Читать книгу The First Time He Died - Ethel Lina White - Страница 8

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FEELING that the game was up, Charlie was on the point of opening his eyes when Puggie's paralysed brain was jolted into action. He clapped his hands and made vigorous passes in the shadow.

"Skit, skit," he cried.

Then he turned to the undertaker.

"That cat got in again," he explained. "It was a great pet of the poor chap. He was passionately fond of animals, you know. If you don't mind coming out, we'll close the door."

"But are you sure it's not still in the room?" asked the undertaker. "We'd better make certain."

"No, I saw it streak down the stairs."

The door had barely closed on the two men when Charlie realised that the danger was not over. Once again he felt as though the back of his throat were being tickled with a feather. He panted and gulped alternately, while tears were forced into his eyes and trickled down his cheeks.

It has been mentioned that sounds were audible all over the cottage. While he could still hear footsteps, he suddenly burst out into an explosion of coughing.

It was impossible to smother the noise with the bedclothes, for he could not free his arms. With an effort he managed to roll on to his face, only to discover that in that position he could not breathe.

When he tried to turn on his back again, in his trussed-up condition, he only fell into his original place, with his mouth buried in the pillow. Terrified of his helplessness, he did not mind now what noise he made, so long as he could attract attention to himself.

The undertaker, who was walking down the stone-flagged path of the little garden, heard the distressing sounds. He stopped, turned round, and looked up in surprise at the death-chamber, where the whooping seemed to be located.

He realised his mistake when he saw Mrs. Vera Baxter standing in the window of the next room. Her fair head was bent over her lace handkerchief, and her slight frame was shaken with violent gusts of coughing.

"She's got a shocking cold," he reflected. "She'll be next to be put down, if she doesn't take care."

It never occurred to him to wonder why she had pulled up the blind of the house of mourning.

Vera continued to bark like a walrus, until the undertaker had closed the gate and disappeared round the bend of the road. Then she rushed into the next room, her eyes blazing with temper.

Puggie had just finished unbinding Charlie's arms and was patting him on the back.

"Poor chap had the devil of a fright. He'd turned turtle, 't other way round, and—"

He broke off at the sight of Vera's furious face.

"You fool," she stormed. "You utter fool. Why didn't you sweep that man out of the room quickly as I told you? Had you to jaw about the War?"

"Well," replied Puggie feebly, "we both fought on the same side, you know. I thought it rather a good line. Besides, I'd covered up Charlie's face so you couldn't see him smoke."

"He did," chimed in Charlie bitterly. "With a bit of tissue-paper right over my mouth."

"Couldn't you find a feather?" asked Vera. "That would have given away the show even better."

"I nearly choked," said Charlie. "The agony was terrible."

He considered himself the injured party with a healthy claim for compensation, so was astonished when Vera turned upon him.

"Can't you stand the least little thing? Are you a man, or a cry-baby? It was nothing but nerves—and I'm fed up with both of you."

Puggie hurriedly offered her a cigarette and Charlie ran to find a lighter. Both men watched her anxiously as she puffed away fiercely. When the pinched look left her small face, they knew that her temper was over.

"Sorry to fly off the handle," she said, with her old ringing laugh. "Oh, boys, what a life. After this, I'll never try to cheat even the railway company."

"Well, we've crossed another bridge safely," gloated Puggie, patting her on the shoulder.

"There's to-morrow," Charlie reminded them. "I'll catch cold in that icy attic and cough again. I'd better stay in the kitchen."

"I should," agreed Vera. "Any one who comes to the back door can see you through the window. Won't they have fun?...No, you complete idiot, you stay upstairs until it's dark and the blinds are down."

As Charlie was obediently climbing up the ladder which led to the attic, she pulled him back.

"Remember, you've got to settle on your new name to-day. If you can't make up your mind, I'll find you a name you won't like."

As he sat in the attic, wrapped in a travelling-rug and with his feet on a stone hot-water bottle, Charlie reflected that it was really extraordinarily difficult to re-make a person. Little things that got settled easily and naturally in the ordinary course of birth, threatened to become complications, or even dangers, in a second incarnation.

