Angell, Pearl and Little God

by Winston Graham

It was great. And he wanted Pearl. He wanted her two ways, because he wanted her as a woman and because afterwards he wanted to tell her all he’d done and all he planned to do. It was the way he used to talk to Flora, and now for the first time he wanted to talk this way to Pearl. If she got quit of this old coddler he would even marry her as he’d once planned. She was learning fast and was the classiest-looking girl he would ever have, and it might be good to have her for keeps. She was hooked firm enough now to stand him having a few other interests on the side.

  For the first time he even felt almost free of Flora. Not free so that you could forget her but free so that remembering her didn’t poison everything you were trying to enjoy.

  He parked his car, using his bumper to shove another locked car forward, and then ran upstairs to his room. Pearl wasn’t there. There was a scribbled note on the paper covering his table. ‘Waited half an hour. Why don’t you find somebody else who will wait longer?’

  It was like a blow in the face, as if Kio had suddenly come back. It was like an insult to his manhood. He stood in the middle of the room and cursed her aloud for three minutes. The fury kept volcanoing up in him. All his feeling good turned into feeling angry. He’d been let down again. Today of all days. Let down! It was the worst insult he’d ever suffered at the hands of a woman. He’d show her.

  He went out of the door, and plaster floated from the slam as he skittered down three flights of stairs and out to his car. More goods-wagon shunting got him out of the small space he’d just got in; and then he was off down Latimer Road and across Battersea Bridge. When he came to Cadogan Mews he did not park in there but round the corner out of sight. When he rang the bell he carefully took shelter in the overhang of the door so that no one looking out of the window should see him. When the door opened he was round the corner with his foot in the way before she could shut the door again.

  ‘Godfrey! Go away! I’ve had enough—’

  He put his whole weight against the door and it jerked open, nearly knocking her over.

  ‘You stupid kook, standing me up again!’

  She was in an apron, green turtle neck jumper, short linen skirt; she stared at him, ice and fire flashing, then she looked down at her hand, sucked the knuckles.

  ‘You hurt me, lurching against the door. Will you please go!’

  ‘Standing me up! No woman can do that! It’s the second time—’

  ‘What d’you think I am, some sort of slavey to be at your beck and call!—’

  ‘I couldn’t get away! I tell you! D’you think I did it on purpose?’

  ‘What does it matter! You were late! I couldn’t wait any longer!—’

  ‘So you couldn’t wait. So I came on here.’

  She looked past him, at the warm windy street feeling old, as if she had lived years in the last month. ‘Please go. You’re making a scene.’

  ‘I’ll make more of a scene before I’m done.’

  ‘Some other time.’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘You must be crazy.’

  ‘So I’m crazy.’

  She leaned against the banister, breathing out despair at the futility of it all. ‘Oh, Godfrey, I wish I could finish with you for ever. You haven’t any idea … How d’you suppose I feel when you come bullying your way in like this?’

  ‘Now,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a quarter to five. Wilfred might be back in half an hour.’

  ‘So what does it matter if he is?’

  Her eyes lit up with anger and fright. ‘No! I tell you it’s impossible! Haven’t you any sense? I’ll – we’ll make another date. Perhaps—’

  ‘Now.’ He kicked the door to behind him.

  She said: ‘If you come any nearer I’ll phone the police.’

  ‘Phone away.’

  ‘Godfrey! Haven’t you any sense? What’s come over you? Tomorrow perhaps.’

  ‘Now,’ he said.

  She made a move towards the telephone which was in the hall, but he blocked the way. She turned and ran up the stairs where the other telephone was. He went after her. She tried to lock the door but he burst it open. He reached her as she grabbed the telephone and caught her under the arms; they fell together, heavily, but he under and his hard body suffered no hurt. He began to kiss her hungrily, wickedly, like a wild man short of food. She knelt up and hit at him and he laughed at her and pushed her back on the floor, his hands grasping her expertly, creating the sensations in her that undermined her will. She tried to get up again and this time he let her because he had the sense to see she was struggling less violently. They stood up together and he pushed her towards her bedroom.

