Willard (Ratman’s Notebooks) Page 3

  “I wasn’t doing anything,” I told him.

  “Well, for God’s sake, go and do it somewhere else. You’re damned lucky I didn’t kill you.”

  “You were driving far too fast,” I retorted. “You ought to be more careful.”

  He was going to hit me. I don’t think I’m a coward, though I certainly would never want to get into a fight if I could help it. But I simply couldn’t fight at that moment. I still had Socrates clasped under my jacket. I hadn’t had time to put him into my pocket. At the first blow the man might easily have hit him, perhaps even killed him. And I didn’t dare to put him down. The man would then have tried to kill him. So I just turned round and ran away as hard as I could.

  After I’d got about fifty yards, I realized he wasn’t coming after me. I turned to see what he was doing. “You’re yeller,” he shouted.

  “Yeller yourself,” I shouted back. “Why haven’t you got your L-plates up?”

  He nearly went purple at that. “You wait,” he roared. “I’ll get you yet.”

  He rushed back towards the car, where two or three of his pals had got out and were standing around. Obviously he intended to come after me in the car, and his pals with him. So I nipped off across a field, and got home quickly by the back way before he had time to see where I was going. I hope, all the same, I don’t meet him somewhere else.

  The fur on Socrates’ tail has got quite thick.

  I had an unpleasant time in the office today. My salary has been the same ever since before Father died. Ten years and not a single rise. Mother’s been at me time after time to go and see Jones and, as she calls it, “demand my rights.” She’s got an idea that because Father once owned the place some sort of hereditary vested interest must have descended to me. She quite ignores the fact that we had to sell out every share Father possessed to Jones. It wasn’t just Jones himself of course. He hadn’t much money at that time. He managed to get someone to back him. Mother feels we sold out for too little. In a way she’s right. But the business was doing badly for several years before Father’s death, and I could never have made a go of it. I know I’m not a businessman, and never will be. I suppose Mother knows too, but every now and then she tries to pump what she calls “ambition” into me. “Ambition!” As if I ever wanted to be a person like Jones.

  At any rate, she got me to promise to see Jones and ask for a rise. “If you can’t open your mouth and ask for a rise, you’re never going to get anywhere,” she said, probably truly. Not that I really want to get anywhere that I know of. I just want to stay where I am and have people leave me alone.

  I waited till after Jones had done the checks at half past eleven. Then I said, “I wonder if I could speak to you in private for a minute, Mr, Jones.” I don’t call him “Sir.” After all, as Mother says, it really should be him calling me “Sir.”

  “All right,” he said, “but better make it snappy. I haven’t much time to waste.”

  That made me nervous to start with. I don’t know whether he did it on purpose or not. All the staff say he’s terrified of anyone asking for a raise. He’s only made the place pay by cutting all the expenses to a minimum—all except his own salary. I know what that is. He’s doubled it since Father died, Oh he’s doing well enough. But all the same everyone says it really does upset him to be asked for a raise. He feels that if everyone got a raise the place would start losing money again, and then where’d he be? He’s a great one for saving the pence, though you wouldn’t say exactly that he lets the pounds look after themselves. When any of the staff want to speak to him in private, he knows it’s ten to one it’s a raise they’re after. He can’t very well refuse to see them, but that’s what he’d like to do.

  I followed him into his private office. Father’s office, really. I can’t think of it any other way. He didn’t sit down or ask me to. That would have looked as if he had time to talk. “Well? What is it?”

  “Please, Mr. Jones, I was wondering If you could see your way to increase my salary.”

  He interrupted me before I could get any further, shaking his head and putting on a most mournful expression. “I’m sorry. Things have got very tight. We’re having a terrible job making ends meet. We couldn’t manage it at all.”

  “But I haven’t had a raise since Father died, and everything’s getting dearer and dearer.”

  Another shake of his head. “No one knows that better than me. Costs rising the whole time. It’s the Devil’s own job making a profit—and besides you’re getting more than any cashier we ever had before. You should be very comfortably off, living out there with your mother, unmarried, and your own house . . .”

