Watson’s Apology

by Beryl Bainbridge

‘I was hit with something heavy. I have no idea what it was. I was knocked down in the dust and became unconscious for a matter of seconds, perhaps a minute.’

  ‘Did you bleed much?’ enquired Mrs Kenny, leaning forward on her chair, her cheeks red with second-hand excitement.

  ‘When I came to myself, the two men were going through my pockets. I remember having the ridiculous notion that they were tickling me. I didn’t feel any pain. I tried to cry out but the one who held me down put sand into my mouth. I was convinced I should choke to death. Having emptied my pockets they ran off towards Woolwich. I knew they were marines because they wore scarlet jackets, though at the time of choking I thought they were toy soldiers marching out of some dream. I think they wore white trousers … at any rate they were of a lighter colour than their jackets. I got up and walked towards Eltham. I was staggering.’

  ‘Sand in the mouth,’ shrieked Mrs Kenny.

  ‘Thinking they might have left something behind, I went back and groped on the ground in an attempt to salvage something … some coins or my keys. They had taken my keys. As I crawled there in the dirt the lame man came up and assisted me back to Eltham. I was bleeding like a pig. The clock struck eleven just as we entered the town.’

  Mrs Watson again rose from her chair. Picking up her towel she draped it over her yellow bonnet and strolled to the water’s edge.

  ‘I went to the house of Mr and Mrs Crawley,’ said Watson. ‘Later they took me to the hospital. I had been robbed of a considerable sum.’

  ‘Were the men ever caught?’ demanded Mr Kenny.

  ‘They were,’ Watson said. ‘They drew attention to themselves by spending my money in the Black Boy at Greenwich. One of the men was transported for life.’

  ‘Wherever there is greed,’ put in Mr Kenny, ‘there will unfortunately be violence.’

  ‘They had been drinking,’ said Watson. ‘The lame man remembered them singing in the distance.’

  Fred, who had been sitting some yards from the rest of the party, suddenly fell from his chair and rolled in the sand. Mr Bush’s first thought was that he was having a fit. Mrs Watson was walking back towards the group beneath the umbrellas, the towel still draped over her bonnet. Fred was now squealing in a peculiar way. Mr Bush, momentarily rigid on his chair, decided he was being stung by invisible and silent bees. He was just struggling to his feet when Fred, pointing his finger at Mrs Watson, sat up and bellowed with laughter. One side of his face was veiled in sand.

  ‘Tell that fat simpleton to keep quiet,’ said Mrs Watson. She flung the towel from her head and strode away towards the rocks.

  Nobody uttered a word. The squealing and the laughing continued for several long seconds, during which age Mr Watson dug a hole by his chair with the tip of his walking stick. Mr Bush was sorry it wasn’t deep enough to bury the wretched Fred.

  Afterwards he was not sure of the sequence of events that preceded the accident. Certainly Mr Watson had been looking in the direction of the rocks a moment before his wife screamed. Her forehead was badly gashed. The blood ran down her face and dripped onto her blue bodice, and she made little moans, one after the other, all the way along the beach and up the steps to the Parade. A crowd of onlookers gathered and Mr Watson waved them away with his stick. As she was helped down the road under the avenue of limes, Mrs Watson dashed her head from side to side and splashed blood on to the dappled ground. The whites of her eyes flashed in the green tunnel of the trees. Fred, carrying the folded umbrellas, remained mercifully silent, though he was smiling. When Mr Bush got him back to the boarding house he sent him straight upstairs to douse his head in a basin of cold water.

  Mr Bush did not go down for supper that night; he was too ashamed. Mrs Merryville sent up a plate of cold meat, and when he had eaten he climbed into bed beside Fred. The undersheet was sprinkled with grains of sand, but he fell asleep immediately.

  In the middle of the night he was woken by voices and the slamming of doors. He put on his flowered dressing-gown and went out on to the landing. The lights were turned up and the head master was walking along the corridor in his nightshirt. Mr Bush noticed the reddish hairs on his stout calves and the threadbare condition of his slippers.

