The Woman Who Had Imagination

by H. E. Bates

  ‘What’s the weather?’ he said.

  ‘It rains,’ I said.

  ‘Let it,’ he whispered.

  It was a flash of the old spirit. In a moment it was gone and his lips closed without another sound, and his eyelids lowered with a sharp flicker that was like a last wink at me.

  I never heard him speak again. When we went in to him again, in the evening, he had turned day into night for the last time. The rain had ceased. The sun had broken through and was shining on the empty medicine bottles and his dead hands.

  Bonus Story

  The Parrot

  The Parrot is the story of a man in a stale marriage who adopts a parrot for company, much to the disgust of his wife. Returning from work one day he finds that the parrot has disappeared, and while his wife insists innocence, the traces of feathers and blood remaining tell a different story. First published in T.P.'s Weekly (London, 1928).

  The parrot was in the colour of silver grey, with a head of emerald green and pink, with glimpses of a vivid hue, occasional and startling, beneath its wings. It had been given to the little clerk by a friend of his youth, a sailor home at last from a lengthy voyage in the South Seas.

  Having brought it home and fed it as the sailor had advised, with fruit and lumps of sugar, the clerk set the cage on the table and spent the evening walking and talking to the bird. All the time, as if faintly scornful of this, his wife sat watching him with her sour, narrow face, now and then rapping out some sharp words of remonstration or warning which the clerk, quietly absorbed in the past time of playing with the parrot, did not heed.

  “The idea of such a thing!” this woman would rap out. “What do you want it for? What do you see in it? I couldn’t go near it—it may have things on it. I couldn’t touch it. There’s no telling where it’s been!”

  These things were said in a tone of disgust and contempt. The woman curled her lips. But fascinated by the colours of the parrot’s feathers, it’s strange, dark eyes, and the unintelligible words it occasionally let fall, the little clerk never heeded. Sometimes he would whisper:

  “That must be Portuguese or Indian. He said it could talk both!”

  It seemed to him sometimes, if he half closed his eyes, that he could see a crowd of a score or even a hundred such birds as this, with even more miraculous colours, with purple and orange wings, green breasts, heads of maroon and black and gold, flying and shrieking in some dark, hot forest at the far end of the earth. His eyes would shine and his small, timid little face became radiant at these thoughts. He began to talk to the bird in some new, incomprehensible language.

  Behind him the voice of his wife did not cease.

  “How long are we to put up with this? What do you want it for? If we’d wanted a parrot I’d have told you, but we don’t. It’s only a nuisance, it only makes horrible noises. It’s dirty, it’ll drop its sugar into the carpet! What sort of state do you expect things to be in?”

  But the little clerk only went on murmuring to the parrot. “Portuguese and Indian!” he would think. “Languages I can’t speak and never shall I.” Again and again he saw also the tropical forests, the still, sunless rivers over which this parrot had once flown. He saw the imprint of innumerable years of tropic nature on its wings, the reflection of the forest twilight in its still, impertinent eyes.

  Against his absorption his wife’s sour, contemptuous protest did not cease. “It’s only a nuisance, it only makes horrible noises! You can’t even hear yourself speak!”

  But the clerk heard only the soft, constantly repeated, but never monotonous, rhythm of the parrot’s tongue. He laughed at its occasional shriek. Now and then he fed it with sugar and fruit again, nibbling the sugar himself and smiling gaily.

  At night, when he at last reluctantly retired to bed, he lay listening for the sound of its voice. He thought of the thrill of pleasure he would have if it should suddenly cross his room in a flash of silver light. He thought of the joy of caring for it, of seeing its bright colours in the drab room below, of its companionship, of teaching it, in time, to speak the language he himself knew.

  At his side his wife’s voice went on till she dropped to sleep: “It’s a nuisance, I tell you. What did you bring it for? I shall have no peace.”

  Only his joy in the possession of the parrot and the patience of his timid nature kept him from resenting this. He dreamed of the parrot scratching his neck.