  She struggled all the way but no longer with the violence of the first moment. He began to murmur what passed with him for endearments, because he knew now that this was another fight he couldn’t lose.

  Angell had not been feeling well all week. He had had peculiar pains of a sort he was beginning to become familiar with, and also he was anxious about his heart and his blood pressure. He had been sick with worry for months, and now he had been overdoing it in other ways. It was a commonplace history for an older man to marry a young girl and die comparatively early as a consequence – everyone knew that. He thought angrily of Matthewson’s little lecture a year or more ago when he had suggested that the human character was healthier for being outward looking and for having a little worry to contend with. What criminal nonsense doctors talked! They flashed advice about like touts on a racecourse, and with as little sense of responsibility. He would have liked to go to Matthewson and say to him: ‘Look, I took your advice, and see the mess it has landed me in! You ought to be in prison!’

  He had kept himself at work, but his work suffered and he was a trial to Miss Lock and to everyone in the office. The fact that his business prospered as never before was little consolation. Even a first round defeat of the objectors in the Handley Merrick satellite development plan did little to cheer him. The body and mind, once they are linked on a downward spiral, seem each intent on pulling the other deeper into the abyss.

  Even his appetite was a little affected, in that it seemed to demand more personal dainties, and before his workday was fully out he was considering going to his club, but he passed this thought over for what Pearl could make him when he got home: hot buttered toast with strawberry jam and probably cakes to follow. He felt in need of comfort. With luck, if Pearl was in, he would get it.

  Even in his present frail state he would not take a taxi, so it was half-past five before he walked slowly round the corner into Cadogan Mews.

  The first thing he noticed was that the front door was ajar. This sometimes happened when it was slammed, and was caused by a faulty catch – it was very dangerous and he must remember to get it repaired and to warn Pearl not to be so careless. Did it mean she was out?

  Then in the hall the small table lamp by the telephone was overturned. Burglars? His heart froze. The police. Dial 999. But he must be reasonably sure. ‘ Pearl,’ he called in a soft voice.

  He peered cautiously through into the drawing-room, where all seemed undisturbed. The kitchen … This showed recent use. Flour and pastry on the table; the electric oven on; nothing inside. He switched it off. Unlike Pearl to waste …

  A thump upstairs. Her bedroom was over the kitchen. Perhaps she had slipped up for something. Must not be unduly hasty. He switched the oven on again. It took an effort of will to connive at possible waste; but she would be annoyed if the oven were being heated for—

  Somebody was talking. Was it upstairs or perhaps next door? He did not remember ever hearing voices from next door.

  Outside a dog barked. It emphasized the silence. All his appetites, the need of his palate for butter and sweet jam, were drying, souring, as in an east wind. He picked his way carefully across his ornate drawing-room, reached the hall, put the lamp upright, picked up the telephone book and smoothed its ruffled pages. A-D had been dropped or knocked over. A-D. He mounted the stairs.

  Like all big men
he could move very quietly, even when as now he was beginning to sweat and tremble. That dog. It belonged across at No. 35. No discipline. He went into his bedroom. The intervening door was shut but there were movements in the next room. Not voices but movements. Just Pearl. Why did he suppose otherwise? It was at the root of all his malaise.

  Without noticing, he had carried his briefcase upstairs, and this he now put on a chair. He had brought some work home with him tonight. It was a matter of material misrepresentation when entering into a contract. He wanted to refresh his mind on Rawlins v Wickham and relevant cases. He pursed his lips to blow out a breath. And then Godfrey laughed.

  Angell stumbled and half fell. His stomach revolted as if he had taken poison. A recurrence of the nightmare of Merrick House. He could not stand it. It would drive him out of his mind or bring on a stroke. To be assaulted in his own house … Blows in the face, in the chest …

  He clutched the end of the bed while the attack of nausea slowly moved away. Pearl’s voice. He could not hear what she said, for the blood was pounding in his ears. And she was speaking low, anxiously, almost on a note of complaint.