  ‘My wife is delirious,’ said Mr Watson. ‘I have fetched the doctor.’ He went to the head of the stairs and slumped down on the top step. Mr Bush stood behind him and stared miserably at the carpet. The front door had been left open and the hall was full of rustlings as the wind fluttered the trees in the drive. He could hear the sea sweeping the shingle on the beach.

  ‘An hour ago she started to talk to me in a deranged manner,’ said Mr Watson. ‘In an almost biblical manner.’

  ‘Biblical?’ said Mr Bush.

  ‘Thou must go into the garden. Thou must not stay indoors on such a fine day. Dost thou think thou canst escape me?’

  ‘Ah,’ murmured Mr Bush.

  ‘I have always been too self-reliant,’ Mr Watson said. ‘It is my main fault.’

  ‘You shouldn’t blame yourself,’ protested Mr Bush. ‘There are always two sides to every problem.’

  Watson groaned and beat the banister rail with his fist.

  This is too dreadful, thought Mr Bush, and he wedged himself beside Mr Watson and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder.

  ‘She has a swelling above her eye,’ Mr Watson said. ‘It pains her.’ Mr Bush could bear it no longer. Mrs Watson’s act was quite incomprehensible to him. He blurted out, ‘She did it to herself. My son Fred tells me so, and he is not a boy for lies. He saw her drag her face against the rock, and then she butted her head like a goat.’

  ‘I know,’ said Mr Watson. ‘I saw her too. But intentional or otherwise, the result is the same. She has hurt herself and is paying for it.’

  There were tears in Mr Bush’s eyes, though they were not for Mrs Watson. He cried out that it was a tragedy.

  ‘Apparently so,’ Mr Watson said. ‘At least to the spectators. God knows what it was for her.’ He stood up and returned to his pacing of the corridor.

  Mr Bush settled himself on the cane chair in the alcove and wiped his wet cheek with the tassel of his dressing-gown. The thought came to him that never again, after tonight, would Mr Watson confide in him. They would possibly remain friends, but further advancement was impossible – a man could only reveal so much of himself.

  Presently Mrs Merryville came out of the bedroom carrying a basin filled with pink water and scraps of blood-stained lint. She was followed by the doctor.

  ‘The wound is superficial,’ he declared, ‘but she has heatstroke.’

  When the doctor had gone, Mr Bush thanked providence it was not more serious. Mr Watson shook him by the hand. He said, ‘You’re a good fellow. You take things to heart.’

  ‘I blame myself,’ stammered Mr Bush. ‘Or rather I blame Fred.’

  ‘Fred had nothing to do with it,’ said Mr Watson. ‘I believe you already know that.’ He looked searchingly at Mr Bush and added, ‘Tired of the raging sea I’m getting sane, and my old scars are quite skin-whole again.’

  Mr Bush went into the bedroom and woke Fred. ‘Mrs Watson has sunstroke,’ he told him, ‘and the head master is a little mad. He’s just informed me he’s recovering, and that his old cuts are healing. I imagine he’s thinking of those marines.’

  ‘He’s talking about love,’ said Fred.

  Winter 1866

  Mrs Tulley and Mrs Watson were sitting at the breakfast table when the head master burst into the room. Both women pretended to be startled, though both had heard his thunderous descent of the stairs. The moment he entered, Mrs Watson, who a moment before had been discussing some scandal involving the music teacher over the road, launched into a description of the dress she intended to wear that evening at the school.

  ‘It’s blue,’ she said, looking directly at Mrs Tulley. ‘Blue has always been Mr Watson’s favourite colour.’

  He interrupted her sharply, demanding to know whether she had given the servant girl permis
sion to go into the library.

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Watson, ‘I haven’t budged.’ She seemed to be smiling, though it was possibly from nervousness. ‘Mrs Tulley and I have sat here talking of the prize-giving.’

  ‘Ink has been spilt on my letter to the Bishop of Winchester.’

  Mrs Tulley made a mewing sound, expressing sympathy. Several times she had attempted to rise from her chair and each time Mrs Watson had prevented her.

  ‘That in itself,’ Watson shouted, ‘is hardly a disaster. But ink has dripped down on to the spine of one of my books. It is a library book.’ He was so angry he pounded the table, and a pearl-handled butter knife bounced off the cloth and fell to the carpet.

