what they’ve gone on thinking of ’em, haven’t they? The Wurzel Dog, and the Boomalong Bird — they was the first. I tell you, if ever I saw the hand of the Lord I saw it then. Ernie was gone — the only grandson I ever had — the only bit of my flesh and blood except Abby. And the business gone downhill to such an extent that you might say it had got to the bottom. And then there was you, and there was the Wurzel Dogs and the Boomalong Birds, and the business getting up and, as you might say, beginning to boom along too. Well, if it wasn’t the Lord’s hand, what was it?’

William said, ‘We’re doing very nicely, sir.’

Abel nodded.

‘ “Out of my stony griefs, Bethel I’ll raise.” I’ve told the Lord how grateful I am, and now I’m telling you. I made my will yesterday, and I’ve left the business and what’s in the bank to you. Abby’s provided for, and she’s agreeable. If Matthew Salt did leave his sister Emily hung round her neck for good and all, as you may say, he made up for it as well as he could by providing very comfortably for Abby. He was a warm man was Matthew, and the chapel missed him very much when he went. Being a builder and contractor, they got their Ebenezer built for not much more than cost price. I didn’t always see eye to eye with him — he was too fond of his own way — but he was a good brother and a good husband, and he left Abby well provided for. Not that to my mind any amount of providing would make up for having to live with Emily Salt.’

‘No, sir.’

‘I couldn’t have done it,’ said Abel Tattlecombe. A blue spark gleamed in his eye. ‘There was some talk of Abby coming to keep house for me when my poor wife died, but I couldn’t have done it — not if it meant Emily along with her, and I said so without any beating about the bush. “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away,” I said, but He didn’t give me Emily Salt, and I’m not flying in his face by taking her. Let alone that she thinks any man is something that oughtn’t to be going around off the chain, there’s something about the look of her that’d turn me from my food. I don’t know how Abby’s put up with her all these years, but she’s done it, and I’m sure it’s a credit to her. She’s a good woman, and as I started out to say, I’ve told her my intentions, and she’s agreeable.’

William really did feel quite overwhelmed. Gratitude and embarrassment made the next few minutes very uncomfortable. He didn’t quite know what he said, but he finished up with,

‘I hope you’ll live to be a hundred, sir.’

‘That’s for the Lord to say, William. I’ve passed my three score years and ten.’

‘So did Moses and Abraham. And what about Methuselah and all that lot? They lived practically for ever, didn’t they?’

‘It’s for the Lord to say,’ said Abel. ‘I thought he’d called me this time, but seemingly not.’

William had a strong feeling that street accidents could hardly be attributed to the Lord, but he wouldn’t have ventured to say so.

‘You’ll have to watch your step, you know — especially at night. You had a very narrow escape.’

Abel moved his head on the pillow.

‘I was struck down.’

Something in the tone, the solemn gaze, made William say,

‘You stepped off the pavement, and you were struck down by a car.’

‘I was struck down,’ said Abel Tattlecombe. ‘I can’t get from it, and I never shall. The doctor may say what he likes, and Abby can back him up, but I’m telling you that I was struck down. I come out by the side door and over to the kerb, just for a breath of air before I went to bed. The light shone out on the pavement and I could see it was wet, so I just went over to the kerb, meaning to come back again. A very mild air it was, but thickish, with a little rain in it. I left the door open behind me and went as far as the kerb and stood there. There was a car coming along fast. Just before it came up someone pushed me right between the shoulders. I was struck down, and the next thing I knew I was in hospital. That’s six weeks ago, and a week since I’ve been here, and you’re the first that’s listened to me when I said I was struck down. “Who’d want to strike you down?” they said. That’s neither here nor there, and no business of mine, I tell them. There’s all sorts of wickedness in the world, and no accounting for it. The imagination of the thoughts of their heart is evil continually, and what hath the righteous done? Struck down I was.’

With a feeling that it might be a good plan to change the subject, William said,

‘I sent you word by Mrs. Salt about the new assistant.’

The blue eyes became shrewd.

‘How’s she doing? What’s her name? I forget.’

‘Miss Eversley. She’s doing very well. But I’ve put her on to painting the animals — gets the right expression in the eyes. I’ve got a new creature — the Dumble Duck. He’s selling like hot cakes. We can’t turn them out fast enough, even with four doing nothing else. I really needed Miss Eversley for the painting. Miss Cole says she can manage in the shop, but we really want more help there.’

Abel gloomed.

‘I won’t be back for a fortnight, and I’ll have to go easy. Maybe I’ll not be back then. If you want more help you must get it, but I’ll not have anyone except a respectable young woman. Nothing but chapel was what I used to say, but I don’t hold out for that now — not if it’s a respectable, well conducted young woman, which I hope is what you can say about this Miss Eversley.’

