by Susan Hill
It was the eyes that I had recognised, the eyes I had first seen in the drawing room that afternoon at Manderley, but now they were insane, wild eyes, the whites yellowing and bloodshot, the pupils staring: they were unnerving, I could not help looking into them – he made me do so, standing up close to me, never looking away.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘Well, well, well – Mrs de Winter,’ and there was a sneer in his voice, but something else, too, something almost triumphant. ‘How very strange to bump into you here.’
‘Is it?’ I heard my own voice, cracking with nervousness. ‘Yes, I suppose it must be.’
I made to move past him, further out into the neutral open space of the foyer but he did not let me, his big, heavy body, in the shabby long raincoat, and the suitcase, continued to block the path. I felt pushed backwards, cornered and afraid.
‘Odd – as you went by out there, I looked at you, didn’t I? You recognised me; I thought, good God almighty, that little lady – never expected such a stroke of luck.’
‘Luck?’
‘Oh yes.’ He was leering, his mouth half open so that I could see how had his teeth had become. His face had fallen in, the cheeks and jowls folded and crumpled, loose flesh with a blue tinge where the beard would grow. Once, he had been good looking, in an obvious way – never attractive to me, but now, he was not, he was repellent, much older, seedy. And mad, I thought, looking unwillingly at the eyes again. He had not been speaking to anyone in the telephone kiosk, I thought suddenly, he had been raving into a blank receiver, living out some paranoid fantasy.
‘Would you excuse me,’ I said now, in desperation, for he still had not moved. ‘I must have a word with them at reception.’
He paused, then stepped slightly aside, but as I moved past him, followed me at once, so that when I reached the desk, he was at my elbow.
‘Did you manage to sort everything out, madam?’
‘Yes, yes thank you, it’s all fine.’
‘Then I’m sure you’re ready for your tea. The porter will show you to the lounge.’
‘Tea!’ Favell said. ‘I say, that’s a damn good idea – I could eat a plate of decent toast and a few sandwiches – yes, I’ll escort you in to tea, we’ve got a lot to talk about.’
‘Actually,’ I said, reaching for my bag, ‘I don’t think I have time after all, I think I’ll just ask for a taxi and get to the station – Maxim will be waiting.’
‘No.’ He picked up the dreadful suitcase. ‘I insist. Of course you’re having tea, don’t you want to hear what your long lost friend has been up to?’
‘Not particularly, if you want the truth.’
‘Ah.’ He stopped in the doorway to the lounge. ‘The truth. Well, we all remember a thing or two about that, don’t we?’
I felt my face flush.
‘I think you will have tea,’ he said, ‘won’t you?’ and he went ahead, crossing to some chairs in the far corner of the room, where subdued couples, pairs of the elderly, ladies resting from the heat, sat before silver pots and jugs, and white plates of scones. I felt a dreadful shame at being with him. They looked up and stared at us, and looked hastily away. I wanted to turn and run, now, very fast out of the hotel and into the street. But he had a grip on my elbow, and the waiter had appeared, the chair was being pulled out for me, there was nothing at all I could do.
‘Tea,’ I said. ‘China tea –’
‘With sandwiches and cake, madam?’
‘I – I’m not –’
‘Oh, yes, the lot,’ Favell said, laughing an unpleasant, loud, embarrassing laugh, so that I felt heads turn again. ‘The works – muffins, scones – only I’ll have a whisky and soda, not tea, and you can bring that first.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid that the bar is not open at this time.’
‘Not open? Bloody hell, what kind of service do you call that, on a hot day?’
‘I’m very sorry, sir.’
‘Yes, well – can’t you – you know?’ He winked at the man, and made a gesture, rubbing his palm, so that I wanted to dissolve with shame and embarrassment, and once, would have done. But I was older now, I knew better how to handle things, and I had remembered my news, that I was happy, that things would be all right and Jack Favell above all, could not touch me.
‘Thank you,’ I said to the waiter, very calmly. ‘Just tea, that will be fine, and only a little to eat.’