  Mrs Tulley wanted to follow it and sink through the floor. She hadn’t seen him to speak to in years, but obviously his temper hadn’t improved. He was actually grinding his teeth with rage.

  ‘What of it,’ said Mrs Watson. ‘You are always knocking over things.’ She continued to prattle on about her dress, as if hoping to stupefy him.

  He stood there looking at his wife, his fists clenched and a muscle twitching in his cheek. He had been so sure that he was in the right, questioning her in that hectoring way, and now she had cut the ground from under his feet. Mrs Tulley felt almost sorry for him. In spite of his lowered brows and the rat-trap set of his mouth, his eyes were bewildered.

  He turned and was half way through the door when Mrs Watson called his name. He waited, his back to her and his head bent. He was looking down at his ink-stained hands.

  ‘John,’ Mrs Watson repeated. ‘John. Please.’

  He stepped into the hall and put on his hat. He was punishing her for something. The front door slammed shut and they heard him marching down the path.

  Mrs Tulley said perhaps she had best be on her way. Her son Henry had recently married and there was a child expected – she liked to keep an eye on her daughter-in-law. Mrs Watson protested that she hadn’t yet seen over the house, but Mrs Tulley could tell her heart wasn’t in it. There were beads of perspiration on her upper lip.

  ‘Shall I just peek at the garden?’ suggested Mrs Tulley. ‘I remember you were always a dab hand with the flowers.’

  ‘It’s a poor enough plot,’ said Mrs Watson listlessly, and she went out into the hall and stood there, waiting for Mrs Tulley to leave.

  When Mrs Tulley had gone she ran upstairs and tried the handle of the library door. It was locked. He is taking no chances, she thought, and crossing the landing she went into the dressing-room. She began to pull out the drawers of the mahogany chest by the window. She couldn’t see any dust, though she lifted up Watson’s shirts and blew on them. There was nothing in the top right hand drawer save a few scraps of material and those old pistols his grandfather had left him. If the drawers were less than spotless, she told herself, it was because the chest was second-hand. It had come from a saleroom in Clapham, along with the bedside table, the chairs and the wardrobe. Watson had rented the house last October, and before they had moved in he had promised her all new things. Later he had changed his mind. He had worried in case she would be annoyed at the lack of a proper garden, but she hadn’t minded the dark little back yard. She was done with gardens. They had left South Lambeth Road because the absentee landlord had sold off the grounds of Montpelier House to the speculators. She had put so much of herself into that flourishing acre of colour and beauty – everyone said so – that when she heard that it was to be torn up and built over she had taken to her bed. She would never hold a pruning knife again. Mrs Brewer had said that with her connections in Ireland it was a wonder she didn’t bring pressure to bear on the landlord – he was a member of Parliament for an Irish borough. Her phrasing had sounded malicious. They had fallen out over it.

  She went through into the bedroom and was about to lie down when she heard the servant girl clearing away the breakfast dishes. Going out on to the landing, she shouted down the stairs that she had a headache. ‘I don’t want to be disturbed,’ she called. She was exhausted. After their altercation last night she had tossed and turned until dawn.

  Watson had been sitting at his desk, as usual, and she had accidentally knocked over the fire irons. He had swung round, demanding to know whether there wasn’t something she could occupy herself with. When she had replied that there wasn’t, he suggested she should clean the house. ‘At nine o’clock at night?’ she had retorted. He complained that the servant girl was hopeless. ‘You should supervise her,’ he said. ‘It is your duty.’ ‘I supervised the last one,’ she protested. ‘And the one before that. They didn’t stay long enough for us to reap the benefit.’

  Quick as a flash he had blamed her for their leaving. She had started to weep, not loudly, but audibly sniffing and gulping – he found it difficult to concentrate when she cried. She had thought he was working on his book about the reasoning power of animals, or his history of the Popes, but later it had turned out that he was only writing his never-ending letter to the Bishop.

  ‘There are mouse droppings in the wardrobe,’ he had shouted. ‘And the chest of drawers is full of dust.’ She had jumped up, outraged, and told him that in Inchicore House platoons of mice had run between the floorboards and nobody had cared a fig. Why, in Upper Sackville Street, this whole room would have fitted into the corridor outside the butler’s pantry. To which he’d replied that if the library was so distasteful to her, why didn’t she go downstairs to the drawing-room and give him some peace.

