A Little Death (29 page)

‘Why not?’

‘Because you and Georgie seemed so glamorous to me, but so sort of… rare, like orchids or something, that you can’t bring out into the open in case they die. I always felt so ordinary, I couldn’t imagine why on earth you’d want to marry me.’

‘If I’d asked you, would you have accepted?’

‘Yes.’

We were like two statues, she standing and I sitting. I couldn’t look at her and I had the feeling she wasn’t looking at me either. Then she said, ‘When Davy and I were married, I didn’t love him in the way I loved you. But I knew I could love him and I thought: I’ll do my best to make Davy happy—to make it a good marriage—and that’s what I did.’

‘Are you glad you married Davy?’

For minute, I thought she wasn’t going to answer, that she was angry with me, but she said, ‘Yes, we’ve been very happy.’ Then she looked down at her feet and said, ‘I still love you, Edmund.’

‘And I love you.’

When I looked at her the look on her face was so like Roland’s that I wanted to weep. I didn’t, but I think I must have put my head in my hands, because Louisa sat down beside me and put her arm round my shoulder. ‘Darling Edmund,’ she said. ‘I said I’d tell you anything and I have. But you do understand, don’t you? We’ve got to be just the same, as if this conversation had never happened, and never talk about it, and perhaps, after a while, we’ll start to believe that we imagined the whole thing.’ I wonder if she does believe that, because she’s never mentioned any of this again and neither have I. Perhaps she thinks I’ve forgotten it, but I’ve wanted to remind her of it many, many times. We did talk about Freddie and the other things, and the words she said… she can’t pretend it didn’t happen, because it did, it
did.
She said she loved me and I’ll never forget that.

I remember that she stroked my forehead. I must have fallen asleep on the sofa, because when I woke up I was covered in a blanket and she was gone.

Being arrested was the most peculiar sensation. The policemen were so wooden I felt that somebody had to keep up the conversation or we’d all petrify like a forest, but it was very difficult. I remember noticing some apparatus on one of the uniforms, a whistle of some sort, and saying, ‘I expect that comes in useful, doesn’t it?’ We were all bouncing about in that ridiculous car and me doing all the talking. They just sat and stared at their big blue knees. I remember thinking to myself, what
can
I talk about, because after all, one didn’t have very much in common with policemen, and then I remembered the cartoons in
Punch
about cooks and policemen, how they supposed that cooks were keen on policemen and always asking them in for cups of tea. It’s probably all nonsense, but I suddenly thought: Wouldn’t it be jolly for Ada to have a nice policeman to come to her kitchen once in a while—well, the ‘no followers’ rule was meant for the young ones, to stop them running off and getting married every five minutes, but hardly Ada—so I said to the policeman beside me, ‘Did you see Ada? She’s my housekeeper.’ I made a great thing of how well she looked after us. I even told him she was a good cook—may God forgive me—but he didn’t bother to answer. I wasn’t expecting him to say ‘Barkiss is willin’, but the stupid man just sat there like a lump.

I had the impression that nobody quite knew what to do with me at the police station and after a lot of dithering they sat me down in a nasty little room with the lady policeman, at least I suppose that’s what she was—I had no idea such things existed until I met her. I tried to talk to her, but she was no better than the men. It’s a funny sort of job for a woman to have, but perhaps she couldn’t get a husband. Not surprising if she showed as little spark as she did with me; after all, men do like to know that one is conscious—for the purposes of conversation, if nothing else. Except Jimmy. I think I unnerved him when I was awake. Still, I thought the police-lady might have married a policeman. They could have had a police dog to take for walks and drive about with a police horse, and the whole affair would be a glorious parade of blue serge and silver mountings, splendid for the baby’s pram. Then Mr. and Mrs. Policeman could sit together in the evening, side by side with their big feet in mustard baths, and the dog as well, all four feet. And it seemed so funny, the idea of the three of them in a line like that, that I started laughing, and the wretched woman said ‘there, there’ and insisted I drink a cup of her horrid tea. But she wasn’t too bad, I suppose, apart from the fact that no woman prepared to wear that hideous uniform could have one iota of dress sense.