  Where a person has been induced to enter into a contract by a material misrepresentation of the other party, he is entitled to have the contract set aside, and not merely to have the representations made good. That was it. Rawlins v Wickham. Life. His own life. Law. Law and order. This was what all his own life meant. Interpretations of the precedents of England, by which men could live peacefully with their neighbours. One lived in a state of contractual harmony. Groping, he fumbled in his pocket, with clumsy fingers took out his key ring, went over the keys like a man reading Braille. The long thin, double-toothed one. He found it at last, slid it into its lock, opened the safe. He groped again at the back, among the documents, the price lists, the wills, discovered the revolver, unwrapped the cheese-cloth, knowing the gun was loaded from last time.

  Then he slumped in a chair, the revolver dangling from his hand like a broken stick. He could not defend his honour – he had no courage for that – but at least he could defend his life. Another assault like last time would kill him – the shock would kill him. If he had the strength to pull the trigger he would defend his life.

  But if he sat here perfectly quiet until Godfrey left there was little chance of having to do that. Sit perfectly still. Neither of them would come in here. Let them have their lewd play. Let them spawn and copulate on his Hepplewhite bed. It would be the last time. There could never be anything more now. When Godfrey had gone he would confront Pearl. Confront her for the last time and turn her out tonight. It was the only way. He must steel himself. Even loneliness was better than this. He must return to books and paintings and the quiet of the law. Anything was better than this …

  Pearl’s voice on a note of complaint again – antagonism almost. Had Godfrey imposed himself, then, forced himself on her? Oh delusion! No more delusion. No woman would allow herself – she would call for help, ring the police, scream. It was useless, even to begin to pretend to oneself …

  Except the open front door, the overturned lamp, the interrupted cooking. And Little God. For ever damned, dominant Little God. Capable of over-ruling all other wills, of transgressing all civilized behaviour. The savage at large. The savage in a civilized society, de-civilizing all he came in contact with.

  That dog, it was on again. It ought to be shot. Suddenly the dog stopped and Godfrey laughed again. Wilfred shuddered like a man in a fever. Like a man in a fever, sweat was dripping from his forehead. Whatever the rights or wrongs he could make no move to correct them. To steal downstairs, to telephone the police. He knew how long they’d take to come. Godfrey would hear the bell and it would spark off the confrontation Wilfred feared above all others.

  Concentrate, think of something else, take a deep breath, steady oneself, bold heart, don’t thump, relax, think of blood pressure. My Lord, under the Trades Disputes and Trades Unions Act of 1927 any strike or lock-out which has any object other than … Under the Solicitors’ Remuneration Act 1881 … remuneration for business done in lieu of ordinary charges … Sell the Dufy. Prices for him were high, might not rise beyond this peak for ten years. He was tired of it. Buy that Kokoschka. Peace and quiet among his lovely furniture. The end of love, the end of fighting. He would grow into an—’

  ‘So what!’ he heard Godfrey say. ‘ Let him go and – mm … mm … mm …’

  ‘Godfrey, if there’s to be anything ever between—’

  ‘Well, you brought it on yourself, Oyster. mm … mm … mm …’

  ‘Whatever I say you – Not that way.’

  The communicating door swung open and Godfrey came in. He had opened the wrong door. He was fully dressed, ready to go. His eyes took in the mistake and then they saw the fat collapsed waxen figure sitting in the chair staring at him.

  At first he looked startled, slightly alarmed, then he let out a hoot.

  ‘Oyster! Come here. I got a surprise for you!’

  He came a couple of paces into the room, his mop of black hair flailing and flaunting. He was the savage in the civilized world. He looked out of the tops of his eyes just as he did when he was in the ring.

  ‘So he’s come to fight me, eh? Just like he did last time.’

  In a sick trembling haze Wilfred raised the gun. It wavered all over the place like an insect looking for food. ‘Don’t come near me. I’m telling you! I’m warning you!’

  Pearl’s face and naked shoulder came round the door: Wilfred saw this through the haze: her expression was horror, her colour like dirty paper. Godfrey’s face also took on a change. Staring at the revolver he suddenly looked scared, afraid for himself, the bombast and the arrogance gone: he was the little chauffeur. Then something in Wilfred; the same convulsion as that time at school: the utter revolt, the panic revolt against oppression, the bullied become the bullier, the terror turned inside out. He pulled the trigger. Twice.