  She said that she would never give him that. Never. Once she had loved him, then she had detested him, and for a time she had been afraid of him. She spat out the words, though none of them were true. ‘If you had advanced further,’ she cried, ‘we could have afforded a housekeeper instead of workhouse girls.’

  Adopting a sarcastic tone, he said that he pitied her for having fallen into the hands of someone who could make very little money and who had no aptitude for success. She had cut him short and informed him that she wasn’t going to build up his self-esteem or act as a buffer against the world. ‘You are responsible for me,’ she ground out. ‘I will not be left in a corner to rot.’

  Trembling with fury he retaliated by saying unforgivable things about her father. His greed had been his downfall, he said. As a mere rent-collector he must have been despised the length and breadth of the county. An intelligent man, he said, would have thought to make provision for his family … She had run at him then and, snapping her fingers in his face, cried out, ‘At least I knew my father.’ And so it had gone on.

  It was she who needed to be given peace, not he. By some atrocious quirk of fate he had become her whole life. Whatever emotion she had substituted for love, it now consumed her. She could not bear to let him out of her sight.

  Two years before he had packed her off to Dublin to visit Olivia. A week spent with her sister had brought back the empty past before she had known him. They did not go out, because there was nowhere to go. Mrs Quin was dead. Quin also, and Aunt Lawson, and Edwin; and for all the life that was in her, Olivia might as well have been dead too. Anne had told her that in London she was asked to functions several times a month. Being a head master’s wife, she said, was not always a bed of roses. It could be tiring. But then, of course, her husband cherished her. ‘You surprise me,’ Olivia had said. ‘You don’t look like a woman who is cherished.’ Insufferable as ever, she had even dragged up County Cork. Then, when it was perhaps too late, Anne had returned home determined to be a loving companion to her husband.

  When he worked at his desk she took to sitting at his elbow, listening to the sound of his pen scratching across those endless sheets of paper. If he was reading she watched his fingers turning the pages, and waited, for it seemed to her that among all those millions of words printed in all those hundreds of books on his shelves he must eventually come across one simple sentence which would enable him to understand her.

  At church on Sundays, kneeling at his side during prayers, she leaned so heavily against him that som
etimes he lost his balance. She accompanied him on his constitutional walk of a morning and evening, hanging on to his arm and trotting to keep up with him as he strode morosely round and round the Crescent. She knew that he didn’t want her with him. If she had stayed behind he would have slipped off to call on the odious Mr Bush further down the road, or Mr Anderson at Herne Hill, or the Revd Mr Wallace at St Andrew’s church. Since Williams had retired and gone to live with his sister at Hastings, he had chummed up with Wallace. For a man with such a passion for solitude it was extraordinary how many people he visited.

  Often during the night she clamped her leg over his, and wound her arm so tightly about his neck that in his sleep he fought her off, half throttled in the small hours.

  Somewhere in the room beneath her she heard the girl knocking the sweeping brush against the skirting-board. Sleep was impossible, and yet unless she rested she wouldn’t look her best for the prize-giving. She put her fingers in her ears, but still the knocking persisted, and now there was a rattle of milk churns.

  At last she rose from the bed and went through the double doors into the dressing-room. She walked very slowly, as if hoping someone would catch up with her. The window overlooked the road beyond the back yard; she could see the horse and cart from the dairy, milk churns flashing silver in the sunlight, disappearing round the corner. She hesitated a moment, gazing regretfully at the empty street, and then opened the wardrobe door.

  After taking morning prayers Watson told Grey he was going out. He would be gone an hour. Grey didn’t conceal his annoyance. He had found two women, both the worse for drink, loitering outside the gates before eight o’clock that morning. They had wanted money, of course, and were bound to come back. He was tired of being accosted at the school, and on his own front door step. He continued to lodge at Montpelier House, and often when he returned home he was forced to run the gauntlet of unemployed persons, miserably dirty and cut about the face, who clustered outside in the belief that the head master still lived there. Watson gave the Secretary two shillings in loose change and asked him to share it between the women should they appear again.