mumble something—the man had drunk far too much brandy—and then she said, “Leave all the rest to me.”
Another shiver that hadn’t very much to do with the cold ran through him. He couldn’t think why it had. Surely, that was quite a natural thing for a woman to say on going to bed? She only meant, You go to bed and I’ll lock up and turn off the lights. He had often said it when his wife was alive. And yet it was a phrase that was familiar to him in quite another context. Turning on his side away from the light and into fresh caverns of icy sheet, he tried to think where he had heard it. A quotation? Yes, that was it. It came from
Macbeth.
Lady Macbeth said it when she and her husband were plotting the old king’s murder. And what was the old king’s name? Douglas? Donal?
Someone had come out of the bathroom and someone else gone in. Did they always take such ages getting to bed? The lavatory flush roared and a torrent rushed through pipes that seemed to pass under his bed. He heard footsteps across the landing and a door closing. Apparently, they slept in the next room to his. He turned over, longing for the light to go out. It was a pity there was no key in that lock so that he could have locked his door.
As soon as the thought had formed and been uttered in his brain, he thought how fantastic it was. What, lock one’s bedroom door in a private house? Suppose his hostess came in in the morning with a cup of tea? She would think it very odd. And she might come in. She had put this bottle in his bed and had placed a glass of water on the table. Of course he couldn’t dream of locking the door, and why should he want to? One of them was in the bathroom
again.
Suddenly he found himself thinking about one of the men he had sacked and who had threatened him. The man had said, “Don’t think you’ll get away with this, and if you showyour ugly face within a mile of my place you may not live to regret it.” Of course he had got away with it and had nothing to regret. On the other hand, he hadn’t shown himself within a mile of the man’s place…. The light had gone out at last. Sleep now, he told himself. Empty your mind or think about something nice, your summer holiday in the villa, for instance, think about that.
The gardens would be wonderful with the oleanders and the bougainvillea. And the sun would warm his old bones as he sat on his terrace, looking down through the cleft in the pines at the blue triangle of Mediterranean which was brighter and gentler than that woman’s eyes…. Never mind the woman, forget her. Perhaps he should have the terrace raised and extended and set up on it that piece of statuary—surely Roman—which he had found in the pinewoods. It would cost a great deal of money, but it was his money. Why shouldn’t he spend his own? He must try to be less sensitive, he thought, less troubled by this absurd social conscience which, for some reason, he had lately developed. Not, he reflected with a faint chuckle, that it actually stopped him spending money or enjoying himself. It was a nuisance, that was all.
He would have the terrace extended and maybe a black marble floor laid in the salon. Frasers’ profits looked as if they would hit a new high this year. Why not get that fellow Churchouse to do all their printing for them? If he was really down on his luck and desperate he would be bound to work for a cut rate, jump at the chance, no doubt….
God damn it, it was too much! They were talking in there. He could hear their whisperings, rapid, emotional almost, through the wall. They were an absurd couple, no sense of humor between the pair of them. Intense, like characters out of some tragedy.
“The labour we delight in physics pain”—Macbeth had said that, Macbeth who killed the old king. And she had said it to him, Duncan, when he had apologised for the trouble he was causing. The king was called Duncan too. Of course he was.He was called Duncan and so was the king and
Another shiver that hadn’t very much to do with the cold ran through him. He couldn’t think why it had. Surely, that was quite a natural thing for a woman to say on going to bed? She only meant, You go to bed and I’ll lock up and turn off the lights. He had often said it when his wife was alive. And yet it was a phrase that was familiar to him in quite another context. Turning on his side away from the light and into fresh caverns of icy sheet, he tried to think where he had heard it. A quotation? Yes, that was it. It came from
Macbeth.
Lady Macbeth said it when she and her husband were plotting the old king’s murder. And what was the old king’s name? Douglas? Donal?
Someone had come out of the bathroom and someone else gone in. Did they always take such ages getting to bed? The lavatory flush roared and a torrent rushed through pipes that seemed to pass under his bed. He heard footsteps across the landing and a door closing. Apparently, they slept in the next room to his. He turned over, longing for the light to go out. It was a pity there was no key in that lock so that he could have locked his door.
As soon as the thought had formed and been uttered in his brain, he thought how fantastic it was. What, lock one’s bedroom door in a private house? Suppose his hostess came in in the morning with a cup of tea? She would think it very odd. And she might come in. She had put this bottle in his bed and had placed a glass of water on the table. Of course he couldn’t dream of locking the door, and why should he want to? One of them was in the bathroom
again.
Suddenly he found himself thinking about one of the men he had sacked and who had threatened him. The man had said, “Don’t think you’ll get away with this, and if you showyour ugly face within a mile of my place you may not live to regret it.” Of course he had got away with it and had nothing to regret. On the other hand, he hadn’t shown himself within a mile of the man’s place…. The light had gone out at last. Sleep now, he told himself. Empty your mind or think about something nice, your summer holiday in the villa, for instance, think about that.
The gardens would be wonderful with the oleanders and the bougainvillea. And the sun would warm his old bones as he sat on his terrace, looking down through the cleft in the pines at the blue triangle of Mediterranean which was brighter and gentler than that woman’s eyes…. Never mind the woman, forget her. Perhaps he should have the terrace raised and extended and set up on it that piece of statuary—surely Roman—which he had found in the pinewoods. It would cost a great deal of money, but it was his money. Why shouldn’t he spend his own? He must try to be less sensitive, he thought, less troubled by this absurd social conscience which, for some reason, he had lately developed. Not, he reflected with a faint chuckle, that it actually stopped him spending money or enjoying himself. It was a nuisance, that was all.
He would have the terrace extended and maybe a black marble floor laid in the salon. Frasers’ profits looked as if they would hit a new high this year. Why not get that fellow Churchouse to do all their printing for them? If he was really down on his luck and desperate he would be bound to work for a cut rate, jump at the chance, no doubt….
God damn it, it was too much! They were talking in there. He could hear their whisperings, rapid, emotional almost, through the wall. They were an absurd couple, no sense of humor between the pair of them. Intense, like characters out of some tragedy.
“The labour we delight in physics pain”—Macbeth had said that, Macbeth who killed the old king. And she had said it to him, Duncan, when he had apologised for the trouble he was causing. The king was called Duncan too. Of course he was.He was called Duncan and so was the king and
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