Ratman's Notebooks Page 4

  ‘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 can’t 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 realise 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 school-teacher. 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 unfolded 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-tyres, for instance? Why not Jones’s motor-tyres? Of course motor-tyres are a lot tougher than paper. But if they went for the sides of the tyres where they’re 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 sometimes to 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 tyres 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 tyres 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 M
an. 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 tyres 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 tyres—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 practising on some old tyre covers that were hanging up on the walls of our garage, relics of the days when we had a car. Jones’s tyres 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 tyres 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 tyres. 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 ‘Goodnight’ 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.

  The garage is beside the house, though not actually part of it. When I first arrived it was standing open, with the car inside. Obviously I couldn’t hang about outside. Jones might have come out and seen me. So I walked past quickly close to the hedge. To begin with I had only that one glance through the gateway, because the hedge is high and too thick to be seen through. This was an advantage in a way. I didn’t want him peering out of his drawing room window and seeing me. I walked quickly on up the avenue, and on into another avenue. . . . I didn’t want anyone to notice me. I don’t think anyone did. I was just a chap out for a walk. I came back again about an hour and a half later. It was dusk, nearly dark. The garage door was shut and bolted. Going past quickly, not appearing to look in, I couldn’t make out if there was a padlock on it or not.

  I didn’t turn and have another look. Instead I went for another little walk and came back when it was quite dark. I was nervous and excited. I could feel my heart beating. No one to see me now. I opened one half of the gate, an iron gate, but it didn’t even squeak. I stood for a little inside the gate, in the shadow, where the light from the street lamp didn’t shine on me. The house looked rather bigger than in daylight, rather vague and mysterious. There was only light in one room, the drawing room, I suppose. Jones is careful with his money. No waste.

  Of course I still couldn’t see if there was a lock on the garage door or not. I couldn’t really see the garage door at all. I stole in a little further on tip-toe. Crunch! Crunch! They must spend a fortune on gravel these people. I skipped on to the grass. That was better. I reached the garage door with hardly any more noise. I felt it with my hands. It’s a wooden door with a bolt and padlock. Jones looks after his own.

  Suddenly there was a shriek behind me. I nearly died on the spot. It went through me as if my bowels had suddenly been snatched out and hurled into deep freeze. It was Jones’s daughter. Fortunately she didn’t see my face. I was too frightened to turn round. I stood there, frozen, one hand on the lock. I’d been going to give it a good tug to see if it would come off.

  After a moment during which both the girl and I stood absolutely still, she ran up to the front door shouting, ‘Daddy! Come quick. There’s a man trying to steal the car.’

  I came to life
at that and tore away as fast as I could. I wasn’t sure which way to go. If I came dashing on to the main road, a lot of people might see me and be able to point me out if the whole Jones family and all the neighbours came pouring after me in full hue and cry. Instead I went away from the main road, running on my toes as fast as I could go. I knew there was a cross avenue about fifty yards away. I turned into this and stopped running. I sauntered along slowly as if I hadn’t a care in the world.

  I took the next turn to the right and came back to the main road about a hundred and fifty yards higher up than Jones’s avenue. There was a bus-stop opposite. A bus to the city-centre had just pulled away from it. I hadn’t a hope of catching it.

  There aren’t many buses on that route, but I was opposite an avenue which leads down to another main bus-route about half-a-mile away. Crossing the road I would be in full view of anyone who might come out of Jones’s avenue. On the other hand anyone who noticed me where I was, lurking in the shadow of the hedge, would immediately become suspicious. I walked boldly across the road. I couldn’t make up my mind what to do. I was half-tempted to nip into one of the gardens and lie low for a while. But if I were caught in somebody’s garden it would look very suspicious. I’d be brought along for Miss Jones to identify and even if nothing could be proved Jones would give me the sack first thing in the morning. He’d have every right to. After all I’m cashier in the firm. No one could be expected to entrust money to a person caught lurking in somebody else’s garden at night.

  I stood at the bus-stop for about half-a-minute. I felt horribly obvious. There didn’t seem to be another soul about. Anyone looking for a young man of medium height and slim build would immediately spot me. Once Jones saw me he’d want to know what I was doing at this end of town. It would be no good saying I had been visiting friends. The police would want to know what friends. . . . And if I said I’d just been out for a walk that would sound pretty thin. There are plenty of good walks about home.