Katharine Eversley rose before William’s mind. She arose and shone. When she came into a room she made a light in it. She came into William’s mind and made a light there. He heard himself saying that she was respectable and well conducted. It sounded like a piece out of another book. You didn’t use words like that about Katharine. She had words which belonged to her — lovely, lovable, beloved. You couldn’t use words about her like respectable and well conducted. He used them in a kind of wonder, and felt as though he was painting a bird of paradise drab.

It was actually a relief when Mr. Tattlecombe came back to the will.

‘As I’ve been saying, I’ve done a bit of thinking whilst I’ve been laid up, and it came to me that if you knew what your prospects were you might turn your mind to getting settled in life. How old would you be?’

‘Well, William Smith would be twenty-nine. I don’t know about me.’

Mr. Tattlecombe frowned.

‘Now, now,’ he said, ‘that’ll be enough about that. You’re old enough to be married, and a good thing if you gave your mind to it in a serious way.’

William looked down at the pattern on the carpet and said, partly to Abel and partly to himself,

‘It’s a bit difficult when you don’t know who you are. A girl would have the right to know who she was taking.’

Abel thumped the mattress with his clenched fist.

‘She’d be taking William Smith, and she’d be getting a decent-living young man with good prospects that’d make her a good husband, and that’s a thing any young woman may be thankful for!’

William lifted his eyes.

‘Suppose I was engaged — or even married. Have you thought about that, Mr. Tattlecombe?’

Abel’s colour had risen. He banged again.

‘William Smith wasn’t married, and you’re not married! Don’t you tell me anybody would forget a thing like that — not unless they wanted to, and I’d think better of you than that! Now you just listen to me! I’ve studied over it, and it’s come to me quite plain. If you’re William Smith by name and by nature, then you’re not the first that went away from his home young and improved himself and come back a bit up in the world and feeling as if he didn’t belong. To my mind that’s what’s happened to you. You’ve no near kith and kin, and the neighbours don’t recognize you because you’ve changed above a bit, and only natural, and you don’t remember on account of your memory being gone. To my mind that’s what’s happened, and no mystery about it. But just for the sake of argument, let’s take it you’re not William Smith. To my way of thinking it’s the Lord’s doing. He taketh up one and putteth down another. If He’s taken you up out of whatever you were and put you down as William Smith, then He’s got His own purpose in doing it, and not for you and me to be kicking against the pricks.’

William did not feel able to comment on this. He had a lot of respect for Mr. Tattlecombe’s theology, but he could not always follow its reasoning. He remained silent.

Abel pursued his theme.

‘You settle down and commit your way unto the Lord. Suppose it was to come to you after all this time that you were somebody else — how do you suppose you’d fit in? Forty-two was when William Smith was missing. Suppose you were someone else and you’d been missing even longer than that. There’s a lot of things might be difficult if you come to think it out. Say you had a bit of money — someone else would have got it. Say there was a young woman you were sweet on — likely enough she’d be married to someone else. You can’t come back and find things just the way they were — it isn’t in nature. If you have a cut on your finger, the place heals up — it isn’t in nature for it to stay open and aching. Same way with you. Supposing for the sake of argument that you wasn’t William Smith — your place wouldn’t be there any more, and you wouldn’t be wanted. I can see that as clear as ever I saw anything in all my life, and it’d be a good thing if you could bring yourself to see it too. William Smith you are, and if it’s the Lord’s will, William Smith you’ll stay.’

At this point, to William’s relief, the door opened upon Mrs. Salt and a cup of Benger’s. Abel in petticoats, with the same fresh complexion, blue eyes, and curly grey hair, she wore substantial black, with a fancy apron bought at a sale of work, and a gold brooch with a diamond initial A in a bunch of lace at her throat.

She said, ‘My brother has talked enough. You’d better be going, Mr. Smith,’ and William rose.

Mr. Tattlecombe was not pleased. If he had been up and dressed he would have held his own with Abby, but his leg was still in a splint and he didn’t so much as know where his trousers were. Dignity forbade a futile protest. He stared at her, but she took no notice. Setting the Benger’s down, she adjusted the pillows, smoothed a wrinkle from the bedspread, and left the room, shepherding William.

On the way down someone stood in a doorway on the half-landing. She stood for a moment, and stepped back without word or sign, shutting the door. It made no sound, and nor did she. William had a glimpse of her and no more. He never did have more than a glimpse of her. On the three occasions when he had been in this house, at some time either coming or going Emily Salt had peered at him — from a turn in the passage, from over the banisters, from a dark doorway. He saw now as much as he had ever seen of her or wanted to see — a tall, awkward shape with a forward stoop, long arms hanging, a white bony face with deep eye-sockets, raiment of funereal gloom. He thought Abel amply justified in a preference for Mrs. Bastable who housekept for him in the rooms over Tattlecombe’s Toy Bazaar. She wasn’t the cook that Abigail was, but she was cheerful and willing, and she had no Emily Salt. Abel was very fond of his sister and very grateful to her for her ministrations, but he could not do with Emily, and he was beginning to feel that he would be glad to get home.