Like the wardress at the prison. We used to play card games; simple ones like gin rummy mostly. She didn’t know anything worth playing and of course there was no money involved. I always won. I cheated. I think she spotted it, but she didn’t say anything—perhaps she thought she was keeping me happy. Which I suppose she was, in a way. Playing cards with her was certainly better than talking to all those bloody lawyers. Trying to trip you up all the time—I used to say to them,
‘You’re supposed to be on my side.’ Questions, questions, round and round in circles, never satisfied… they pretend to be concerned with the truth, but it’s all impertinence. My lawyer was a good one, though. He said to me, ‘Whatever happens, you must deny any relationship with Mr. Booth. If you admit to that you’ll be as good as telling them you killed your husband.’ He meant that the jury were people with sordid minds. Which was quite true, I could tell that just by looking at them. I’ve seen the same expression often enough, usually on Ada’s face. More and more, recently. Ada can’t help having a sordid mind and of course it’s much worse now she’s old. Being a spinster naturally doesn’t help. Ada is exactly the kind of person who would believe that a woman who’d committed adultery was automatically a murderess. In fact, that’s probably exactly what she
does
believe.

Really, I do resent Ada, even when she’s out of sight downstairs she still manages to come
broadsiding
into one’s thoughts. But it was lovely to see Teddy again, although, frankly, one could have wished for happier circumstances. When I saw him in the witness box, I wanted to rush over and kiss him. Of course he was
magnificent
, a perfect gentleman. I knew he would be. No gentleman would mention a lady’s name in public the way they wanted Teddy to—and clearly the judge understood that. Well, it wasn’t as if Teddy had been having an affair with some little shop-girl. I used to look at his hands when he was in the witness box and remember him touching me, and then I wouldn’t have to listen to all the stupid questions they kept asking… Teddy used to bend over me with his lips puckered like a child’s and his eyes tight shut and say ‘kissy?’. He always had very sweet breath, in spite of his cigars. I suppose it was all the champagne he drank.

Dear Teddy. Nice to think of him in heaven, if there is such a place. Teddy’s heaven would be unlimited bubbles, racing cars, and lots of gorgeous tarts with no diseases afterward, and he deserves every moment of it. But it was a wretched business, the whole thing. I’ve forgotten most of the details, but I will say this: I have never believed
for one single moment
that I did anything wrong. And I never believed that I had anything to hide, either, except that society said I did. It has always angered me that I have had to hide my true emotions because of narrow-minded people who don’t know what love is. They made me conceal my feelings for Edmund as if I were a criminal, a sexual pervert. But I’m not. Because
I
know. I know what love is.

It was a delight to know that one was loved in return, but dreadful, too, was the regret that I could have been married to Louisa for so many years if only I had asked. But one can’t let oneself dwell on that sort of thing, or rather, one tries not to. At first, I was in a turmoil, I couldn’t think of anything else but Louisa, even Georgie and the trial. But then there came a certain acceptance and that was rather a relief, in a way. Because you can’t keep on thinking and wishing… Davy Kellway died last year and I suppose anyone would think ‘Why not?’. But he was a good, decent man and Louisa was his wife for years and years. One can’t just go elbowing one’s way in; too much like dancing on the poor fellow’s grave. That’s not to say that I wouldn’t very much like… but it’s too late, far too late. What use would I be to her now?

I did consider condemning myself to save Georgie— that was all to do with Louisa, I think, a sort of feeling of heroism came over me—but I could never work out how to go about it. There was a great muddle in my head about what would happen if I confessed, because then Louisa would believe that I really had killed Jimmy and I couldn’t work out how I could possibly explain it all without the police thinking I was quite mad… These things would occupy my mind for hours and hours, but it was ridiculous. If I’d told the truth I would
have simply dragged Georgie down with me and made the whole thing far worse for everybody. Because then Louisa would have had to know the real truth. In the end, it always came down to the fact that I couldn’t bear her to find out—because then there would never be any hope at all.

Georgie’d been so calm when Jimmy died, burning the note and all the rest of it, but when she was being held before the trial she just seemed to go haywire. I don’t suppose for a moment that being in prison was a pleasant experience—you’d think that anyone in Georgie’s situation would be doing their damnedest to get themselves
out
, wouldn’t you? But she was behaving as if she couldn’t wait to get the rope around her neck. She drove her lawyers mad—never told the same story two days running. She’d say something, then contradict it and they’d say, ‘But you’ve just signed a statement saying this other thing,’ and she’d say, ‘Well, you can tear it up, can’t you?’ I couldn’t get any sense out of her either.

