The Bachelors Read online

  After five years Ronald’s fits occurred on an average of once a month. The drugs which he took regularly, and in extra strength at the first intimations of his fits, became gradually more effective in controlling his movements, but less frequently could he ward off the violent stage of his attack until he found a convenient place in which to lie down. Twice within fourteen years he was arrested for drunkenness while staggering along the street towards a chemist’s shop. Twice, he simply lay down on the pavement close in to the walls and allowed himself to be removed by ambulance. As often as possible he travelled by taxi or by a lift in a friend’s car.

  The porter of his flats had once found him, curled up and kicking violently, in the lift, and Ronald had subsequently gone over the usual explanations in patient parrot-like sequence. And, on these out-of-doors occasions, wherever they might take place, Ronald would go home to bed and sleep for twelve to fourteen hours at a stretch. But in latter years most of his fits occurred at home, in his room, in his one-roomed flat in the Old Brompton Road; so that his friends came to believe that he suffered less frequently than he actually did.

  Ronald had settled down to be an amiable fellow with a gangling appearance, slightly hunched shoulders, slightly neglected-looking teeth and hair going prematurely grey.

  ‘You could marry,’ said his doctor.

  ‘I couldn’t,’ Ronald said.

  ‘You could have children. Direct inheritance is very rare. The risk is very slight. You could marry. In fact, you ought’

  ‘I couldn’t,’ Ronald said.

  ‘Wait till you meet the right girl. The right girl can be very wonderful, very understanding, when a fellow has a disability like yours. It’s a question of meeting the right girl.’

  Ronald had met the right girl five years after his return from America. Her wonderful understanding of his fits terrified him as much as her beauty moved him. She was the English-born daughter of German refugees. She was brown, healthy, shining, still in her teens and splendidly built. For two years she washed his socks and darned them, counted his laundry, did his Saturday shopping, went abroad with him, slept with him, went to the theatre with him.

  ‘I’m perfectly capable of getting the theatre tickets,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling, I’ll get them in the lunch hour,’ she said.

  ‘Look, Hildegarde, it isn’t necessary for you to mother me. I’m not an imbecile.’

  ‘I know darling. You’re a genius.’

  But in any case the trouble between them had to do with handwriting. Hildegarde had taken to studying the subject, the better to understand the graphologist in her lover. Hildegarde took a short course, amazingly soaking up, by sheer power of memory, the sort of facts which Ronald had no ability to memorise and which in any case, if he was called upon to employ them, he would have felt obliged to look up in reference books.

  Thus equipped, Hildegarde frequently aired her facts, her dates, her documentary references.

  ‘You have a better memory than mine,’ Ronald said one Sunday morning when they were slopping about in their bedroom slippers in Ronald’s room.

  ‘I shall be able to memorise for both of us,’ she said. And that very afternoon she said, ‘Have you ever had ear trouble?’

  ‘Ear trouble?’

  ‘Yes, trouble with your ears?’

  ‘Only as a child,’ he said. ‘Earache.’

  She was by his desk, looking down at some handwritten notes of his.

  ‘The formation of your capital “I’s” denotes ear trouble,’ she said. ‘There are signs, too, in the variations of the angles that you like to have your own way, probably as the result of your mother’s early death and the insufficiency of your father’s interest in you. The emotional rhythm is irregular, which means that your behaviour is sometimes incomprehensible to those around you.’ She laughed up at him. ‘And most of all, your handwriting shows that you’re a sort of genius.’

  ‘Where did you get all this?’ Ronald said.

  ‘I’ve read some text-books. There must be something in it — it’s a branch of graphology, after all.’

  ‘Have you practised interpreting various people’s characters from their handwriting, and tested the results’ against experience?’

  ‘No, not yet. I’ve only just read the books. I memorised everything.’

  ‘Your memory is better than mine,’ Ronald said.

  ‘I’ll be able to remember for us both.’