  “I’ve got a position to keep up.” This was a thing Mother’d told me to say. I didn’t like it very much, but I knew she’d ask me when I got home.

  “What position?”

  “Well, Father’s son and all that.”

  He sneered. “You cant go through life being ‘Father’s son.’ The sooner you get that into your head the better. And if I might give you another bit of advice when I’m at it, you should sell that house you live in. It’s far too big for the two of you, and too expensive. You’d get on a lot better if you moved to somewhere smaller. Now get back to your work. You may be thankful you’ve got a job and a well paid one at that, considering all you’re asked to do.”

  Next moment I was in the passage again, wondering how I’d got there. I went back to my desk in the Cash Office. When I tried to write I found my hand shaking. I couldn’t do anything for ten or fifteen minutes. I hate Jones.

  I dreaded going home. I knew Mother’d be at me. And sure enough, as soon as we sat down to tea, she started up. Had I spoken to Jones? What had he said? Why hadn’t I told him this and that? I told her as little as I could. Why she has to keep bludgeoning away at me I don’t know. She should realize by this time that I’m never going to be any good by her standards, or anyone else’s, I suppose. I wish she’d accept the fact that I’m a failure and not keep probing me for details. It’s not going to do any good. I am ashamed of myself, of being no more than I am. I am ashamed of what happened today with Jones. I hated telling her about it. I hate thinking about it. I hate Mother for having driven me to demand an interview with him. If she’d left me alone I’d never have said a word. Most of all, I hate Jones.

  As soon as we’d got the washing-up done, I escaped out into the garden. “Where are you away to now?” Mother called after me, but I pretended not to hear. It was dark. I went up the path to the tool shed. I’ve an old hurricane-lamp there. I lit it and waited.

  I had an overcoat on. So I wasn’t cold. Not the coat I go to the office in, but an old one of Father’s, which is far better quality and warmer than anything I could afford. The tool shed is just the same as it always was, I used to like coming here on rainy days when I was a child and talking to the gardener. The funny thing is that it still has the same smell as I remember it having in those days. A smell of dry earth perhaps, and some chemical . . . ? Lime? Bone-meal? I don’t know. I don’t even know what bone-meal is. Ground down bones, I suppose.

  There I was, anyhow, looking at the spades and forks hanging against the wall, a bit rusty perhaps, but pretty much the way they were in old William’s day, the old Pennsylvania lawnmower in the corner behind the door—and there was Socrates, peering out at me from a hole beneath the bench.

  “Socrates,” I said, “I’ve had a beastly day,”

  He came right out and hopped up a sort of staircase I’ve made out of old boxes on to the bench. Of course I’d a few scraps for him in my pocket, but for a long time I just stood there stroking him, mostly with one finger. It soothed me somehow doing this. I began to feel at peace, at ease.

  After a while Ma appeared with her latest family. I’ve taught them to understand a few things already, and of course Socrates is a great help. He acts as a sort of schoolteacher. They do a few tricks to order. One. of them is to tear up a newspaper. I had one with me tonight, just to see them at it. I unfo
lded one sheet and put it on the bench. “Tear it up,” I said.

  They certainly did. You should have seen the fury of them. It made me laugh. They tore it to shreds.

  “Stop!” I said, and they stopped just like that.

  Then I had an idea. If they would tear up paper to command, why not other things? Why not motor tires, for instance? Why not Jones’s motor tires? Of course motor tires are a lot tougher than paper. But if they went for the sides of the tires where there not so thick . . . People who make me suffer should suffer in return.

  “Where do you go to every night?” Mother asks me. “You can’t be working In the garden at this time of year. You couldn’t see to work.”

  Sometimes I tell her one thing. Sometimes another. “I’m going out for a walk,” I told her one night “Need a bit of exercise after being stuck in the office all day,”

  It was after eleven when I came back, but she had waited up for me. “Have a nice walk?”

