John Fowles - The Collector

Then one day she actually asked for something. I got in the habit of leaving at once after supper before she could shout at me, but this time she said, stop a minute.

“I want a bath.”

It’s not convenient tonight, I said. I wasn’t ready for that.

“Tomorrow?”

Don’t see why not. With parole.

“I’ll give my parole.” She said it in a nasty hard voice. I knew what her parole was worth.

“And I want to walk in the cellar.” She pushed forward her hands, and I tied them up. It was the first time I touched her for days. Well, as usual I went and sat on the steps to the outer door and she walked up and down in the funny way she had. It was very windy, you could hear it down there, just the sound of her feet and the wind above. She didn’t speak for quite a time, I don’t know why but I knew she wanted to.

“Are you enjoying life?” she suddenly came out with.

Not much, I answered. Cautious.

She walked to and fro four or five times more. Then she started to hum music.

That’s a nice tune, I said.

“Do you like it?”

Yes, I said.

“Then I don’t any more.”

Two or three more times she went up and down.

“Talk to me.”

What about?

“Butterflies.”

What about butterflies?

“Why you collect them. Where you find them. Go on. Just talk.”

Well, it seemed odd, but I talked, every time I stopped she said, go on, talk. I must have talked half an hour there, until she stopped and said, that’s enough. She went back inside and I took off the cord and she went straight and sat on her bed with her back to me. I asked her if she wanted any tea, she didn’t answer, all of a sudden I realized she was crying. It really did things to me when she cried, I couldn’t bear to see her so unhappy. I went up close and said, tell me what you want, I’ll buy you anything. But she turned round on me, she was crying all right, but her eyes were blazing, she stood up and walked towards me saying get out, get out, get out. It was terrible. She looked really mad.

The next day she was very quiet. Not a word. I got the planks up and everything ready and sure enough she showed she was all ready when she had had her walk (all in silence that time). So I gagged and corded her and took her upstairs and she had her bath and then she came out and put her hands out at once to be tied again and for the gag.

I always went out of the kitchen first with my hand on her just in case, but there was a step there, I fell over it once myself, perhaps that was it, when she fell it seemed natural, and natural that the brushes and bottles and things she carried in a towel (her hands were done in front, so she always carried things up against her front) should all fall out with a noise on the path. She got up all innocent, bending and rubbing her knees and like a proper fool I knelt down to pick the stuff up. Of course I kept a hand on her dressing-gown, but I took my eyes off her which was fatal.

The next thing I knew was I got a terrible blow on the side of the head. Luckily it missed my head, my shoulder or rather my coat-collar took the force. Anyway I fell sideways, half to try and escape the next attack. I was off balance and couldn’t reach at her arms, though I still held on to her dressing-gown. I could see her with something in her hands, I suddenly knew it was the old odd-jobs axe; I used it in the garden only that morning where a branch came away off one of the old apple trees with the wind the night before. I knew like in a flash I had slipped at last. Left it out on the sill of the kitchen window and she must have spotted it. Just one mistake, and you lose everything.

For a moment she had me at her mercy, it was a miracle she didn’t do me in. She struck down again and I only half got my arm up and I felt a terrible gashing blow in the temple, it made my head ring and the blood seemed to gush out at once. I don’t know how I did it, instinct I suppose, but I kicked out sideways and twisted and she fell sideways, nearly on me, I heard the axe hit the stone.

I got my hand on it and tore it away and threw it on the grass and then I got her hands before she could tear the gag off, that was her game. Well we had another fight, only a few seconds, she must have decided it was no good, she’d had her chance and missed it, she suddenly stopped fighting and I got her in her door and down. I was rough, I was feeling very bad, the blood pouring down my face. I pushed her in, and she gave me a very queer look before I slammed the door and got the bolts home. I didn’t care about her cords and the gag. Teach her a lesson, I thought.

Well upstairs I went and washed it, I thought I was going to faint when I saw my face, there was blood everywhere. However I was very lucky, the axe wasn’t all that sharp and it glanced off my head, it looked a horrible jagged wound but it wasn’t deep. I sat a long time with a cloth pressed on it. I never thought I could stand blood like I did, I really surprised myself that evening.

Of course I was bitter about it. If I hadn’t felt a bit faint I don’t know what I wouldn’t have done. It was just about the straw that broke the camel’s back, as the saying is, and certain ideas did come into my mind. I don’t know what I mightn’t have done if she’d kept on as before. Still, that’s neither here nor there now.

The next morning I went down, I still had a headache, I was ready to get really nasty if she was, but you could have knocked me down with the feather, the first thing she did was to stand up and ask me how my head was. I knew by the way she asked that she was trying to be different. Kind.

I’m lucky not to be dead, I said.

She looked all pale, serious too. She held out her hands, she had got the gag off, but she must have slept with the cords (she was still in her dressing-gown). I undid them.

“Let me look at it.”

I backed away, she had me very jumpy.

“I’ve nothing in my hands. Did you wash it?”

Yes.

“Disinfectant?”

It’s all right.

Well she went and got a small bottle of Dettol she had, she diluted some with cotton wool and came back.

What’s the game now, I said.

“I want to dab this on. Sit down. Sit down.” The way she said it you knew she meant well. Funny, sometimes you knew she couldn’t be lying.

She took the plaster and lint off, very gentle, I felt her wince when she saw it, it wasn’t very pretty, but she washed it very softly and put the lint on again.

Thanks very much, I said.

“I’m sorry I did . . . what I did. And I should like to thank you for not retaliating. You had every right to.”

It’s not easy when you’ve been like you’ve been.

“I don’t want to talk about anything. Just to say I’m sorry.”

I accept your apologies.

“Thank you.”

It was all formal, she turned away to have her breakfast, and I waited outside. When I knocked on the door to see if I could clear away, she was dressed and the bed properly made, I asked if she wanted anything but she didn’t. She said I was to get TCP ointment for myself, and she handed me the tray with just the ghost of a smile. It doesn’t seem much, but it marked a big change. It almost seemed to make the head worth it. I was really happy that morning. Like the sun was coming out again.

After that for two or three days we were neither one thing nor the other. She didn’t say much, but she wasn’t bitter or cutting at all. Then one day after breakfast she asked me to sit down as I used to in the beginning so she could draw me. It was just to give herself an excuse to talk.

“I want you to help me,” she said.

Carry on, I answered.

“I have a friend, a girl, who’s got a young man in love with her.”

Go on, I said. She stopped. To watch me walk into it, I suppose.