don’t—’
‘Yes, do read some of it out after lunch, Felix,’ said Lena. ‘We’ll all sit round, and do some community screaming when the villain’s dagger descends.’
It was appalling. The idea began to spread and rage like a heath fire. ‘Please do.’ ‘Yes, you must.’ ‘Come on, Felix, be a sport.’
I said, trying to be firm but sounding, I’m afraid, like a flustered hen:
‘No. I can’t. I’m sorry. I hate anyone to see an unfinished manuscript of mine. I’m just funny that way.’
‘Don’t be a spoilsport, Felix. Tell you what – I’ll read it out myself, if the blushing author is too coy. I’ll read out the first chapter, and then we’ll have a sweepstake on who the murderer is – a bob each in the pool. I suppose the murderer does come into the first chapter? I’ll go upstairs and fetch it now.’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort.’ My voice cracked a little. ‘I absolutely forbid it. I will not have people snooping about my manuscripts.’ George’s stupid grinning face infuriated me. I must have been glaring at him. ‘You wouldn’t like to have someone prying into your private correspondence, so lay off mine – too thick-headed to take a hint.’
George, of course, was delighted to have got me on the hop. ‘Aha, so that’s it! Private correspondence. Love letters. Hiding his love light under a bushel.’ He roared with laughter at his witticism. ‘You’d better look out, or Lena’ll be getting jealous. She’s a terror when roused, don’t I know it.’
I made a desperate effort to get control of myself and speak in negligent tones. ‘No. Not love letters, George. You mustn’t give way to this one-track habit of mind.’ Something made me go on, ‘But I shouldn’t read out my manuscript, George. Supposing I’d put you into the story – it’d be very embarrassing for you, wouldn’t it?’
Carfax spoke up, unexpectedly, ‘I don’t expect he’d recognise himself. People don’t, do they? Unless he was the hero, of course.’
A pleasantly acidulated remark. Carfax is such a neutral sort of figure – one didn’t expect it of him. The point, needless to say, was much too fine for George’s thick skin to feel any prick from it. We began to talk about the extent to which writers draw on real people for their fictitious characters, and the breeze passed over. But it was disagreeably chilly while it lasted. I hope to God I don’t give myself away at all, losing my temper with George like that. I hope my hiding place for this diary is really safe. I doubt if lock and key would keep George out, should he feel really inquisitive about ‘the manuscript’.
18 August
CAN YOU IMAGINE yourself,
hypocrite lecteur
, in the position of being able to do a murder with impunity? A murder which, whether the act – the manner of taking off – succeeds or through some incalculable mischance fails, must still beyond any shadow of suspicion appear to be an accident? Can you imagine yourself living day after day in the same house as your victim, a man whose existence – apart from your own knowledge of its special infamy – is a curse to everyone around him and an insult to its Creator? Can you imagine how easy it is to live with this detested creature – how soon familiarity with your victim breeds a contempt for him? He looks at you a little strangely, perhaps, sometimes: you seem to him distrait, and you return him a pleasant, absent-minded smile – absent-minded because at that very moment you are running over in your head, for the fiftieth time, the exact movements of wind, sail and tiller which will compass his destruction.
Imagine all this, if you can, and then try to conceive yourself baulked, baffled, held at check by one simple little thing. ‘The still, small voice,’ perhaps you are guessing, gentle reader. A generous thought, but incorrect. Believe me, I have no faintest qualm of conscience about removing George Rattery. If I had had no other reason, the
‘Yes, do read some of it out after lunch, Felix,’ said Lena. ‘We’ll all sit round, and do some community screaming when the villain’s dagger descends.’
It was appalling. The idea began to spread and rage like a heath fire. ‘Please do.’ ‘Yes, you must.’ ‘Come on, Felix, be a sport.’
I said, trying to be firm but sounding, I’m afraid, like a flustered hen:
‘No. I can’t. I’m sorry. I hate anyone to see an unfinished manuscript of mine. I’m just funny that way.’
‘Don’t be a spoilsport, Felix. Tell you what – I’ll read it out myself, if the blushing author is too coy. I’ll read out the first chapter, and then we’ll have a sweepstake on who the murderer is – a bob each in the pool. I suppose the murderer does come into the first chapter? I’ll go upstairs and fetch it now.’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort.’ My voice cracked a little. ‘I absolutely forbid it. I will not have people snooping about my manuscripts.’ George’s stupid grinning face infuriated me. I must have been glaring at him. ‘You wouldn’t like to have someone prying into your private correspondence, so lay off mine – too thick-headed to take a hint.’
George, of course, was delighted to have got me on the hop. ‘Aha, so that’s it! Private correspondence. Love letters. Hiding his love light under a bushel.’ He roared with laughter at his witticism. ‘You’d better look out, or Lena’ll be getting jealous. She’s a terror when roused, don’t I know it.’
I made a desperate effort to get control of myself and speak in negligent tones. ‘No. Not love letters, George. You mustn’t give way to this one-track habit of mind.’ Something made me go on, ‘But I shouldn’t read out my manuscript, George. Supposing I’d put you into the story – it’d be very embarrassing for you, wouldn’t it?’
Carfax spoke up, unexpectedly, ‘I don’t expect he’d recognise himself. People don’t, do they? Unless he was the hero, of course.’
A pleasantly acidulated remark. Carfax is such a neutral sort of figure – one didn’t expect it of him. The point, needless to say, was much too fine for George’s thick skin to feel any prick from it. We began to talk about the extent to which writers draw on real people for their fictitious characters, and the breeze passed over. But it was disagreeably chilly while it lasted. I hope to God I don’t give myself away at all, losing my temper with George like that. I hope my hiding place for this diary is really safe. I doubt if lock and key would keep George out, should he feel really inquisitive about ‘the manuscript’.
18 August
CAN YOU IMAGINE yourself,
hypocrite lecteur
, in the position of being able to do a murder with impunity? A murder which, whether the act – the manner of taking off – succeeds or through some incalculable mischance fails, must still beyond any shadow of suspicion appear to be an accident? Can you imagine yourself living day after day in the same house as your victim, a man whose existence – apart from your own knowledge of its special infamy – is a curse to everyone around him and an insult to its Creator? Can you imagine how easy it is to live with this detested creature – how soon familiarity with your victim breeds a contempt for him? He looks at you a little strangely, perhaps, sometimes: you seem to him distrait, and you return him a pleasant, absent-minded smile – absent-minded because at that very moment you are running over in your head, for the fiftieth time, the exact movements of wind, sail and tiller which will compass his destruction.
Imagine all this, if you can, and then try to conceive yourself baulked, baffled, held at check by one simple little thing. ‘The still, small voice,’ perhaps you are guessing, gentle reader. A generous thought, but incorrect. Believe me, I have no faintest qualm of conscience about removing George Rattery. If I had had no other reason, the
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