The Complete Short Stories

by Muriel Spark

  ‘I’ll have to be getting along,’ I said.

  ‘Mind you keep the secret,’ George said.

  ‘Can’t I tell Skinny? He would be very sorry for you, George.’

  ‘You mustn’t tell anyone. Keep it a secret. Promise.’

  ‘Promise,’ I said. I understood that he wished to enforce some sort of bond between us with this secret, and I thought, ‘Oh well, I suppose he’s lonely. Keeping his secret won’t do any harm.’

  I returned to England with Skinny’s party just before the war.

  I did not see George again till just before my death, five years ago.

  After the war Skinny returned to his studies. He had two more exams, over a period of eighteen months, and I thought I might marry him when the exams were over.

  ‘You might do worse than Skinny,’ Kathleen used to say to me on our Saturday morning excursions to the antique shops and the junk stalls.

  She too was getting on in years. The remainder of our families in Scotland were hinting that it was time we settled down with husbands. Kathleen was a little younger than me, but looked much older. She knew her chances were diminishing but at that time I did not think she cared very much. As for myself, the main attraction of marrying Skinny was his prospective expeditions to Mesopotamia. My desire to marry him had to be stimulated by the continual reading of books about Babylon and Assyria; perhaps Skinny felt this, because he supplied the books and even started instructing me in the art of deciphering cuneiform tablets.

  Kathleen was more interested in marriage than I thought. Like me, she had racketed around a good deal during the war; she had actually been engaged to an officer in the US navy, who was killed. Now she kept an antique shop near Lambeth, was doing very nicely, lived in a Chelsea square, but for all that she must have wanted to be married and have children. She would stop and look into all the prams which the mothers had left outside shops or area gates.

  ‘The poet Swinburne used to do that,’ I told her once.

  ‘Really? Did he want children of his own?’

  I shouldn’t think so. He simply liked babies.’

  Before Skinny’s final exam he fell ill and was sent to a sanatorium in Switzerland.

  ‘You’re fortunate after all not to be married to him,’ Kathleen said. ‘You might have caught TB.’

  I was fortunate, I was lucky … so everyone kept telling me on different occasions. Although it annoyed me to hear, I knew they were right, but in a way that was different from what they meant. It took me very small effort to make a living; book reviews, odd jobs for Kathleen, a few months with the publicity man again, still getting up speeches about literature, art and life for industrial tycoons. I was waiting to write about life and it seemed to me that the good fortune lay in this, whenever it should be. And until then I was assured of my charmed life, the necessities of existence always coming my way and I with far more leisure than anyone else. I thought of my type of luck after I became a Catholic and was being confirmed. The Bishop touches the candidate on the cheek, a symbolic reminder of the sufferings a Christian is supposed to undertake. I thought, how lucky, what a feathery symbol to stand for the hellish violence of its true meaning.

  I visited Skinny twice in the two years that he was in the sanatorium. He was almost cured, and expected to be home within a few months. I told Kathleen after my last visit.

  ‘Maybe I’ll marry Skinny when he’s well again.’

  ‘Make it definite, Needle, and not so much of the maybe. You don’t know when you’re well off,’ she said.

  This was five years ago, in the last year of my life. Kathleen and I had become very close friends. We met several times each week, and after our Saturday morning excursions in the Portobello Road very often I would accompany Kathleen to her aunt’s house in Kent for a long weekend.

  One day in the June of that year I met Kathleen specially for lunch because she had phoned me to say she had news.

  ‘Guess who came into the shop this afternoon,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘George.’

  We had half imagined George was dead. We had received no letters in the past ten years. Early in the war we had heard rumours of his keeping a nightclub in Durban, but nothing after that. We could have made inquiries if we had felt moved to do so.

  At one time, when we discussed him, Kathleen had said,

  ‘I ought to get in touch with poor George. But then I think he would write back. He would demand a regular correspondence again.’

  ‘We four must stick together,’ I mimicked.

  ‘I can visualize his reproachful limpid orbs,’ Kathleen said.