She’s always had little pet words and phrases, saying things backwards, making anagrams and that sort of thing, and she likes to use them in our conversation. It’s never bothered me, but while she was in prison she did it all the time, almost as if she was speaking a foreign language. It was very frustrating, because very often one simply could not grasp what she was saying. I thought: Surely she must
want
me to understand, but she wouldn’t make herself clear. A couple of times when I saw her, Mr. Gannon, her solicitor, was present, and she kept leaning over and whispering into my ear, all of it gibberish. I suppose it was better than saying it aloud, but she treated Gannon as though he were the gamekeeper or something—when she wasn’t ignoring him altogether. It did cross my mind several times that she might be going dotty. One day I asked her: ‘All
these words you keep saying to me, what do they mean?’ and she said, ‘Whatever I want them to.’ I think that Gannon and Spencer thought she was dotty as well, because they kept telling her that she mustn’t go into the witness box. They asked me to persuade her, but she said, ‘Nonsense, I’ll just
tell
them.’

‘That’s all very well,’ I said to her. ‘But
what
are you going to tell them?’

‘Let’s see… well, Your Honour, I was lying in bed with my brother Edmund, doing the most unspeakable things, which Your Honour would never countenance in a month of Sundays…’

‘For God’s sake, keep your voice down. You’ve got to get your story straight.’

‘You needn’t worry, Edmund, I’ll keep you out of it.’

‘Georgie, they could hang you. Is that what you want?’

‘No, of course it isn’t. Now do shut up, you’re being very tiresome.’

She kept insisting she would speak in court and in the end they had to let her. Which was just as well, as it turned out, because the judge was very taken with her. But I could quite understand why they thought it would be a disaster if she gave evidence. She’d christened the two of them Gammon and Spinach and she used to sing
With a roly, poly, gammon and spinach
… in front of them, quite loudly. I must say she really did sound mad when she sang, because she’s dreadfully cracked and she can never hit the right note.

A lot of Spencer’s work in court was straightforward bullying and I was amazed that the judge let him get away with some of it, to be honest. Chambermaids, barmen, that sort of person, they don’t have much education and old Spencer had them all running round in circles in no time. With some of the younger men they
would put on a certain air—my father would have called it ‘Jack’s as good as his master’—but it soon came off when the questions started flying. There was one poor little thing, a waitress, I think, from one of the big sea-front hotels, and she said, ‘Oh, sir, won’t you stop asking questions? I don’t know whether I’m coming or going!’ That caused a great laugh and I think it was even reported by some of the newspapers. But old Spencer had pretty much told me—well, he
did
tell me—that if the adultery could be proved, Georgie would hang. Because that was the thinking, you see. Natural enough, I suppose. But it was queer, because the judge didn’t seem to want to believe it either—I mean, the other side put forward all these people from hotels and restaurants saying they’d seen Georgie and Booth together, and common sense would tell you that they couldn’t all be short-sighted or mistaken. Spencer made it appear as if they were, of course, and I don’t know anything about the law, but it looked to me as if the judge was doing his best to help.

When I came into the court to say my piece I was as nervous as the devil, but I got along easily enough. Felt a bit of a fool when the judge offered me a chair—I told him I was perfectly fine to stand, but it made him fuss worse than ever, somehow. I heard afterwards that he wasn’t in the war—flat feet or something—and he’d developed a neurosis about it: that he wasn’t as good as the chaps who were, that sort of thing. They called Louisa as a witness too, but I didn’t hear her. I hadn’t seen her since that night, you see, and I didn’t want the first time to be when she was stuck up there answering questions in front of all those people. Because there were queues every day for the seats, people fighting to get into the court, men from the press everywhere… I even heard a rumour that somebody was taking in a
camera, hidden in his hat or coat, and he was going to make a fortune selling the pictures to the newspapers. Never saw any pictures, though, but that was a typical thing to hear because everyone was in such a ferment about it.