‘Here, give a man a chance, I haven’t eaten all day.’
‘Some sandwiches then, just for one.’ I tried to smile charmingly at the waiter to win him round, but I could not, his face was frozen, barely masking his distaste and disapproval. I did not blame him. Favell looked like a tramp, his trousers were old and ill fitting, his shoes worn at the toecaps, and with the fronts of the soles flapping open. His collar was greasy, his hair uncut, unwashed. I thought with horror that he might indeed be living on the streets, or at least in some dingy, temporary hostel, out of the cardboard suitcase.
‘Oh yes,’ he said, his eyes hot and blue and wild, staring, staring into my face. ‘Take a good look. While you and Maxim have been living cosily in your nice little hideouts abroad, some of us have fallen on hard times. He’s got a lot to make up for, you can tell him that from me.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Oh yes you do, don’t look at me in that baby-blue-eyes way.’
‘How dare you be so offensive –? What on earth are we supposed to have done to you?’
‘You? Well I admit you didn’t actually do anything – you weren’t even there, didn’t even know him then, did you? You were an innocent as well, I agree you can see it like that. Clever, of course, and scheming – not such a little Miss Prim and Prissy and innocent as you’ve always liked to make out. But you found out the truth; he told you, didn’t he? So that makes you a guilty party, too, you’re an accomplice.’ His voice was raised.
‘Mr Favell –’
‘I’ve spent much of the last ten years – all of my time since the end of the bloody war, trying to get things moving. No luck. No joy. Nothing. Until today. And what luck, makes up for everything, just about.’
‘Will you please lower your voice – people are looking.’
‘Oh, we can’t have that. Dear me, no.’ He leaned forward, legs apart, hands on his knees. They were bloated hands, creased at the joints, the fingernails filthy.
‘Do you have any cigarettes?’
‘I’m afraid not, I don’t smoke.’
‘No, of course not, you never did anything, I remember. Never mind.’ He turned in his chair and began to look around the room. ‘I daresay I can cadge one off some old boy in here – I don’t have any money of course.’
‘Please don’t, please – look,’ I opened my bag, ‘go and buy some – here – please don’t go to anyone.’
He grinned, showing the stained, misshapen teeth again, inside the loose, soft pink mouth, and reached for the pound note.
‘Thanks,’ he said casually, and then, as he stood up and began to go, paused and looked down at me.
‘Don’t go away,’ he said. ‘We’ve got things to talk about.’
I watched him amble across the lounge, in search of his cigarettes. He had left the suitcase beside his chair; it might have been taken off a rubbish tip, the hinges were rusted and snapped, the corners split, it contained nothing, I thought, old newspapers and rags, perhaps a few of his bits and pieces. He was half mad, he was destitute, and he was going to threaten me in some way.
I would give him money, I decided, I had a cheque book with me and a little cash. It would be easy, I would ask him how much he wanted to go away. He did not know where we lived, and when I left here later, I would make sure he did not follow me. He had begun to mutter things about the truth, but I remembered how he had been after the inquest into Rebecca’s death and the verdict of suicide; all he had wanted then had been money.
The waiter came with the tray of tea. He set out two small tables and put t
he tray down carefully, and as he did so, I remembered Frith and Robert bringing the tea to us every afternoon at Manderley, the elaborate, formal little ritual, the silver pots, the plates, piled with triangular sandwiches, hot floury scones, toast thick with melting butter, crumpets, muffins, several sorts of cake. The tray was more modest now, but the smell of the hot water steaming out of the spout, and of the warm toast, brought the old scene back to me. The waiter had a superior expression, not unlike that Frith had always worn. I saw him glance at the empty chair opposite to me and the suitcase, his mouth curled in distaste, and I tried to catch his eye again to show that I hated it, too, and was helpless, that Favell was not a friend, I had rather anything than have to be here with him, but he did not look at me.
‘Thank you,’ I said. He bowed very slightly, and turned away.