  “Oh, yes, very nice. It’s a lovely frosty night. The sky’s quite clear. It’s almost as bright as day in the moonlight.”

  “I didn’t hear the gate creak, when you went out.”

  “No. I left it open when I came back from the office.”

  She can’t catch me out, though she’s always trying. I’ve begun to enjoy lying to her. Sometimes I lie to her when it’s not necessary.

  “Your father always insisted on the gate being kept shut, to keep the dogs out. They make a mess of the lawn.”

  She means they make messes on the lawn. “They can get in whether the gate’s shut or not,” I said. “The hedge is full of holes. They can get in anywhere they like.”

  “But your father had wire-netting put all round the hedge on the inside. I remember it cost quite a lot of money.”

  “It’s all rusted away.”

  Quite often I tell her the truth. “I’ve just been up at the tool shed.” But she doesn’t believe me. It might as well be another lie.

  “What do you do up at the tool shed?”

  “I sit there.”

  “You can’t just sit there for two hours doing nothing.”

  “Yes. I like it there.”

  “It must be cold out. You’d be far better sitting with me in the house, or do you find my company unbearable?”

  “No. I like sitting with you too.”

  She doesn’t know what to make of me. She thinks I have a girl, or a woman rather—not the sort of woman I could introduce to her. All the same, she longs to meet her. I imagine she wants to pour out a denunciation of sin and bring me back repentant to the fold. She’s very odd about it I think she respects me more now she thinks I’m a sinner than she did when she looked on me as an innocent lamb.

  She keeps saying it’s about time I got married, but she doesn’t really want me to marry. Not that there’s the slightest chance. No girl would look at me twice. Not unless she was desperate. Not even then. Girls have a great nose for money. They have to have. They’re like cats, prowling round to find the best place to have kittens. When Father was alive I used to sometimes notice girls running their eyes over me, but it never came to anything. I remember one of them telling me that she thought I would suit her best friend. But most of them didn’t even think I was up to that standard. I don’t know how they knew. Nowadays they don’t even give me a second glance.

  It’s not that I’m not attracted to them. They’d upset my life just as much as any other man’s if I didn’t watch myself. If there was just the sexual act, over and done with in five minutes, I wouldn’t mind. It’s the preliminaries and the consequences I won’t put up with. Why should I? Why be a slave? It’s easy enough to let off steam when you have to.

  It’s strange how obedient they are. I can see that tearing up newspapers might be fun—and there’s no doubt rats are playful. But fancy tearing up motor tires with your teeth. The secret, of course, is that they tear very little at a time. And it’s not just teeth. It’s teeth and claws. The claws go like fury.

  Doing Jones’s tires is going to be quite a thing. I will have to plan every detail like a military operation. Jones lives at the other end of town. The difficulty is going to be getting the rats there. I should like to take twelve as well as Socrates. Another difficulty. A thing like this should be rehearsed, time after time, till there is no possibility of mistake. I can’t rehearse. Not the actual assault, and that’s going to be the tricky part.

  I feel I have got to be very careful. Rats are regarded as Enemies of Man. Even the sentimentalists don’t protest about killing rats. They’re not like the bunnies, and the sweet little hares and the foxes. The reason is that everyone’s scared stiff of them. In my lifetime I’ve known people have more or less the same feeling about Germans and Japs. Now it’s Communists and Chinese. The best rat is a dead rat. I wonder if rats could be a danger to the whole human race. They might be if there was a struggle for survival after a nuclear war. They breed so quickly they might be able to reproduce before succumbing to atomic sickness.

  If I had a rehearsal it could only be by attacking the tires of some other car. Once one car has been done everyone is going to be on the alert. There will be rat-traps in garages and all sorts of things. I have no desire to ruin any other person’s tires—only Jones’s. In particular, I don’t want to try anything near home.

  One part I have been able to rehearse. I have been getting my team accustomed to travelling about in a suitcase. Of course I put Socrates in with them to keep them in order. He will be like the trainer travelling with the team. I suppose I’m the manager.