  In the morning he awoke early and ran down to the parrot before dressing. He had had some absurd notion of its being dead. Now, with an even more intense joy, he heard its voice and saw the rainbow flutter of its wings. At breakfast he fed it with sugar and fruit again and gave it fresh water. Into his tea, he dropped the sugar it would not eat. It seemed to him that he had not possessed the parrot for a single day but for all his life; it was so familiar, so dear to him.

  Opposite him his wife suggested and implored, then demanded and declared that he should take it away. He smiled in good-natured surprise.

  “But I haven’t had it five minutes—give it a chance!”

  She curled her lips and began abusing the clerk and the parrot, and, half weeping, half storming, cried:

  “I won’t have it! I won’t have it! We don’t want a parrot, and we shan’t have one. Who knows—perhaps it swears!”

  The little clerk calmed and soothed her with promises. If only she would feed it once a day, at midday, he said, he would clean the bird’s cage, he would hang it outside, he would do everything! But her harsh, never-ceasing voice rang in his ears, reproaching him even as he bade he parrot “Good-bye.”

  Throughout the day he lived with the parrot, and then at evening returned with childlike enthusiasm, still full of the thought of it, of its magic colours, its soft, warm phrases. He had no children, and it seemed to him only natural to lavish some tenderness, some joyous and excited care on this strange bird. With such eagerness he rushed to where its cage had hung that morning.

  He lifted his eyes, and then he saw that the cage was empty; of the parrot there was not a trace, not a feather. Only a half-bitten, yellow lump of sugar remained stuck forlornly between the wires. Alarmed nearly to distraction, he rushed into the house.

  “The parrot, the parrot! Where is it? Where’s it gone?”

  His wife sniffed and hesitated. He almost seized her shoulders. Suddenly she broke out in a torrent of speech. “I went to feed it; it was this afternoon. Thinks I, though you’re such a nuisance, you’ll have to be fed. I opened the door and bent down to pick up the sugar and, would you believe it, the wretch had gone! Yes, gone! Flown away! I never dreamed they could fly so!”

  “Gone! Gone!” The clerk’s voice was a whisper. Then, as if afraid of its vanishing completely, he turned away and said no more.

  Then suddenly, unable to believe it had really left him, he tore down the cage and looked in. he saw there a few tiny silver feathers lying in the sanded floor, and there also, not far away, a drop of blood. It was as if the parrot had struggled and torn its breast in the anguish of leaving him. “I believe—” he began to think. Then he stopped, having in that moment no doubt, no misunderstanding. He understood perfectly what had been done.

  Going back to the house he said nothing, however, but remained staring at the empty cage with a strange expression on his face, a look made up of suffering and joy, alive and sad with memories of forests and pools he had never seen, and full of the knowledge that the parrot, whatever had happened, whatever would happen, was with him still.

  He sighed and sat down, and from her place in the corner his wife began talking to him.

  Bonus Story

  The Country Doctor

  The Country Doctor is a moving tale set at an auction for the late village doctor, where a woman from out of town outbids a number of enthusiasts for some of his property. It was first published in the Fortnightly Review in 1931 with the title The Country Sale, and later in the limited edition The Story Without an End and The Country Doctor (White Owl Press, 1932), and
has not been reprinted since.

  The effects of the deceased had, for convenience of sale, been removed from his house to the cattle-market; and there, under the sharp April sunshine, they stood with a shoddy and half-ruined air awaiting the stroke of the hammer.

  A little before noon a crowd of dealers, old clothes women, farmers and private persons had gathered. Voices chattered; there lingered that dusty, unsweet odour recalling furniture shops. As if marketing, old women ferreted with swift fingers among heaps of bed-linen, cushions, window-curtains, bundles of carpet worn colourless by many feet. Dealers, who have their own cunning air of unconcerned detachment, peered indifferently at chests and chairs, wardrobes and Victorian couches. Some sherries and ruby ports of fine old glass flashed in the sunshine as they passed from hand to hand. A copper gong stood next to them, and repeatedly curious persons would strike it, so that it was like the tolling of a knell. Lot fifty-one was a pair of crutches tied together with a bundle of splints and surgical cradles. They excited a shuddering curiosity. Here, strung into bundles, were books on birds, sport, dog-breeding, medicine. Someone discovered an old hunting-crop, cracked it, and set a dog barking with joy. The dog raced hither and thither, causing oaths and consternation among a little knot of men conversing in low tones apart.