I would not tell Maxim, I thought, pouring out my tea. It looked good, strong and hot. I needed it, drank it at once, scalding my mouth, not minding. I would simply give Favell what he asked for and get rid of him. Maxim should never know. Favell was finished, a pathetic, shambling, half mad man, I began to feel sorry for him.
When he came back, walking with a touch of his old cockiness across the long room, he had a cigarette in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets. He was unattractive, weak faced, but I was not afraid of him now, he could not touch us.
He sprawled in the chair again, smoking, letting me pour his tea. He said nothing, for quite some moments, until he had eaten greedy, messy mouthfuls of the food, drinking at the same time. Once or twice, he looked at me over his cup, the blue bloodshot eyes still staring, still mad. I waited, eating nothing at all, drinking my own tea, I did not look at him. How much would he ask for, I wondered, would I have enough in the bank to cover it, or have to make some hasty, furtive arrangements? I hoped not, I wanted this to be done with, I did not want to have anything more to do with Jack Favell.
Now, he put down his cup clumsily so that it did not sit properly in the saucer and I had to lean forward to right it. I felt his eyes on me, following my slightest movement. I tried not to look back at him. He had lit another cigarette and was lounging back.
‘Decent tea,’ he said insolently, ‘no more than old Max owes me of course. No more.’
It was coming then, I was quite prepared. I waited.
He said, ‘I expect you’d like to know what happened.’
‘Happened?’
‘That night – oh, don’t tell me you haven’t both speculated, been wondering this or that, all these years. No one knows, I can tell you. That old woman Frank Crawley came noseying around, for a bit, kept looking me up and quizzing me, and then Julyan – I sent them both packing … So did Danny.’
‘Mrs Danvers?’ I felt a stab of pain, under my heart, recognised it, it was a familiar pain from that time.
‘Where is she? I thought –’
‘What? What did you think?’
I did not reply. I could not. Favell crossed his legs. ‘Oh, Danny’s still around somewhere. I don’t know – haven’t seen her for years.’ His eyes flickered. ‘Manderley,’ he said. ‘What a show. Frightful. I suppose you saw it?’
I swallowed, my tongue swollen in a dry throat.
‘I didn’t, of course. I was in London, well, you know that. You remember all right, seeing that bloody doctor.’
Then I knew that what I had always suspected was true after all, the complete simple facts. I heard Favell’s voice that night, as he spoke to Maxim, smiling the old, unpleasant smile. ‘You think you’ve won, don’t you? The law can get you yet, and so can I, in a different way …’
That way had been immediate and easy. He had telephoned to Manderley and Mrs Danvers. She had taken a long distance call, Frith had remembered. Favell had told her, very quickly, what had happened, and they had arranged it together. I wondered if it had been his idea or hers. But she had done it. She had laid the fire and poured the paraffin trail, secretly, in some far part of the house. She had lit the match, where no one could see. I saw her gloating, satisfied face, white in some dark passageway. And then she had left, a taxi had come, her things had been packed into it and she had gone. From somewhere, she had rung Favell – told him. ‘… and so can I, in a different way.’
I looked at him, smirking, grubby, loathsome. At least he had not been there. He had never had the final pleasure of watching Manderley burn, his revenge upon Maxim had not been completely satisfying. I thought something else, as I drank the last of my lukewarm tea. I had not believed Favell capable of organising the white wreath at Beatrice’s graveside. Now, looking at him, I was not so sure. There was something reptilian and cunning about him which was new. I imagined him laughing wildly. There was only the question of money. He had none, he was destitute, that much was obvious. The wreath had been very expensive.
‘I shall have to go,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to hear anything.’
‘What a pity. I hoped we had such a lot to talk about – ten years’ worth of gossip. Not that I’ve much to tell. I had a garage, I lost that of course, things went rotten as soon as the war came. But I do a bit of dealing here and there when I can get hold of something. Not easy. You wouldn’t know, would you? Never wanted for a thing. Lucky old you.’ He leaned forward suddenly. ‘He should have hung,’ he whispered violently, spittle flecking his lips. ‘You know it as well as I do.’