  The revolver clicked emptily on the old dead cartridges.

  Godfrey’s face changed again. The alarm was gone in a flash, he began to laugh. He laughed in utter derision. Contempt and triumph. He laughed and Angell pulled the trigger again and there was a great explosion. His hand jerked up as if it had been kicked and Godfrey’s face disappeared. The noise seemed to split the mind. The smell and the smoke hung over the scene like fog in a hollow. When it thinned Godfrey had disappeared. Angell dropped the gun and stared at Pearl who was staring at something on the floor. She came into the room, a frock clutched in front of her, gasped, gave a choked scream.

  ‘Godfrey … Godfrey … Godfrey! …’

  He hadn’t disappeared; he was lying on the floor. He was lying like a parachutist who has fallen from a great height, and part of his neck had gone. Angell’s Aubusson rug was becoming stained with a new dye.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Detective Chief Inspector Morrison said: ‘Can you tell us again briefly what happened, Mrs Angell? In your own words. Take your time. It would be a help to us all.’

  ‘If my husband …’

  ‘Dr Dawson is with him. We shall be told as soon as he comes round.’

  ‘It’s been a terrible shock.’

  ‘I quite understand … You say you knew this man?’

  ‘Yes. Godfrey Brown. He was a boxer. We – got to know him through a Lady Vosper who was a friend of my husband’s. Godfrey Brown worked as a chauffeur for her.’

  ‘But you said he was a boxer.’

  ‘Yes. He didn’t make enough to live on, and he acted as her chauffeur. Lady Vosper befriended him in all sorts of ways – almost adopted him. In the end he took her name, began to box as Godfrey Vosper, to call himself that.’

  ‘Is he still with her?’

  ‘No, she died last year. Since then he’s been on his own, at a loose end. I think that was the beginning of the trouble.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Pearl wiped her lips. They tasted as if she had been sucking copper. ‘I think he expect
ed a legacy from Lady Vosper and it was delayed. Probate or something. He thought he’d been cheated of it and for some reason blamed my husband.’

  ‘Is he – was he her solicitor?’

  ‘He wasn’t the family solicitor. But he acted for her sometimes. He advised her.’

  They were in the drawing-room. Upstairs there was the sound of movement, the discreet, solemn, decent movement of professional men about an unpleasant business. Photographs were being taken, measurements, the rest. It would soon be time to move Godfrey out to the waiting ambulance. Little God, the undefeatable, the untameable, the irresistible, had disappeared, like a demon king in a puff of smoke; resisted, tamed, defeated for ever by a piece of lead and a whiff of cordite and the hysterical reflexes of a terrified middle-aged man. Tears flooded into Pearl’s eyes at the thought, and she dabbed at them with a fine cambric handkerchief. She was wearing a green turtle neck sweater and a short linen skirt. Morrison’s eyes went over her politely but speculatively. He noted that she was not wearing a brassiere under her sweater.

  ‘Well now, how did this trouble begin?’

  ‘Godfrey – Godfrey Brown accused my husband of poisoning Lady Vosper’s mind against him and so losing him his legacy. He threatened Wilfred.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Oh … in February it began. When he thought he wasn’t going to get the legacy.’

  ‘Were these threats made before witnesses?’

  ‘I was there.’

  ‘Other witnesses?’

  ‘Not then.’

  ‘What did he say exactly?’

  ‘Well.’ Her lips gave a nervous quiver. ‘I can’t remember exactly. Something about getting even. “I’ll do you for this.”’

  “‘I’ll do you for this.” I see.’ Morrison rubbed his long nose. ‘Was there any reason for Brown’s belief that your husband had turned Lady Vosper against him?’

  ‘Wilfred may have thought Lady Vosper was being taken in by Godfrey Brown. Other people did. He may have said something to her at some time, I don’t know. But it became a sort of obsession with Godfrey Brown. He kept calling here, asking to see Mr Angell.’