Muriel Spark - The Complete Short Stories

But in a moment Harold was running after me. ‘You’ll never get him, sir,’ he said.

I said, ‘No, that’s just what I mean.

He said, ‘You see, sir, there was two midnights, like, that night. That’s why you’ll never get him. You can’t get a man between two midnights.’

‘Two midnights?’ I said.

‘Right you are, sir,’ Harold said. ‘It was end of summer time, wasn’t it? And they put the clocks back. Old Fell done it between the two midnights, and you’ll never get him.’

‘Harold,’ I said. ‘You’re a genius.’

‘You’ll never get him,’ he said.

I went to see the verger who recalled, yes, come to think of it, the church clock wasn’t put back till a couple of days after the official date. The town clerk, on the other hand, was proud to declare that he had arranged for the town hall’s clock to be put back on the afternoon of the previous day, 1 October. ‘You don’t catch us napping!’ said the Clerk.

‘Won’t we?’ I said.

It didn’t take us long to put our point of view over to Dr Fell. He confessed to the murder. It had taken place in a field. He had hit old Matthews over the head with a wooden leg. He had the wooden leg in his car, for earlier that week he’d been getting it mended for an old pensioner in the village. In some ways Dr Fell was quite a kindly man. Well, having killed old Matthews he dumped his body in the outhouse at eleven o’clock by Winter Time, twelve by British Summer Time and the church clock. These were the days of capital punishment, but his sentence was commuted to life imprisonment. The law doesn’t like blackmail.

Ladies and Gentlemen

Author’s note: The following is based on a true incident, perhaps made more macabre by the fact that the man in question was afraid of being seen with a girl by his mother, not his wife. In the true version the man was not caught, only observed as he crept round the public lavatory in a way that struck the author as being quite hilarious.

Past the Cathedral, past the ‘Fighting Cocks’ which will not be open till later, past the ice-cream stand, past the mill-race, past the lake which was once a monastic fishpond, they come. The year is 1950. June Flinders is her name, Bill Dobson his. The ancient site of Verulamium is the place. Arm in arm they advance towards us.

Miss Finders was still a student at a university in the north of England. Mr Dobson was a teacher of domestic science at a technical college in the Midlands. They had met at a holiday course. There was a Mrs Dobson but she was far from their thoughts.

They dallied awhile by the mill-race, leaning over the bridge. A cow came down and stepped daintily into the water farther up where the river was calm. Silent and patient as a tree standing in its own shadow, she stood and accepted the cool water about her feet. Where the stream broke up noisily at the mill-race a few barefoot boys were playing. Neither June nor Bill were fond of children, but they felt pleasantly inclined towards these boys. Because they were two together, illicitly, and in secret, a sentiment of indulgence entered their hearts and caused them to buy five cones at the kiosk, and distribute them among the children.

The boys took the ice-creams and deserted the mill-stream right away as if they felt this unforeseen treat might be snatched away.

‘Don’t go, boys,’ said Bill. But that finished it. They recognized the teacher in him, and were gone.

‘It must be funny,’ said June, ‘suddenly inheriting a fortune.’

He was glad she had opened the subject. There was something he wanted to tell her.

‘I couldn’t believe it,’ he said, ‘at first.’

‘I’m sure,’ said June.

‘I showed Maisie the letter. Maisie couldn’t believe it,’ he said; ‘at first.

A look of sad reflection overcame June’s face. Maisie was Bill’s wife and June felt sad and reflective whenever she was mentioned. Moreover, this expression was one to which June was adapted by nature. She wore her light hair parted in the middle and drawn back in a bun, and she had rather a long white nose, think of this, and you will understand how the dolorous look fitted in with the whole.

She pursued the subject, however.

‘It will make it easier when we break the news,’ said June.

‘Yes,’ he replied eagerly, ‘that’s the important thing about the money. Maisie won’t be dependent upon me, now or later.

‘As a matter of fact, June,’ he said, ‘I have left her the lot in my will. I’m sure you will agree, that’s the best thing in the circumstances. But, of course, we shall have enough to live on, June. Only, I thought it only right, June, to leave her the lot in my will. It will make it easier when we break the news.’

‘The lot?’ said June.

‘Yes,’ said Bill. ‘It will make it easier for us, you see.

‘It’s a great deal of money,’ said June.

‘The tax would come off it, the death duties,’ he said pacifically. ‘But we ye got our life ahead of us, and who knows who will die first?

‘Don’t let’s talk about it,’ he added.

‘Let’s live and make the most of it,’ he added further.

Bill was forty-two. To June who was eighteen, he did not seem to have his life ahead of him. But then, she was in love with Bill; surely that was all that mattered. His ways were almost exactly like the ways of the Professor of Botany, with this exception, that Bill had run away with her and the Professor of Botany had not and never would.

It worried June that Bill had not made a clean break with his wife. Indeed, Maisie knew nothing about her husband’s romance, and fancied he was gone to give a series of lectures.

‘I wish you had made a clean break with Maisie,’ said June, ‘I always hate deception in cases like this.’

‘Why,’ said Bill, ‘have you done it before?’

‘Oh no,’ June said swiftly, ‘I just meant that I always hate deception.’

June had not done it before. This worried her. They had left their luggage in the hotel bedroom. Bill had signed ‘Win and Mrs Dobson’ in the book. Suppose he ceased to want to live with her always? Suppose he only wanted her for one thing. If he only wanted her for that, it would explain why he had not told Maisie. It would be too late afterwards. What a muddle.

‘I always hate deception,’ June repeated.

‘I thought we should see how we get on together before doing anything final,’ Bill was careless enough to say.

‘You said it was all over between you in any case, said June.

‘It is,’ said Bill. ‘It is.’

‘Bill,’ she said, ‘will you do something for me?’

‘Of course,’ he said.

‘Just for tonight,’ she said, ‘I’d rather we didn’t — I’d prefer not to — I mean let’s not —’

June sought round in her mind for the correct phrase. She was anxious to convey her meaning without seeming either coarse or prim. With relief she lit on the words she wanted.

‘I would rather we were not intimate tonight,’ she said.

Bill looked put out. There were some very surprising elements in June.

‘Don’t you want to stop at the hotel?’ he said.

‘Oh yes,’ said June impatiently, ‘but I’d rather we waited. Don’t you see. It’s a very important and big thing for me.

‘Tomorrow night, though,’ she added, with a searching look at Bill.

‘That’s all right,’ said Bill who was still a bit bewildered. ‘If you don’t want to come across with it — I mean,’ he said, ‘if you would rather wait my dear, then naturally I will respect your wishes.

‘I hope,’ he said, warming to the idea, ‘I hope that I am man enough for that. And I love you very dearly, June.’

June felt relieved. She would have liked to go on about the final break with Maisie, but she thought it wiser to wait.