  And he thought, when we’re married, she’ll do everything for both of us. So that, when he remonstrated against her obtaining the theatre tickets, and told her he could perfectly well get them — ‘I’m not an imbecile’ — and she replied, ‘I know, darling, you’re a genius’ — he decided to end the affair with this admirable woman. For it was an indulgent and motherly tone of voice which told him he was a genius, and he saw himself being cooked for, bought for, thought for, provided for, and overwhelmed by her in the years to come. He saw, as in a vision, himself coming round from his animal frenzy, his limbs still jerking and the froth on his lips — and her shining brown eyes upon him, her well-formed lips repeating as he woke such loving patronising lies as: ‘You’ll be all right, darling. It’s just that you’re a genius.’ Which would indicate, not her belief about his mental capacity but her secret belief in the superiority of her own.

  After the affair had ended Ronald took to testing his memory lest it was failing him as a result of his disease. On the Saturday morning when the small thin man, Patrick Seton, had been pointed out to him in the café as one who was coming up for committal on Tuesday, Ronald, having faintly felt a passing sense of recognition, and left the café, and gone home, began once more to think of the man. But Ronald could not recall him or anything to do with him. He wished he had asked Martin Bowles the man’s name. In a vexed way, Ronald sorted out his groceries, chucking them into their places in the cupboard. Then he went across to the pub.

  There, drinking dark stout, were white-haired, dark-faced Walter Prett, art-critic, who was looking at a diet sheet, Matthew Finch, with his colourful smile, and black curly hair, London correspondent of the Irish Echo, and Ewart Thornton, the dark, deep-voiced grammar-school master who was a Spiritualist. These were bachelors of varying degrees of confirmation.

  Ronald was actually forbidden alcohol, but he had found that the small quantity which he liked to drink made no difference to his epilepsy, and that the very act of ordering a drink gave him a liberated feeling.

  He took his beer, sat down at his friends’ table and soundlessly sipped. In nearly five minutes’ time he said, ‘Nice to see you all here.’

  Matthew Finch ran a finger through his black curls. Sometimes a desire came over Ronald to run his fingers through Matthew’s black curls, but he had given up wondering if he were a latent homosexual, merely on the evidence of this one urge. Once he had seen a married couple rumple Matthew’s hair in a united spontaneous gesture.

  ‘Nice to see you all together,’ Ronald said.

  ‘Eggs, boiled or poached only,’ Walter Prett read out in a sad voice from his diet sheet. ‘Sour pickles but not sweet pickles. No barley, rice, macaroni—’ he read quietly, then his voice became louder, and even Ronald, who was used to Walter Prett’s changing tones, was startled by this. ‘Fresh fruit of any kind, including bananas, also water-packed canned fruits,’ Walter remarked modestly. ‘No butter,’ he shrieked, ‘no fat or oil,’ he roared.

  ‘I’ve got mounds of homework,’ said Ewart Thornton, ‘because the half-term tests have begun.’

  Matthew went over to the bar and brought back two pickled onions on a plate, and ate them.

  Chapter II

  IT WAS six o’clock in the evening of that Saturday in a third-floor double room in Ebury Street. Patrick Seton sat in a meagre arm-chair which, since he was narrow at the shanks and shoulders, he did not fill as people usually did. Alice Dawes was propped in one of the divan beds, still half-dressed. Her friend, Elsie Forrest, sat on the other divan a
nd folded Alice’s skirt longwise.

  ‘If only you would eat something you would see the thing in proportion,’ Elsie said.

  ‘God, how can I eat? Why should I eat?’ Alice said. ‘You ought to build up your strength,’ Patrick Seton said in his voice which seemed to fade away at the end of each sentence.

  ‘What’s the use of her building up her strength if she’s going to lose it that way?’ Elsie said.

  ‘It was only a suggestion,’ Patrick said, so that they could hardly hear the last syllable.

  ‘Well, I’m not going to do it,’ Alice said. ‘You’ll have to think of something else.’

  ‘There’s this unfortunate occurrence next week….’

  ‘I don’t see,’ said Elsie, ‘how they can bring you up on a charge if they haven’t any grounds at all.’