On one point, however, he was clear. He intended to have a brave new name with which to score over Puggie Williams. The trouble was that he had to reject his favourites, because Vera had explained to him that he must keep his initials.

"If you don't, we shall have to scrap too many of your belongings," she told him.

"Besides," added Puggie, "you might forget and sign your old initials. I often have, myself."

Charlie racked his brains until the light gradually faded and he could scarcely see through the small ivy-choked window, set in the sloping roof. All day long the door-bell had been ringing intermittently, presumably bringing flowers for him. These signs of his popularity were tonic and made him forget the cold tip to his nose.

Presently, he received his inspiration.

"Chester Beaulieu."

He could see it written in hotel-registers and printed in newspapers. Jumping up, he spied from his loop-hole and saw that all the lamps in the road were lit. As he judged it was safe to go down to the kitchen, he crept down the narrow stairs and along the passage. He could see a crack of light under the door which told him that the blinds were drawn, and he heard a murmur of voices.

With a sudden suspicion that they might be talking about him, he stopped to listen.

"I know this," declared Vera. "If I had my life over again, I wouldn't make the same mistake twice."

"You would," Puggie told her. "But with a different partner."

As it was too draughty to linger, Charlie pushed open the door. He received no welcome, and there were no signs of tea. The kitchen looked cheerless, for the floor was littered with straw and scraps of calico, torn from an old sheet.

Both Vera and Puggie were reduced to a state of nervous prostration. They had believed that they could manufacture a dummy quite easily—taking it in their stride, as an eleventh-hour job. But the reality had nearly broken their hearts. The difficulty of disposing of all the leaden weights—which were to duplicate Charlie's weight—was almost overwhelming.

Charlie burst into tactless laughter when he saw the swollen misshapen bundle, which was rendered doubly grotesque by a mask glued to one side of its alleged head.

"If that looks like a body wire me at my own expense," he told them. "Is this supposed to be me?"

"He's right," agreed Puggie, as he kicked the dummy and stubbed his toe against its metallic lining. "This chap has too many guts as it is. He doesn't want any more. Let's park the rest of the weights in the shell."

"They'll rattle, you fool," snapped Vera.

"Not if we tie them up in rags."

"But they might move and shift the weight when the coffin is lifted."

"Chance it, and call it a day."

"No, it's got to be a job."

"Well, I'm through. Sewing isn't a man's work."

Puggie straightened his back and lit his pipe, in token of mutiny. Charlie settled himself before the fire and warmed his knees, while Vera was left to finish the dummy.

"Don't you boys strain yourselves," she advised with sugary venom.

"Shall I help you?" offered Charlie.

"Can you sew?"

"I don't know. But I'll try."

"Stay where you are, then."

Vera's thoughts were bitter as she stitched away furiously at the coarse sacking. Her back ached, her head was splitting, and her fingers were sore from pricks. Now that she was single-handed, she began to experience the nerve-racking sensations of a race against the clock. Something that would fool the undertaker, had to be buried with ceremony, to-morrow afternoon.

She promised herself that once she was out of her present jam, she would play straight and cling to security. No more hitting the high spots, but a quiet life in the country. After a girlhood of shifts and indignities, with the hectic interlude of the Riviera, she wanted peace and quiet.

Men were no good and Charlie was only a handicap. As she made the admission, the Devil slipped in through a crack in her brain. He reminded her that she was free in the eyes of the world. Once she received the insurance, there was nothing to stop her disappearing into the blue, where she could wear breeches, grow cabbages, and start a feud with the rector's wife.

The next second she was furious with herself, for having even thought of the supreme dishonesty of deserting her partners in fraud. She sent the Devil packing with a flea in his ear.

But he was not disheartened by the result of his experiment. At least, he had proved that the door of her mind was not sealed against his entrance, and he knew that next time she saw him, he would not appear so ugly.

"What are you thinking of?" asked Charlie.

"You'd never guess," she told him.

"Well, I was thinking of you. It's going to be lonely in lodgings. I shall be counting the days to seeing you again."

"Sure of me, aren't you? How do you know I shan't take the opportunity of losing you?"

Charlie began to laugh at the mere suggestion of treachery.

"I feel inspired about this business now," he said. "I've been reading 'The Statue and the Bust' when I was in the attic. The Major must have been potty over poetry. I found a Browning chucked away with the rubbish. Fine stuff. It says indecision is the only sin, and you must stake your counter boldly, whether you're winning or losing."

"Not me," grunted Puggie. "I'll stick to my shilling with the two heads."

Charlie took no notice of the interruption.

"It has reconciled me," he said, "to being a thief."

"We're not that," objected Vera. "We're not stealing from a person. I've always paid my way and been honest. It's quite a different thing to do a company."

"It's a penal offence. But I'd do anything once after reading that poem. So long as it was not cruel. It's inconceivable to me how a man can murder his wife."

He looked around at the cracked yellow plaster walls, which had enclosed so many generations, as though asking them to bear witness of his words, as he added, "I simply could not be cruel to any woman."

"I could be cruel to a man," declared Vera as she jabbed the needle into her thumb. "Get off your perch, Charlie, and tell me if you've chosen your name."

"I have." Charlie rose and made a low bow. "Chester Beaulieu, at your service."

"Pronounced 'Bewley'," put in Puggie.

Charlie's jaw dropped.

"Why will they corrupt these fine old English names?" he asked. "It doesn't sound French that way. I'll have to make another choice."

He looked so downcast that, to her own surprise, Vera felt an impulse to protect him from Puggie's derision.

"Even 'Bewley's' a better name than yours," she said.

"Which name?" asked Puggie. "Oh, you mean 'Williams', of course."

Charlie threw him an envious glance, as he wondered again over the secret of Puggie's identity. He might even be a throw-out from the peerage. At the thought he changed the subject quickly.

"Any more flowers for me?"

"A darned sight too many. I've been on my pins all day taking them in."

"I must see them...It seems rather a pity one has to die to find out how much the world thinks of you."

"But you know why you're so popular, don't you?" asked Puggie. "It's because you've put Vera back into circulation. The Wrights have rung up and asked her to stay with them in the country for a week, instead of going back to an empty cottage. And you may bet the suggestion did not come from Lady Wright."

Charlie's face was flaming as he turned to Vera.

"You didn't accept?"

"Of course I did," she snapped. "If it's known that the cottage is shut up directly after the funeral, no one will come nosing round while you're shaving and preparing for your getaway."

"But I won't have it. That fat old Wright will maul you when he's pretending to comfort you."

"Don't worry." Vera's laugh was thin. "I'm not going to weep on Daddy Wright's shoulder. I've had enough of men for a bit, thank you."

She continued to cobble the dummy with huge stitches, until she had satisfied her own standard. She looked a pitiful little shrimp when she rose from her stooping posture. Her face was pinched with weariness, as she pushed back a strand of fair hair which blinded her.

"Take it upstairs at once," she commanded, "and pray that no one comes to the front door while we're doing it."

The transit of the dummy was a perilous adventure. Weighing as much as a man, it sagged and bulged in the middle as they dragged it up the narrow stairs. They got in each other's way, and shouted contrary orders, which resulted in savage treatment of Vera's handiwork. Just as they tugged it on to the landing, the stitches burst in a weak spot, releasing a weight which rolled from step to step down, to the passage.

Charlie was running after it, when they were petrified by a loud ring at the front door.

Like the dread shadow of a shark, they could see a black outline through the frosted glass panels. At the sight they lost their nerve completely. Consciousness of guilt made them cowards. They were positive that the dark shape had witnessed their suspicious action.

Charlie bolted into the kitchen and Vera fled after him, leaving Puggie to face the music.

With his back to the wall, he became a different person. He kicked the dummy farther along the passage, pulled up his socks, and sauntered with a nonchalant air down the stairs, prepared to open the door to the Devil.

The caller was a lady. She was tall and gaunt, with the roughly blocked face and figure of a Rodin sculpture. Although she was well dressed, she appeared to have made a hurried toilet, for her white hair—coarse as linen threads—was a tangled bush above burning black eyes.

She gave the impression of a primitive female, violently rammed into her best clothes, with a finishing-school accent clamped on to her northern burr.

When she spoke, her voice was so strong and metallic that Puggie and Vera could hear every word.

"I'm Miss Baxter. I've come to see my dead brother."