  First of all I just carried them about the garden. It was comic. I could feel them scurrying about inside the case. I had to say, “Quiet! Keep still!” It didn’t have much effect. I took them back to the shed. It’s going to take a bit more training to accustom them to the idea that once they’re in the case they must stay absolutely quiet and still till I let them out again. I couldn’t go on the bus with a case and have all sorts of squeaks and squeals coming from inside. People would look at me, specially if I seemed to be talking to my suitcase.

  I am having to change the team a bit. The best gnawers and clawers are not necessarily the most disciplined. I wouldn’t know which ones to leave out if it wasn’t for Socrates. When they come out of the box he snaps at the ones which have been giving trouble.

  One thing has been bothering me. They have been practicing on some old tire covers that were hanging up on the walls of our garage, relics of the days when we had a car. Jones’s tires will have air in them. As soon as the rats get through to the tube there’ll be a frightful hissing. Is that going to frighten the whole lot off? It doesn’t matter if it frightens the ones that have got through, but I don’t want it to start a general panic. I want to make sure he finds four flat tires first thing in the morning, not just one.

  I bought a packet of children’s balloons. I blow them up and let the air come hissing out while the rats are at the tires. I’ve also burst one or two. They’re getting accustomed to all sorts of noises. Whatever happens now they just go on. That’s discipline for you.

  This evening I made rather a funny discovery. I said good night to Mother and went up to my room in the usual way. As soon as I switched on the light the bulb went. Phut!—like that. I went down to the cupboard under the stairs where we keep spare bulbs, but there were none left. I wondered for a moment and then decided to borrow the bulb from what used to be the maid’s room, on the top floor at the back. It hadn’t been used for years—or so I thought.

  I went up, left the landing light on and the door open, but didn’t at first put on the light in the room itself. Then it struck me that the arrangement of the room was rather odd. So I put on the light. There was a deck-chair with cushions on it in the window, and on a table beside the chair Father’s old field glasses.

  Mother has been spying on me. Well! Let her spy. It’s not going to do me any harm, and if she catches her death of cold it’s her look-out. I took the bulb from the box-room instead
. I don’t want her to know I know. It might only lead to a fresh crop of questions, and bogus explanations by me.

  As it is, I don’t think she’ll see anything. Even if she did notice a rat occasionally it wouldn’t interest her. What she’s expecting is a “Female Form” flitting guiltily in or out of the tool-shed door. All the same, I’ll stick a bit of paper over the window of the tool shed. That’ll both convince her of the rightness of her suspicions, and make it less likely that she should see the rats.

  I wonder how long she’s been at it. Now I come to think of it, I came in in rather a hurry one night about a month ago and found her on the first landing with her coat and hat on—all dressed to go out in fact. “You’re not going out?” I said. “It’s frightfully cold.”

  “No, no. I’m not going out.”

  “You’ve not been out?”

  “No, no.” And then after a rather embarrassed pause, “I put on my coat and hat for a little. Is there any harm in that?” Mother would never tell a direct lie, but she has no compunction about leading you to believe what isn’t true. And it’s wonderful what old people can get away with. I simply thought, “Poor old Mother is getting old and a bit queer.” And I wondered how long it would be before I had to get her put in one of these old-people’s homes. Quite a relief when the time comes. I’d just as soon have the house to myself, but I’m sure she’ll fight tooth and nail to stay on here.

  Today I went over to have a look at Jones’s house. There is nothing very special about it. It’s not as big a house as ours and it hasn’t nearly as much garden, but of course it’s where it is that matters. Jones lives in the best neighbourhood, in among the local tycoons. That’s another way of saying he’s got a lot of uncaught crooks around him. He’s in his element.

  Everything about the house and garden is neat, tidy, and smart—just the way our place used to look when Father was alive. Not that Jones would need a gardener for all the bit of garden he has. Probably he and the wife look after it on Saturday afternoons. If so, you might say it’s a credit to him. Why people want to spend their time grubbing about in gardens just to impress the neighbours I don’t know.