  Skinny said, ‘He’s probably gone native. With his coffee concubine and a dozen mahogany kids.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s dead,’ Kathleen said.

  I did not speak of George’s marriage, nor of any of his confidences in the hotel at Bulawayo. As the years passed we ceased to mention him except in passing, as someone more or less dead so far as we were concerned.

  Kathleen was excited about George’s turning up. She had forgotten her impatience with him in former days; she said,

  ‘It was so wonderful to see old George. He seems to need a friend, feels neglected, out of touch with things.’

  ‘He needs mothering, I suppose.’

  Kathleen didn’t notice the malice. She declared, ‘That’s exactly the case with George. It always has been, I can see it now.’

  She seemed ready to come to any rapid new and happy conclusion about George. In the course of the afternoon he had told her of his wartime night club in Durban, his game-shooting expeditions since. It was clear he had not mentioned Matilda. He had put on weight, Kathleen told me, but he could carry it.

  I was curious to see this version of George, but I was leaving for Scotland next day and did not see him till September of that year, just before my death.

  While I was in Scotland I gathered from Kathleen’s letters that she was seeing George very frequently, finding enjoyable company in him, looking after him. ‘You’ll be surprised to see how he has developed.’ Apparently he would hang round Kathleen in her shop most days, ‘it makes him feel useful’ as she maternally expressed it. He had an old relative in Kent whom he visited at weekends; this old lady lived a few miles from Kathleen’s aunt, which made it easy for them to travel down together on Saturdays, and go for long country walks.

  ‘You’ll see such a difference in George,’ Kathleen said on my return to London in September. I was to meet him that night, a Saturday. Kathleen’s aunt was abroad, the maid on holiday, and I was to keep Kathleen company in the empty house.

  George had left London for Kent a few days earlier. ‘He’s actually helping with the harvest down there!’ Kathleen told me lovingly.

  Kathleen and I planned to travel down together, but on that Saturday she was unexpectedly delayed in London on some business. It was arranged that I should go ahead of her in the early afternoon to see to the provisions for our party; Kathleen had invited George to dinner at her aunt’s house that night.

  ‘I should be with you by seven,’ she said. ‘Sure you won’t mind the empty house? I hate arriving at empty houses, myself.’

  I said no, I liked an empty house.

  So I did, when I got there. I had never found the house more likeable. A large Georgian vicarage in about eight acres, most of the rooms shut and sheeted, there being only one servant. I discovered that I wouldn’t need to go shopping, Kathleen’s aunt had left many and delicate supplies with notes attached to them: ‘Eat this up please do, see also fridge’ and ‘A treat for three hungry people, see also 2 bttles beaune for yr party on back kn table’. It was like a treasure hunt as I followed clue after clue through the cool silent domestic quarters. A house in which there are no people — but with all the signs of tenancy — can be a most tranquil good place. People take up space in a house out of proportion to their size. On my previous visits I had seen the rooms overflowing, as it seemed, with Kathleen, her aunt, and
the little fat maidservant; they were always on the move. As I wandered through that part of the house which was in use, opening windows to let in the pale yellow air of September, I was not conscious that I, Needle, was raking up any space at all, I might have been a ghost.

  The only thing to be fetched was the milk. I waited till after four when the milking should be done, then set off for the farm which lay across two fields at the back of the orchard. There, when the byre-man was handing me the bottle, I saw George.

  ‘Halo, George,’ I said.

  ‘Needle! What are you doing here?’ he said.

  ‘Fetching milk,’ I said.

  ‘So am I. Well, it’s good to see you, I must say.

  As we paid the farm-hand, George said, ‘I’ll walk back with you part of the way. But I mustn’t stop, my old cousin’s without any milk for her tea. How’s Kathleen?’

  ‘She was kept in London. She’s coming on later, about seven, she expects.’

  We had reached the end of the first field. George’s way led to the left and on to the main road.

  ‘We’ll see you tonight, then?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, and talk about old times.’

  ‘Grand,’ I said.

  But George got over the stile with me.

  ‘Look here,’ he said. ‘I’d like to talk to you, Needle.’

  ‘We’ll talk tonight, George. Better not keep your cousin waiting for the milk.’ I found myself speaking to him almost as if he were a child.

  ‘No, I want to talk to you alone. This is a good opportunity.’ We began to cross the second field. I had been hoping to have the house to myself for a couple more hours and I was rather petulant.

  ‘See,’ he said suddenly, ‘that haystack.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said absently.

  ‘Let’s sit there and talk. I’d like to see you up on a haystack again. I still keep that photo. Remember that time when —’

  ‘I found the needle,’ I said very quickly, to get it over.

  But I was glad to rest. The stack had been broken up, but we managed to find a nest in it. I buried my bottle of milk in the hay for coolness. George placed his carefully at the foot of the stack.

  ‘My old cousin is terribly vague, poor soul. A bit hazy in her head. She hasn’t the least sense of time. If I tell her I’ve only been gone ten minutes she’ll believe it.’

  I giggled, and looked at him. His face had grown much larger, his lips full, wide, and with a ripe colour that is strange in a man. His brown eyes were abounding as before with some inarticulate plea.

  ‘So you’re going to marry Skinny after all these years?’

  ‘I really don’t know, George.

  ‘You played him up properly.’

  ‘It isn’t for you to judge. I have my own reasons for what I do.’

  ‘Don’t get sharp,’ he said, ‘I was only funning.’ To prove it, he lifted a tuft of hay and brushed my face with it.

  ‘D’you know,’ he said next, ‘I didn’t think you and Skinny treated me very decently in Rhodesia.’

  ‘Well, we were busy, George. And we were younger then, we had a lot to do and see. After all, we could see you any other time, George.’

  ‘A touch of selfishness,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll have to be getting along, George.’ I made to get down from the stack.

  He pulled me back. ‘Wait, I’ve got something to tell you.’

  ‘OK, George, tell me.’

  ‘First promise not to tell Kathleen. She wants it kept a secret so that she can tell you herself.’

  ‘All right. Promise.’

  ‘I’m going to marry Kathleen.’

  ‘But you’re already married.’

  Sometimes I heard news of Matilda from the one Rhodesian family with whom I still kept up. They referred to her as ‘George’s Dark Lady’ and of course they did not know he was married to her. She had apparently made a good thing out of George, they said, for she minced around all tarted up, never did a stroke of work and was always unsettling the respectable coloured girls in their neighbourhood. According to accounts, she was a living example of the folly of behaving as George did.

  ‘I married Matilda in the Congo,’ George was saying.

  ‘It would still be bigamy,’ I said.

  He was furious when I used that word bigamy. He lifted a handful of hay as if he would throw it in my face, but controlling himself meanwhile he fanned it at me playfully.

  ‘I’m not sure that the Congo marriage was valid,’ he continued. ‘Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, it isn’t.’

  ‘You can’t do a thing like that,’ I said.

  ‘I need Kathleen. She’s been decent to me. I think we were always meant for each other, me and Kathleen.’

  ‘I’ll have to be going,’ I said.

  But he put his knee over my ankles, so that I couldn’t move. I sat still and gazed into space.

  He tickled my face with a wisp of hay.

  ‘Smile up, Needle,’ he said; ‘let’s talk like old times.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘No one knows about my marriage to Matilda except you and me.

  ‘And Matilda,’ I said.

  ‘She’ll hold her tongue so long as she gets her payments. My uncle left an annuity for the purpose, his lawyers see to it.’

  ‘Let me go, George.’

  ‘You promised to keep it a secret,’ he said, ‘you promised.’

  ‘Yes, I promised.’

  ‘And now that you’re going to marry Skinny, we’ll be properly coupled off as we should have been years ago. We should have been — but youth! — our youth got in the way, didn’t it?’

  ‘Life got in the way,’ I said.

  ‘But everything’s going to be all right now. You’ll keep my secret, won’t you? You promised.’ He had released my feet. I edged a little farther from him.

  I said, ‘If Kathleen intends to marry you, I shall tell her that you’re already married.’

  ‘You wouldn’t do a dirty trick like that, Needle? You’re going to be happy with Skinny, you wouldn’t stand in the way of my —’

  ‘I must, Kathleen’s my best friend,’ I said swiftly.

  He looked as if he would murder me and he did. He stuffed hay into my mouth until it could hold no more, kneeling on my body to keep it still, holding both my wrists tight in his huge left hand. I saw the red full lines of his mouth and the white slit of his teeth last thing on earth. Not another soul passed by as he pressed my body into the stack, as he made a deep nest for me, rearing up the hay to make a groove the length of my corpse, and finally pulling the warm dry stuff in a mound over this concealment, so natural-looking in a broken haystack. Then George climbed down, took up his bottle of milk and went his way. I suppose that was why he looked so unwell when I stood, nearly five years later, by the barrow in the Portobello Road and said in easy tones, ‘Halo, George!’

  The Haystack Murder was one of the notorious crimes of that year. My friends said, ‘A girl who had everything to live for.’

  After a search that lasted twenty hours, when my body was found, the evening papers said, ‘“Needle” is found: in haystack!’

  Kathleen, speaking from that Catholic point of view which takes some getting used to, said, ‘She was at Confession only the day before she died — wasn’t she lucky?’

  The poor byre-hand who sold us the milk was grilled for hour after hour by the local police, and later by Scotland Yard. So was George. He admitted walking as far as the haystack with me, but he denied lingering there.

  ‘You hadn’t seen your friend for ten years?’ the Inspector asked him.

  ‘That’s right,’ said George.

  ‘And you didn’t stop to have a chat?’

  ‘No. We’d arranged to meet later at dinner. My cousin was waiting for the milk, I couldn’t stop.’

  The old soul, his cousin, swore that he hadn’t been gone more than ten minutes in all, and she believed it to the day of her death a few months later. There was the microscopic
evidence of hay on George’s jacket, of course, but the same evidence was on every man’s jacket in the district that fine harvest year. Unfortunately, the byre-man’s hands were even brawnier and mightier than George’s. The marks on my wrists had been done by such hands, so the laboratory charts indicated when my post-mortem was all completed. But the wrist-marks weren’t enough to pin down the crime to either man. If I hadn’t been wearing my long-sleeved cardigan, it was said, the bruises might have matched up properly with someone’s fingers.

  Kathleen, to prove that George had absolutely no motive, told the police that she was engaged to him. George thought this a little foolish. They checked up on his life in Africa, right back to his living with Matilda. But the marriage didn’t come out — who would think of looking up registers in the Congo? Not that this would have proved any motive for murder. All the same, George was relieved when the inquiries were over without the marriage to Matilda being disclosed. He was able to have his nervous breakdown at the same time as Kathleen had hers, and they recovered together and got married, long after the police had shifted their inquiries to an Air Force camp five miles from Kathleen’s aunt’s home. Only a lot of excitement and drinks came of those investigations. The Haystack Murder was one of the unsolved crimes that year.

  Shortly afterwards the byre-hand emigrated to Canada to start afresh, with the help of Skinny who felt sorry for him.

  After seeing George taken away home by Kathleen that Saturday in the Portobello Road, I thought that perhaps I might be seeing more of him in similar circumstances. The next Saturday I looked out for him, and at last there he was, without Kathleen, half-worried, half-hopeful.

  I dashed his hopes. I said, ‘Halo, George!’

  He looked in my direction, rooted in the midst of the flowing market-mongers in that convivial street. I thought to myself; ‘He looks as if he had a mouthful of hay.’ It was the new bristly maize-coloured beard and moustache surrounding his great mouth which suggested the thought, gay and lyrical as life.

  ‘Halo, George!’ I said again.

  I might have been inspired to say more on that agreeable morning, but he didn’t wait. He was away down a side street and along another street and down one more, zigzag, as far and as devious as he could take himself from the Portobello Road.