  ‘Not the slightest grounds,’ Patrick said, more boldly than usual. ‘I’ll be acquitted. It’s a case of a jealous, frustrated woman trying to get her own back on me.’

  ‘You must have had to do with her,’ Elsie said.

  ‘I never touched her, and I give you my word of honour,’ Patrick said. ‘It’s all her imagination. She took a fancy to me at a séance, and I was sorry for her because she was lonely, and then I took rooms at her place and gave her advice. Of course, now, she’s made up this utter entire fabrication. That’s my defence. An utter, entire and absolute fabrication.’

  ‘Funny the police are taking it up if they’ve no proof,’ Elsie said.

  Alice said from the bed, ‘I’ve got every faith in Patrick, Elsie. The police wouldn’t allow him his freedom if they thought he was guilty. They would have him under arrest.’

  ‘Well, if he’s so sure he’s going to get off, why did he bother to tell you? It’s a shame upsetting you like this in your condition.’

  ‘I only,’ Patrick said softly, stroking his silver-yellow hair with his thin grey hand, and gazing at Alice with his pale juvenile eyes, ‘wanted to put it to Alice that after Tuesday and when this unfortunate occurrence is over we could make a fresh start if she would see the specialist and have something done before nature takes its course, and——’

  ‘I won’t have an abortion,’ Alice said. ‘I’d do anything else for you, Patrick, you know that. But I won’t have it done. I’d be terrified.’

  ‘There’s no danger,’ Patrick said. ‘Not these days.’

  ‘I would never risk it,’ Alice said. ‘Not with my disease.’

  ‘He may be unlucky on Tuesday,’ Elsie said.

  ‘No question of it,’ Patrick said.

  ‘Oh, Elsie, you don’t know Patrick,’ Alice said.

  Elsie said, ‘Why don’t you both skip off abroad this week-end, while there’s time?’

  Alice looked at Patrick, clutching her throat, for she had once been to a school of drama, and though she was not an insincere girl, she sometimes remembered to express those emotions which she wished to reveal, by certain miming movements of the head, hands, shoulders, feet, eyes and eyelids. So she clutched her throat and looked at Patrick to convey a vulnerable anticipation of his reply.

  His reply was so low-voiced that Elsie said ‘What?’

  ‘Difficulty about passports if one is discovered. It would’ — his voice rose to loud assertion — ‘look like an admission of guilt.’

  ‘Patrick is right.’ Alice’s hand dropped from her throat and lay limp, palm-upward, on the divan-cover.

  ‘You’re going to leave Alice in a nice pickle if the case goes against you,’ Elsie said. ‘How long could you get at the outside?’

  ‘Oh, Elsie,’ said Alice. ‘Don’t.’

  Patrick looked at Elsie as if this remark were sufficient reply.

  ‘And when,’ said Elsie, ‘does your divorce case come up?’

  ‘In a couple of months,’ said Patrick, crossing his knees and looking down upon those knees.

  ‘What date?’

  ‘Twenty-fifth of November,’ Alice said. ‘I remember that date all right, because we’ll be able to get married on the twenty-sixth.’

  Patrick’s blue eyes dwelt upon her affectionately.

  ‘On the twenty-sixth,’ he whispered and closed his eyes for a moment to savour his joy.

  ‘I feel hungry,’ Alice said.

  ‘Put your skirt on,’ Elsie said, ‘and we’ll go and get something. Don’t eat anything greasy, you’ll only bring it up again.’

  Alice began wearily to get up.

  ‘I’m starving,’ she said.

  Elsie said, ‘Did you remember to take your injection this morning?’

  ‘Of course,’ Alice said. ‘Don’t be silly. Patrick gives me my injection every morning, regularly.’ She pointed to the jug with the syringe stuck into it.

  ‘Well, I only wondered, because you said you were so hungry. Don’t diabetics always get hungry if they don’t have their injections?’

  ‘She’s hungry because she brought up her lunch,’ said Patrick defensively.

  Elsie looked at him suspiciously. ‘I hope you do give her the injection regularly,’ she said. ‘She needs taking care of.’