  They were much interested, these men, in a pair of sporting guns. These handsome objects reposed in a case of polished wood, in sockets of faded velvet, and the hands of those who touched them were almost reverent.

  Occasionally some farmer or keeper would couple them in a light, practised fashion and take aim, perhaps frightening the women. Then they would be placed in their velvet beds again, as lovingly and tenderly as children.

  It was not often that such a pair of guns came into the market.

  “Those guns ’ill fetch money,” said the men to each other.

  When noon had struck the auctioneer, a small, portly man with great lungs, appeared like a jack-in-the-box, and breathing on his spectacles, mounted his desk and declared that the sale would begin.

  “The effects are, as you know, ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed, “the property of the late Doctor Quintus Starling, a gentleman very much respected, and I may say, very much loved in this district. You have seen all the lots. Now I want you to do your best. Doctor Starling was a poor man. I’m a poor man. I want you to bid smartly and well and as quick as you can. There are over four hundred lots, and I may say that I, for one, don’t wish to be here until dark. We shall commence immediately.”

  “Lot one!” he shouted, and a ripple of bidding began. Then, as the first lots were sold there arose instinctively in the minds of the crowd a picture of the dead man. Old men remembered him from his first days among them; girls and young fellows whom he had brought into the world could recall plainly his tall, black-coated figure, doffing his square bowler surlily but charitably to their mothers. He had been a sportsman, a good shot, a splendid rider. In the minds of one here and one there remained a memory of him striding over November stubbles, his double-barrel at the ready, his side whiskers wind-beruffled, two handsome white-and-liver spaniels always preceding him sagaciously. He had given up riding long before his death. Yet many might shut their eyes and still see him ride. For it used to be his custom, after a day’s hunting, to come home at a gallop through the streets, a gallop which, though hectic, looked noble, inspiring and beautiful, for he sat easily but erect, abandoned but vigilant, his silken blue-and-white stock never misplaced, his crop never raised.

  A stoic, a bachelor, an atheist, and many said, a misanthropist, this man had lived alone. It was said that company bored him, that humanity soured him and that no women had ever fascinated or troubled him. His love, instead, had fallen upon animals, upon his mare, his dogs, and upon birds, and this tenderness had elevated and ennobled him, this beautiful communion had made him lovable.

  A remembrance of those traits had still, apparently, a strong effect, for the bidding was good, and as if in anticipation of the sale of the guns the crowd increased.

  Not until three o’clock, however, did the auctioneer lean forward, and with an air almost secretive and warm with mystery, utter these magic words:

  “Ladies and gentlemen—gentlemen in particular!—I am about to put up to you the late doctor’s guns!”

  Much hubbub at once broke out, like a whine of hornets. Men assumed a lost, indifferent air and looked from the corners of their eyes. The auctioneer, taking up the barrels, pressed them to his eye like a telescope, thrust his hand in his breast and looked, for a moment, like some unfortunate monument, half of Nelson, half of Bonaparte.

  Suddenly, however, very serious, he commenced discoursing:

  “As you see, ladies and gentlemen—I hope you all can see—we have here a very fine item, the late Doctor Starling’s guns. These guns, I say without hesitation, are the very finest of their kind. Joseph Lang is their maker and we all know what the name of Joseph Lang means where guns are concerned. These guns, gentlemen, if they cost a penny, cost the doctor a hundred and fifty pounds. Not, I dare gamble, one penny-piece less. Look at them! Exquisite workmanship! Superb taste! The very finest bore!”

  “And now, gentlemen, what will you say for this very fine pair of double-barrel, hammerless guns, by Joseph Lang, complete in their case?—the finest memento of our friend, the late doctor, any one of you may wish to have!”

