The Man Who Didn't Fly

by Margot Bennett

  “But—who said I was going to marry him?” Hester asked. She could feel herself getting hot with anger.

  “He did. That’s nothing to do with me. Understand?”

  “I understand you’re being extremely rude.”

  “I’m what? You listen to me. I know this Maurice Reid. If he’s trying to get any money out of your family don’t let him get away with it. That’s all I have to say and I’ll say it in any way I choose. Goodbye.”

  “How do you know? Wait, wait!” Hester said, but he had rung off.

  She put back the receiver, and went listlessly out into the garden. The lush hot afternoon was only oppressive now. She knew she must have a discussion with her father, and that he would treat her like an importunate child who had come to ask him to draw cows and horses on the backs of envelopes.

  Jackie wasn’t in the garden. The only sign that he had ever been there was the ruined flower bed.

  She thought of going to Prudence for support, but Prudence was too young and superior. Harry—Harry would never be any kind of help about money. She had to manage this interview alone, without help from anyone.

  She found her father in the little room that was fictitiously described as his study. He had a notebook in his hand, and was consulting it with apparent satisfaction.

  “I want to speak to you about money, Father,” she said sadly.

  “Money, Hester?” he said, assuming surprise. He shut the notebook and put it in his pocket.

  “Father, please don’t invest any money in this scheme of Maurice’s,” Hester said in a distressed voice.

  “My dear Hester, you must know that Maurice and I wouldn’t make any arrangement without considering it very, very carefully beforehand. If we decide that my money is to be invested in this concern, you may be sure it’s ninety-nine per cent certain that the money will be safe. In fact, you may be certain that the sterling cast upon the waters will come back quadrupled,” he said with a smile of innocent delight that would have touched the heart of any woman who was not a member of his family.

  “I’m convinced you shouldn’t do it, Father.”

  “Hester, you’re too young to know anything about money,” he said impatiently. “You mustn’t trouble your head about the things you can’t understand. Now, don’t look at me like that, Hester. I repeat that you know nothing about money. What are equity shares?” he asked. He waited, holding back his triumph.

  “I don’t know. But I don’t believe it’s difficult to know. I could find out in five minutes.”

  “How?”

  “By telephoning Uncle Joe.”

  “Don’t bring Joe into it, whatever you do.” He jumped up, looking as though he were going to pace the room. “Joe would be on to this thing like a rabbit trap. He would buy every share in sight. There would be nothing, nothing, left for the small man like me. Hester, promise me you won’t talk to Joe!” He looked at her appealingly, putting all his considerable charm into his smile, then sat down again on the edge of the desk, looking sulky.

  “Of course you won’t talk to Joe,” he said. “I apologise if I sounded heated, but really, Hester, to have money, actual money, almost within my grasp, and then think it might be lost by a careless word from my own daughter, naturally—no, I’ll forget it. I apologise. We mustn’t quarrel, Hester.”

  “I hate quarrelling,” she said. “But a quarrel might be better than ruin.”

  “Ruin is a strong word.”

  “Not too strong for what we’re discussing.”

  “Hester, I will try to forgive you, because you are young, and, as I have already demonstrated, know nothing about money. But this discussion is over. Do you understand? Over. Now run along like a good girl before we really quarrel.”

  “Father, I won’t run along. If you give this money to Maurice you may not get it back.”

  “Hester, are you trying to tell me that you distrust Maurice? Maurice!” he repeated, with a dramatic blend of pain and incredulity.

  She closed her eyes, trying not to be irritated by his affectations, reminding herself that he was a good and a kind man.

  “I don’t know what I feel about Maurice,” she said unhappily. “Harry’s always saying that Maurice—that Maurice means to have your money.”

  “Harry! You mean that you are prepared to take the word of that—that worthless loafer, that parasite, against Maurice!” He stood up, and walked irresolutely to the door.

  “He’s not a worthless loafer, he’s a poet!” Hester said angrily.

  “A poet!” He turned back, and looked at her sorrowfully. “My poor, deluded little girl,” he said heavily. “If only your mother were alive.”

  “She died when I was four,” Hester reminded him. “I think we can leave her out of this discussion. Neither of us knows what she would have said.”

  “She certainly wouldn’t have allowed you to associate with Harry. She would have known how to stop that. It’s hard for me, alone,” he said pathetically. He slumped into a chair. “I’ve been alone for sixteen years. Some of them have been very difficult. Do you think I don’t know that my little daughters would like new clothes, a car, a chance to meet the best people?”

  “I’m not worried about the best people,” Hester said irritably. “Do learn to stick to the point, Father.”

  He sat up again. “Yes, Father. You don’t sometimes feel that you owe me a little respect?”

  “Father, I do respect you, but please—we were talking about Maurice.”

  “Maurice, whatever his faults may be, is a man. That is not how I describe Harry.”

  “Please, please, please don’t talk about Harry any more.”

  “It’s my duty, Hester. It’s my duty to save you from Harry. If you’d had a brother—yes, if only I’d had a son,” he said, sighing.

  Hester didn’t fail to observe that she was being blamed for her sex.

  “If you’d had a son he might have been able to prevent your throwing your money away. I don’t see why I should let you be rash and foolish just because I’m female.”

  “Rash and foolish! Hester, remember you are speaking to your father.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Father. But please let’s be reasonable. And it’s not just Harry. There’s this man I met in the garden last night. And now he’s telephoned to warn me against Maurice.”

  “A man you met in the garden? A stranger, trespassing in our garden, has telephoned. Hester, are you mad?”

  “I’m not mad. He telephoned.”

  “Who is this man?”

  “I don’t know. He sounds like an Australian, or something. He’s called Marryatt.”

  “An Australian. And where, may I ask, does this stranger from Australia—this man from our garden—where does he live?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps Harry could tell us. He’s been talking to Harry,” Hester said incautiously.

  “Talking to Harry! Well, that certainly explains everything. Talking to Harry! And I suppose he gets his facts about Maurice from Harry. Oh, this is very convincing. Where can I get hold of this stranger!”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s just as well for him,” he said, almost shouting. “Because if I could meet him I would knock him down. Let me tell you, I trust Maurice. I trust him absolutely. And trust him all the more because spongers and troublemakers and lunatics from Australia maliciously interfere in my business. Now will you listen to me, Hester. You are not to see or speak to Harry again. He is a wastrel. And I forbid, I positively forbid you to speak to strangers in the garden. If I find a stranger in the garden I will shoot him. Do you understand? Now please leave the room. I’m expecting Maurice.”

  “Oh, I’ll be glad when it’s time to go back to London,” Hester said, beginning to cry. She rushed out of the room and through the hall. At the bottom of the stairs she met Harry.

 
“Hester! Crying!” he said in dismay. “Oh, Hester!” He caught her by the hands and pulled her into the sitting-room. He kissed her wet cheeks tenderly, then stopped to find a handkerchief. He found two, and looked at them dubiously.

  “Now which was yours?” he wondered aloud. “Have I another one anywhere, or would you like to use the back of your hand?”

  Hester began to laugh. “I was crying because of the things you said about Maurice.”

  “I’ll take them all back. He’s a fine fellow to meet on a winter’s night over a drink, if the thought makes you happy. I’ve no trouble in telling you a lie if it makes you smile again.”

  “And Father said I wasn’t to see you again.”

  “Your father’s a very sensible man. It’s a crime a monster like myself should make love to you.”

  “But you are a poet, Harry.”

  “Certainly I’m a poet. On the last morning when the noncommissioned angels come down from heaven to organise the other ranks, I’ll be lying still in the grave while the other poets are lining up for the long march. When the solid miles of them are filing up into the sky I’ll be stumbling on behind, trying to catch McGonagall’s coat tails, or even one of Ella Wheeler Wilcox’s floating ribbons, while Shakespeare and Homer and the head of the column are so far away that they look no bigger than split peas.”

  Hester laughed, but looked at him with the patient air of the school teacher who is determined to persevere. “Harry, you’re better than that. You must be. Don’t you think if you had a place to work, and someone who believed in your work…”

  “These things have ruined many a prosaic man. If you can’t write poetry against every kind of handicap, you can’t write it at all. I’m like a lot of other people, Hester. I’m a genius with four or five pieces left out. Do you love me, Hester?” he asked sadly.

  “I think perhaps I do, Harry,” she said dubiously, the determination fading from her voice as she began to consider her own position instead of his.

  “No, you don’t love me. You love the four or five missing pieces. You think I’ve only mislaid them.”

  “Very well. You’re determined to believe you’re no good and that I don’t love you. It must be hard work, being so hopeless.”

  “But I’m not hopeless,” he said, looking suddenly happy and excited. “Everything’s going to be fine, soon. I have some easy money coming.”

  “Easy money!” she said furiously. “I’m sick of the sound of it. Go away, Harry. Father said I wasn’t to speak to you, and Maurice is coming. Go away!” She ran out of the room and upstairs to her bedroom. She needed a few minutes out of earshot of all the discussions about money and love.

  Thursday (7)

  The gate that led to Tower House was unpainted and had the same derelict, sagging appearance as the house itself. The young man who waited beside the gate had been examining the house for half-an-hour. As he had nothing else to do while he waited, he had made imaginary arrangements for the reconstruction of the house, scraping away the ivy from the walls; cutting down the trees that grew too close; rebuilding the mildewed north wall; extending the sloping roof to cover a new garage; modernising the tangle of drain-pipes. On the south side the ground-floor windows and most of the wall could be cut away, and replaced by sliding glass doors leading on to a sun balcony.

  “Hell, it would be better to tear the whole place down and begin again,” he said contemptuously to himself, and felt in his pocket for another cigarette. He heard the car coming, and took his hand slowly from his pocket. He stepped back into the cover of the trees and waited until the car drew up before the gate. Then he stepped forward.

  “Don’t bother, I’ll open the gate,” he said. He looked into the car. “Well, if it isn’t Maurice Reid, my old friend,” he said with enormous satisfaction.

  Maurice looked at him, with a humorous, apologetic lift of the eyebrows. He took his hands from the wheel, and tucked the rosebud that was slipping from his button-hole back into place.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know you. I think you’ve made a mistake.”

  “A mistake? I’ve seen your face over my bed every night for years. Sometimes I see it very small and dream of stamping on it until the filthy grin is squashed as flat as a frog under a tractor; and sometimes I see it very big, springing backwards and forwards like a punching ball every time I hit it.”

  Maurice looked at the gate, then back quickly over his shoulder. There was no room to turn. He couldn’t get back on the road without reversing.

  “Open the door,” the young man said. “We’re going for a drive.”

  “I’m afraid—I’m in a hurry—you can’t get in my car.”

  “Take your hands away from the wheel or I’ll break your arm. Open the door.”

  Maurice dropped his hands. “I don’t know you,” he repeated hopelessly.

  “Open the door.”

  Maurice leant across and opened the door. “If you insist,” he said, smiling.

  The stranger stepped in quickly, and slammed the door. “Now we’ll go for our ride. Somewhere quiet. Back into the road again, turn right, keep going for about half-a-mile then you’ll find a lane to pull into. You can stop there. Get on with it now. I’ll talk.”

  Maurice put the car in reverse and wavered backwards away from the gate. He looked once at the other man and smiled with a kind of humorous resignation.

  “I haven’t made up my mind if I’m going to break your neck or only beat you up,” the stranger said. “Turn right, now. I don’t know what satisfaction there would be in beating you up. I’ve thought about it a lot. You wouldn’t fight back. It would be like hitting a woman. But I may do it.”

  “I think you’re mad,” Maurice said. “Before God, I swear I don’t know you.”

  “My name is Marryatt.”

  “I’ve never known anyone called Marryatt.”

  “My mother married twice.”

  Maurice stopped the car and leant back in his seat. “I can’t drive on,” he said in an exhausted voice.

  “Ask what my mother’s name was.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you want to hear it?”

  “Why should I know your mother?”

  “You were going to marry her once. Now tell me her name.”

  “I don’t know it.”

  “Surely you know the name of the woman you were going to marry?”

  “I don’t know it. I don’t know it. Leave me alone.”

  “Tell me her name. You were going to marry her, but first you took all her money, to invest for her. You took her money and went away. Now tell me her name?”

  “For God’s sake, I don’t know it. You’re mad.”

  “Then tell me the names of all the women you’ve been going to marry.”

  Maurice didn’t answer.

  “Have there been too many?”

  Maurice shook his head.

  “Get out of the car. I said get out of the car.”

  Maurice sat still.

  The other man hit him on the face with the back of his hand. Maurice got out of the car.

  “Now tell me my mother’s name.”

  “I don’t know it.” He looked down at his feet, where his long, sunset shadow started across the road, and the other shadow bent grotesquely and swung its gibbon arm. He turned to run and was hit on the side of the head as he turned. He fell and was picked up again.

  “My mother’s name.”

  “Evans,” he whispered hopelessly. “Was it Evans?”

  “Did she have a son?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember. No, she hadn’t.”

  “Then I’ll have to take on his duties and hit you.”

  “No,” Maurice said. He began to walk backwards. “No, no, don’t hit me. Help!” he shouted. “Help!” He looked round over his shoulder. The pale
smoke from a cottage chimney drifted towards the pale sky. In the field beside the road a sheep raised its head, appeared to give Maurice its critical attention, then turned and jogged away across the grass. The other man drew back, and Maurice put his arms over his face. He was hit on the side, just above the heart. He took a step backwards with his feet crossing, then collapsed.

  “Get up.”

  He groaned and didn’t move.

  “Tell me my mother’s name.”

  “Was she—was she an Australian?”

  Marryatt put out one hand and hauled Maurice to his feet.

  “Now, or I’ll kick you till you can’t speak,” he said.

  “She was called Fletcher, was she?” Maurice asked, choking. “Yes. She had a son.”

  “Go on.”

  “She had a son at school. It was a long time ago. Ten, twelve years ago. I don’t think I ever met him.”

  “Oh, yes you did. It was twelve years ago. I was fifteen. I only saw you twice. You took every pound she had. Do you think I’d forget you? Then she was ill, and a year later she died. Did you know that? Did you know you were a murderer? What did you do with the money?”

  “Let me go,” Maurice said, gasping. “I’ll pay. I’ll give it back.”

  “What did you do with the money? You left Australia. Where did you go?”

  “I went—I went to Mexico.”

  “How long did you stay there?”

  “A year. No, six months.”

  “Just for a holiday?”

  “No. No. Yes, for a holiday,” he said hopelessly.

  “You killed her so that you could have a year’s holiday in Mexico?” He stopped, listening. They heard the grunt and the whine of an old car tackling the hill.

  “Someone’s coming,” Maurice said, in gratitude.

  “Get in the car and drive on.”

  Maurice swayed on his feet, then he threw himself down on the grass verge, with his hands under his face.

  Marryatt listened, then looked at Maurice’s car, where it stood, in the middle of the narrow road. The other car was already in sight.

  “You’ll have to move that car of yours,” he said roughly to Maurice. “We’ll continue this conversation later. I’ll have decided by then what I’m going to do with you.”