  It was then Patrick’s mind turned a corner.

  But he replied meekly: ‘Give her a good meal.’ He stroked Alice’s cheek. ‘Don’t work too hard tonight, darling.’

  ‘I doubt if I can go,’ said Alice who was standing shakily while zipping up her skirt. ‘Elsie will have to ring up.’

  ‘She’ll have to get an easier job,’ Elsie said. ‘Coffee-bar work is too hard for a girl in her condition.’

  ‘What do you see in him?’ Elsie said.

  Alice took her mouthful of omelette at slow motion to denote reflectiveness, although she knew the answer.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m in love with him. He’s got something. You don’t know how wonderful he can be when we’re alone. He’s so good on the spiritual side. He recites poetry so beautifully. He’s a sort of a real artist.’

  ‘I’ll agree,’ Elsie said, ‘he’s a first-rate medium. That I do admit.’

  ‘And he’s got a soul.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Elsie, ‘I see that. But you know, he’s a bit old for you.’

  ‘I like an older man. I think there’s something special about an older man.’

  ‘Yes, but you wouldn’t call him much of a man. I mean, if you didn’t know him, if you just saw him in the street without knowing he was a medium, you’ld think he was a little half-pint job.’

  ‘But I do know him. He means everything to me. He loves poetry and beauty.’

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ Elsie said. ‘I’ve never really trusted him. He hasn’t got a cheque book, you told me yourself. Now that’s funny, for one thing.’

  ‘He’s not mean with his money. I’ve never said—’

  ‘No, but he hasn’t got a cheque book, the fact remains.’

  ‘I think that’s a materialistic way to judge. Patrick is not a materialist.’

  ‘No,’ said Elsie, ‘I don’t say he is. But I think he gets carried away and makes up a lot of these stories he___’

  ‘Oh, Elsie, a man like Patrick must have had a remarkable life. He’s been through it. You can see that. And his wife must have been hell. Do you know, she—’

  ‘Funny thing about that divorce,’ Elsie said, ‘he doesn’t seem much worried about it.’

  ‘No, he’s just waiting for it to come through, that’s all.’

  ‘You’ld think he’d have a bit more to do with the lawyers than he seems to have. And she might claim on him—’

  ‘She hasn’t a leg to stand on in the case. He’s divorcing her, she’s not divorcing him.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wouldn’t like to ask. It would be indelicate.’

  ‘Seen a photo?’

  ‘No, Elsie. Patrick isn’t that sort of man, Elsie.’

  ‘And about this at the Magistrate’s Court on Tuesday,’ Elsie said, ‘well, I don’t know what to think.’

  Alice started to cry.


  ‘You’re only upsetting yourself,’ Elsie remarked, while she ate steadily on as one who proves, by eating on during another’s distress, the unshakable sanity of their advice. Elsie also permitted herself to say, as she reached for another roll, ‘And you’re kidding yourself where Patrick’s concerned. I don’t believe half a word he says. I think he’s in trouble. You take my advice, you would clear off now, have the baby in a home, get it adopted, and start afresh.’

  Alice said, ‘I’ll never do that, never. I trust him.’

  ‘He wanted you to get rid of the kid.’

  ‘Men are like that.’

  ‘Stop crying,’ Elsie said, ‘people are looking at you.’

  ‘I can’t help it when you call him a liar. What about the message he got for you from Colin that night at the Wider Infinity? You didn’t say that was lies. You said___’

  ‘Oh, he’s a good medium. But when Patrick’s under the control I shouldn’t think he could help saying what comes to him from the other side.’

  At eight o’clock Patrick Seton walked along the Bayswater Road, turned off it, then turned again into a cul-de-sac, at the end of which he mounted the steps of a house converted into flats where he pressed the top left-hand bell.

  Presently the door was opened by a tall, skinny, young man of about twenty-three, with a cheerful smile.

  ‘Oh, Patrick!’ he said, politely standing back to let Patrick pass into the passage.

  ‘Well, Tim,’ said Patrick as he climbed the stairs, ‘and how’s the Central Office of Information?’