  “Ten pounds! Thank you. Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fifteen.” There was much excitement. Such guns were eagerly coveted by those who were sportsmen. To those who did not understand such things, it was all astounding.

  “Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty! Guineas!” A pause.

  “Twenty guineas only I am offered for this pair of superb hammerless, double-barrelled guns! Twenty guineas!” Very scandalised, he began protesting, gasping, expostulating, cajoling, threatening, manoeuvring. “Twenty guineas! I shan’t sell them at the figure. I couldn’t sell them. It’s an insult to the memory of the doctor. Twenty guineas! Well, gentlemen, you really do——”

  Then suddenly a timid, nervous, emotional voice called: “Twenty-one.”

  People started, looked at each other, craned their necks. It was the voice of a woman.

  “Did I hear twenty-one?”

  Twenty-one! A woman? Where was she? He tried, without success, to lengthen his neck, and he suddenly resembled a little pig straining at the trough. “Twenty-two, twenty-three. Twenty-five!” It was the woman again. “Twenty-five!” From his upraised desk he tried to detect her. He could see others, too, darting curious glances, sharp as rats, hither and thither. What could a woman want with guns? He noted the faces of sportsmen and gamekeepers puffed out in disgust. “Twenty-five!” he called. Now the clothes women were leaning over their piles of dirty linen and bolsters in their anxiety to find that reclusive, mysterious figure. He followed their eyes. Could that be her? A tall, mannish-looking creature in tweed, with a pheasant cockade in her felt? “Twenty-five! Twenty-five pounds only I am bid for these fine Joseph Lang hammer-less guns!” He gazed everywhere with his small grey eyes as he shouted:

  “Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven.” The sportsmen, as if from a sense of outrage, were bidding briskly. Many a man that morning had fancied himself awaiting the birds with those guns at a copse-edge, in the quiet, balmy Autumn air. “Twenty-seven pounds I am bid, gentlemen! Twenty-seven pounds only I am bid for a pair of guns that cost a hundred and fifty if they cost a penny.”

  “Twenty-eight!”

  Again it was the woman. And this time, trained over many years to catch the faintest nod, the lightest flutter among a crowd of heads, he saw her.

  She stood far back among a crowd of indifferent loafers, a little woman, mouse-like, insignificant, nondescript. Blushing violently she grasped an umbrella—and one almost gathered from that umbrella her age, her characteristics, her religion. A costume of greenish tweed, a high-throated collar, a pair of ascetic, almost ecclesiastical brown eyes, seemed to stamp her indubitably as one of t
hose obscure creatures, past middle-age, whose gentle lives are wrapped up in charity.

  “Twenty-eight!” Excited, nonplussed, he searched for bids. From the corner of his eye he observed the umbrella. “Twenty-nine, thirty! Thirty pounds! He leaned forward, cajoling: “Gentlemen, I assure you that the chance of such guns will never come your way again!”

  “Guineas!”

  “Thirty guineas!” he shouted.

  The little woman, after delivering the word, remained mouth-open, anxiously watching him.

  “Thirty-one! Thirty-two! Thirty-two pounds, gentlemen. The guns are worth double!” he bawled.

  Then her lips worked. “Thirty-five.”

  “Thirty-five! Thirty-five. Going at thirty-five? Going at thirty-five? Going? Going” And suddenly some intuition made him bring down his pencil sharply. He saw the little woman stretched with pathetic, desperate tension.

  “Gone!” he said.

  He scribbled, wiped his brow and called aloud: “Name, please?”

  It was whispered to the clerk and in turn whispered to him. He closed the polished case. There were resentful, half-angry glances at him. He wrote down: “Miss Julia Atherley.”

  And shortly he saw the woman, carrying the guns with difficulty, pass from beneath the inquisitous, censorious eyes of the crowd. She had a bicycle, on the carrier of which she now strapped the case. Quiet and inscrutable, she then wheeled her cycle from the cattle-yard. One or two women stretched their necks for a last glimpse of her. Already men were asking: