promise.’
‘That’s better. Now then, you see your grandfather’s sword hanging up there on the wall? Fetch it down, please.’
‘But –’
‘Do as I tell you … That’s right. Now give it to me. I want you to do something for your old granny. I want you to go down on your knees and hold that sword in front of you and swear on it that, whatever happens, you’ll uphold the honour of the Ratterys and never be ashamed of the name you bear. Whatever happens. You understand?’
This was too much for me. George and that old harridan will drive the child insane, between the pair of them. I strode into the room, saying:
‘Hello, Phil, what
are
you doing with that frightful weapon? For heaven’s sake don’t drop it, or it’ll cut your toes off. Oh, I didn’t see you, Mrs Rattery. I’m afraid I must take Phil away now. It’s time we started our lessons.’
Phil blinked at me stupidly, like a sleepwalker just awoken. Then he glanced nervously at his grandmother.
‘Come along, Phil,’ I said.
He shivered, and suddenly scurried out of the room in front of me. Old Mrs Rattery was sitting there, the sword across her knees, lumpish and stone still, an Epstein figure. I felt her eyes on my back as I went out. I could not have turned round and faced them, to save my life. I wish to God I could drown her as well as George. Then there’d be some hope for Phil.
20 August
IT IS SURPRISING how entirely reconciled I am to the idea that, within a few days (weather permitting), I shall commit a murder. I feel quite unemotional about it – nothing more than the faint twinges of uneasiness which any normal person might feel before a visit to the dentist. I suppose, when one is on the verge of an undertaking like this, which has been in full view for a long time, one’s sensibility is bound to have become dulled. It’s interesting. I say to myself, ‘I am shortly about to become a murderer’ – and it strikes my ear as naturally and dispassionately as if I were to say, ‘I am shortly about to become a father.’
Talking of murderers, I had a great jaw with Carfax this morning, when I took my car into their garage to get the oil changed. He seems really a very decent sort. I can’t imagine how he puts up with the unspeakable George as partner. He’s a great detective-story fan, and plied me with questions about the technique of murders in fiction. We discussed the science of fingerprints, and the comparative merits of cyanide, strychnine and arsenic from the fiction murderer’s point of view. I’m afraid I was pretty shaky on the latter. I must do a course of poisons when I return to my writer’s trade (it’s odd how calmly I assume that I shall settle down again to my profession when this annoying little George interlude is over. It’s as though Wellington were to have gone back to a box of tin soldiers after winning Waterloo.)
After we’d chatted for quite a bit, I wandered along towards the rear of the garage. A rather bizarre scene met my eyes. George, his huge back turned to me and quite blocking up the window, was standing in the attitude of a man firing from a beleaguered house. There was a ‘phut’. I went up to George. He
was
shooting – with an air rifle. ‘That’s got another of the bastards,’ he said as I came up beside him. ‘Oh, it’s you. I’m just having a pot at the rats on the dump out there. We’ve tried everything – traps, poison, rat hunts – but we can’t keep ’em down. The little bastards came in and chewed up a new tyre last night.’
‘That’s a nice little rifle.’
‘Yup. Gave it to Phil last birthday. Said he could have a penny for every rat he shoots. He got a brace yesterday, I believe. Look here, like a go? Let’s have half a dollar on it. Whichever of us gets most rats in half a dozen shots.’
The diverting spectacle then ensued of a murderer and his prospective victim, standing amicably side by side, taking alternate shots at a rat-infested scrap heap.
‘That’s better. Now then, you see your grandfather’s sword hanging up there on the wall? Fetch it down, please.’
‘But –’
‘Do as I tell you … That’s right. Now give it to me. I want you to do something for your old granny. I want you to go down on your knees and hold that sword in front of you and swear on it that, whatever happens, you’ll uphold the honour of the Ratterys and never be ashamed of the name you bear. Whatever happens. You understand?’
This was too much for me. George and that old harridan will drive the child insane, between the pair of them. I strode into the room, saying:
‘Hello, Phil, what
are
you doing with that frightful weapon? For heaven’s sake don’t drop it, or it’ll cut your toes off. Oh, I didn’t see you, Mrs Rattery. I’m afraid I must take Phil away now. It’s time we started our lessons.’
Phil blinked at me stupidly, like a sleepwalker just awoken. Then he glanced nervously at his grandmother.
‘Come along, Phil,’ I said.
He shivered, and suddenly scurried out of the room in front of me. Old Mrs Rattery was sitting there, the sword across her knees, lumpish and stone still, an Epstein figure. I felt her eyes on my back as I went out. I could not have turned round and faced them, to save my life. I wish to God I could drown her as well as George. Then there’d be some hope for Phil.
20 August
IT IS SURPRISING how entirely reconciled I am to the idea that, within a few days (weather permitting), I shall commit a murder. I feel quite unemotional about it – nothing more than the faint twinges of uneasiness which any normal person might feel before a visit to the dentist. I suppose, when one is on the verge of an undertaking like this, which has been in full view for a long time, one’s sensibility is bound to have become dulled. It’s interesting. I say to myself, ‘I am shortly about to become a murderer’ – and it strikes my ear as naturally and dispassionately as if I were to say, ‘I am shortly about to become a father.’
Talking of murderers, I had a great jaw with Carfax this morning, when I took my car into their garage to get the oil changed. He seems really a very decent sort. I can’t imagine how he puts up with the unspeakable George as partner. He’s a great detective-story fan, and plied me with questions about the technique of murders in fiction. We discussed the science of fingerprints, and the comparative merits of cyanide, strychnine and arsenic from the fiction murderer’s point of view. I’m afraid I was pretty shaky on the latter. I must do a course of poisons when I return to my writer’s trade (it’s odd how calmly I assume that I shall settle down again to my profession when this annoying little George interlude is over. It’s as though Wellington were to have gone back to a box of tin soldiers after winning Waterloo.)
After we’d chatted for quite a bit, I wandered along towards the rear of the garage. A rather bizarre scene met my eyes. George, his huge back turned to me and quite blocking up the window, was standing in the attitude of a man firing from a beleaguered house. There was a ‘phut’. I went up to George. He
was
shooting – with an air rifle. ‘That’s got another of the bastards,’ he said as I came up beside him. ‘Oh, it’s you. I’m just having a pot at the rats on the dump out there. We’ve tried everything – traps, poison, rat hunts – but we can’t keep ’em down. The little bastards came in and chewed up a new tyre last night.’
‘That’s a nice little rifle.’
‘Yup. Gave it to Phil last birthday. Said he could have a penny for every rat he shoots. He got a brace yesterday, I believe. Look here, like a go? Let’s have half a dollar on it. Whichever of us gets most rats in half a dozen shots.’
The diverting spectacle then ensued of a murderer and his prospective victim, standing amicably side by side, taking alternate shots at a rat-infested scrap heap.
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