I felt myself shaking inside, but outwardly I was so calm, quite calm. I said, ‘I imagine it is money you want, that is what you are working up to. You tried blackmail before, didn’t you? Well, I will give you money, because I want Maxim left undisturbed. He is happy, very happy, we both are. Nothing must disturb that.’
‘Oh, of course not – of course.’ He mocked me with his face, his eyes.
‘Tell me how much you are expecting me to give you. I want to go home, I want this over with.’
‘Ten pounds?’
I stared at him, repeated his words stupidly. ‘Ten pounds? Is that all?’
‘It’s a lot to me, my dear. But all right, if it will make you any happier, let’s say fifty.’
I did not understand. I had expected him to ask for hundreds, thousands perhaps, something to set himself up, buy a business. I reached for my bag, and began to count out some notes. ‘I don’t have as much as that. I can give you a cheque for the rest.’
‘Make it to cash then.’
I did. It was hard to make my handwriting clear and normal. He took the cheque and the money and folded them carefully together. His cigarette had burned down to a stub that hung from the corner of his mouth.
‘You’d better pay for the tea,’ he said.
I hated him, I thought, I hated the way he spoke and how he was able to make me feel, embarrassed, ashamed, guilty somehow. I got up, not answering.
‘They were good days,’ he said, ‘at Manderley. Good times, before it all went wrong. Those days won’t come again. We had a lot going for us, Rebecca and I, good fun, tremendous larks. Poor old girl.’
‘Goodbye.’
He got to his feet and his hand shot out, I felt him grip my arm. It made me shudder, the thought of his dirty nails digging into my coat. ‘You think that’s it, don’t you?’ he said. He spoke lightly, pleasantly almost, and as if he were greatly amused.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Yes. Fifty pounds! My God!’
‘Please let me go and please keep your voice down.’
‘Tell Maxim.’
‘No.’
‘Tell him – money’s the least of it.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I won’t say I can’t do with it because I can and I won’t say I shan’t need any more because I will. But that can wait, that isn’t the point at all.’ He dropped my arm. ‘I want more than money out of him.’
‘You’re talking nonsense,’ I said, ‘you’re mad.’
‘Oh no.’ He laughed again, and his eyes were horrible, I wished I had not had to look into them, I knew I would not be able to forget t
hem now.
‘Oh no. You’d better get off to your train.’
But for a few seconds, somehow, I could not, I did not know how to do such a simple thing as walk away, out of that room, I felt confused, paralysed, as though my body would not work, my mind could not co-ordinate things.
‘Thanks for the nice tea.’ I had been expecting him to follow me but instead, he dropped down again heavily into the armchair. ‘I think I’ll stop on here until they deign to open up and then I’ll have some whisky. You might pay that at the same time, don’t you suppose?’
I went, angrily, in an awful, tearful muddle. I fled from the room, and, as soon as I could get the girl to take my money which she did so pleasantly with such unhurried politeness I thought I would scream, fled from the hotel and into the street, and the heat from the pavement came up and hit me in the face, and it was all I could do to hold on to myself and not to faint, as I waited to see an empty taxi.
Sixteen
Happiness or unhappiness, whether we love or are alone, safe or in danger, and the final outcome – that day, I still believed these came from outside, the result of chance, and the actions of others. I had not yet learned that we make our own destiny, it springs from within us. It is not the outward events but what we allow ourselves to make of them that count.
It was the blindest chance that I had met Jack Favell. He had spoiled the joy of the day, because I let him: so that now I sat in my seat on the train staring out of the window, thinking, thinking of him, and what our meeting might come to mean. I took no interest or pleasure in what I saw, I could not have said how the light lay over the fields, or whether the trees were yet losing their most intense, fresh green, for the dustier, darker tones of late summer. I had had too much time at the station. I had drunk a cup of stale tea that furred my mouth and left a bitter taste, and then sat dully on a bench, looking at the pigeons pecking around my feet, and cared nothing for them. I bought a magazine and a paper and they lay unopened beside me.