Muriel Spark - The Complete Short Stories

‘Is anything the matter, Joe?’ I asked him after a few days of watching his performance.

He said ‘No’ and continued staring. Joe was after all, not my concern, not my employee. The house was well protected by burglar alarms. I had my work to do and decided to ignore Joe; I continued to shake off the feeling of chilling weirdness that I felt every afternoon.

The fourth week of my stay I heard voices, the voices of young women. I opened the door of the garden room and called out ‘Joe, who’s there?’ But Joe had disappeared. I decided this listening to ‘voices’ and puzzling about Joe was a waste of time. I really had a great compulsion and economic need to finish my book. I was getting on well with it and refused to be waylaid from the job I had come to accomplish.

But no sooner had I settled down at my desk than I heard the voices again, outside the house, quite near. I wasn’t expecting any visitors, so went to look out of the window. The house was attached to a stretch of woodland from where the voices came. Then two women came in sight. I was not at first surprised that they were dressed in Edwardian-type long skirts and shawls, with their long hair knotted up severely. They might well have bought their outfits at London’s Miss Selfridge, in Beauchamp Place or in Manhattan’s Village. Nothing in the way of garments is surprising in these days of merry freedom.

I thought I recognized them, but couldn’t tell where I had seen them before. Certainly I had a sense of having seen them both together, young and gaunt, one tall, one less so.

As they approached the house I saw Joe lurking on the edge of the woods behind them. He seemed interested.

The front-door bell was ringing, now. I was not at all sure I should answer it. There was no reason to expect visitors and I had been assured by the Lowthers of my complete solitude. But I opened the garden room window, smitten with nerves, and called out,

‘Who is it you want? I’m afraid the Lowthers are away. I’m only a temporary tenant.’

‘We want you,’ said the woman who seemed to be the younger of the two.

I was still almost sure I had seen them before. They gave me the creeps. The older woman pressed the bell again. ‘Let us in.

‘Who are you?’ I said.

‘Harper and Wilton,’ said the younger one. ‘Don’t panic. We are merely outraged.’

Harper and Wilton — where had I heard their names before?

‘Do I know you?’ I said.

‘Do you know us?’ said one of the women, the taller. ‘You made us. My name is Marion Harper known as Harper and my friend is Marion Wilton known as Wilton. We fight for the Vote for Women.

Oh God, I remembered then that years ago, many, many years ago, some time in the 1950s, I wrote a story about two Edwardian suffragettes. What could I recall of that story? It was never published. Was it finished? I didn’t find the two characters, Harper and Wilton, very sympathetic but I had certainly had some fun with them.

‘What do you want from me?’ I inquired from the window. I had no intention of letting them into the house.

‘You cast the story away,’ said little Wilton. ‘We’ve been looking for you for some time. Now you’ve got to give us substance otherwise we’ll haunt you.

For my part Harper and Wilton were lying at the back of a drawer in which I used to put unfinished stories and poems when, long ago, I started writing fiction and verse.

I packed up my belongings, packed them in the car, and drove off, watched at a distance by Harper, Wilton and Joe. At home I searched for the missing manuscript and eventually found it, curled at the edges. I read it through:

One day there appeared at the window a youth of about twenty. Unfortunately, he had a squint.

There was another boarding-house opposite. Here, on the second floor, lived Miss Wilton and Miss Harper, members of the suffragette movement. Their parents, who lived in the country, gave them money to keep away.

Three weeks later, when Miss Wilton could stand it no longer, she went along the landing to Miss Harper’s room. ‘Harper,’ she said, ‘I can stand it no longer.’

‘Why Wilton,’ said Harper, ‘don’t be discouraged. We had three hundred and four new recruits last month. Remember the words of Pankhurst —’

‘Harper,’ said Wilton severely, ‘I refer to a personal matter.’

‘Really?’ said Harper, losing interest and starting to roll a pair of stays very tight and neat. ‘Well, I haven’t time to discuss anything personal. I’m busy with my Reports.’

‘I’ll be brief,’ said Wilton. ‘Every afternoon there’s a young man at the window across the road —’

‘I thought as much,’ said Harper.

‘Don’t think I’ve been spying,’ her friend protested. ‘But I can’t avoid seeing what I see. He has been making signs.

‘I have observed it,’ Harper said. ‘I advise you to live elsewhere if you can’t resist temptation. I cannot do more for you Wilton. There are larger issues, important things.’

‘Indeed. You consider it important to encourage the advances of a strange man. I hardly think the Committee will take that view,’ stated Wilton.

‘Ah!’ said Harper. ‘Ah!’

‘Ah!’ said Wilton. ‘Yes, I intend to report this to the Bayswater Committee.’

‘You’re too late,’ Harper said, ‘with your wily scheme. I have already reported the matter. You may read a copy of my statement.’

Wilton moved over to the gas light with the paper, and read:

‘With regret, I have to report that Miss M. Wilton of our Ranks, has lately behaved in a manner prejudicial to our Cause. She has openly encouraged a male person, presumably a student, to make overtures from a window opposite her residence. I fear we will soon have to call upon Miss Wilton to resign from the Movement.’

Wilton handed back the report. ‘It’s a clever plan of yours,’ she said scornfully, to cover your traces by implicating me in your unworthy undertakings. But I will prove my innocence. You will be exposed.’

‘Remember,’ she added, ‘the Secretary already has doubts regarding your feminist zeal. The fact that you wear those stays to give you a figure, is alone an indication that —’

‘Kindly depart,’ Harper said.

‘Moreover, I disagree that he is a student,’ said Wilton.

Next day, the youth opposite appeared to believe he was getting somewhere with one of the girls. At her unmistakable bidding he crossed the road, and looked up expectantly at Wilton’s window. She observed that the idiot seemed to be watching Harper’s window. He needn’t worry; Harper was out. Wilton dropped an envelope. It contained a note, unsigned, executed on Harper’s typewriting-machine. It also contained a key.

It was the front-door key, and the note explained how to get to her room, at ten that night. Only, of course, it was Harper’s room she directed him to, this Wilton.

She heard Harper come in. Wilton composed herself to wait for justice at ten o’clock. She would fetch the landlady. A man in Harper’s room. A noisy scene. The Committee would be informed.

As the hour advanced, the youth was forced to consider an alternative method of keeping the assignment, because, due to excitement, he had lost the key. Courageous, though unimaginative, he started climbing the drainpipe which ran between Wilton’s window and Harper’s. Wilton watched this lamp-lit performance, appalled. Harper, too, observed it; and before he had got two feet, the water from Harper’s wash-jug descended. Wilton worked quickly. Her jug was empty, so she threw out the jug. Harper swooped downstairs to the door. Wilton followed.

The young man was very wet, very stunned.

‘Don’t move,’ said Harper. ‘I shall hand you over.’