he told me to get,” said Celia.
“Are you afraid to call it by its name?” said Mr. Kelly.
“That is all,” said Celia. “Now tell me what to do, because I have to go.”
Drawing himself up for the third time in the bed Mr. Kelly said:
“Approach, my child.”
Celia sat down on the edge of the bed, their four hands mingled on the counterpane, they gazed at one another in silence.
“You are crying, my child,” said Mr. Kelly. Not a thing escaped him.
“How can a person love you and go on like that?” said Celia. “Tell me how it is possible.”
“He is saying the same about you,” said Mr. Kelly.
“To his funny old chap,” said Celia.
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Kelly.
“No matter,” said Celia. “Hurry up and tell me what to do.”
“Approach, my child,” said Mr. Kelly, slipping away a little from his surroundings.
“Damn it, I am approached,” said Celia. “Do you want me to get in beside you?”
The blue glitter of Mr. Kelly’s eyes in the uttermost depths of their orbits became fixed, then veiled by the classical pythonic glaze. He raised his left hand, where Celia’s tears had not yet dried, and seated it pronate on the crown of his skull—that was the position. In vain. He raised his right hand and laid the forefinger along his nose. He then returned both hands to their point of departure with Celia’s on the counterpane, the glitter came back into his eye and he pronounced:
“Chuck him.”
Celia made to rise, Mr. Kelly pinioned her wrists.
“Sever your connexion with this Murphy,” he said, “before it is too late.”
“Let me go,” said Celia.
“Terminate an intercourse that must prove fatal,” he said, “while there is yet time.”
“Let me go,” said Celia.
He let her go and she stood up. They gazed at each other in silence. Mr. Kelly missed nothing, his seams began to work.
“I bow to passion,” he said.
Celia went to the door.
“Before you go,” said Mr. Kelly, “you might hand me the tail of my kite. Some tassels have come adrift.”
Celia went to the cupboard where he kept his kite, took out the tail and loose tassels and brought them over to the bed.
“As you say,” said Mr. Kelly, “hark to the wind. I shall fly her out of sight tomorrow.”
He fumbled vaguely at the coils of tail. Already he was in position, straining his eyes for the speck that was he, digging in his heels against the immense pull skyward. Celia kissed him and left him.
“God willing,” said Mr. Kelly, “right out of sight.”
Now I have no one, thought Celia, except possibly Murphy.
3
The moon, by a striking coincidence full and at perigee, was 29,000 miles nearer the earth than it had been for four years. Exceptional tides were expected. The Port of London Authority was calm.
It was after ten when Celia reached the mew. There was no light in his window, but that did not trouble her, who knew how addicted he was to the dark. She had raised her hand to knock the knock that he knew, when the door flew open and a man smelling strongly of drink rattled past her down the steps. There was only one way out of the mew, and this he took after a brief hesitation. He spurned the ground behind him in a spring-heeled manner, as though he longed to run but did not dare. She entered the house, her mind still tingling with the clash of his leaden face and scarlet muffler, and switched on the light in the passage. In vain, the bulb had been taken away. She started to climb the stairs in the dark. On the landing she paused to give herself a last chance, Murphy and herself a last chance.
She had not seen him since the day he stigmatised work as the end of them both, and now she came creeping upon him in the dark to execute a fake jossy’s sixpenny writ to success and prosperity. He would be thinking of her as a Fury coming to carry him off, or even as a tipstaff with warrant to distrain. Yet it was not she, but Love, that was the bailiff. She was but the bumbailiff. This discrimination gave her such comfort that she sat down on the stair-head, in the pitch darkness excluding the usual auspices. How different it had been on the riverside, when the barges had waved, the funnel bowed, the tug and barge sung, yes to her. Or had they meant no? The distinction was so nice. What difference, for example, would it make now, whether she went on up the stairs to Murphy or back down them into the mew? The difference between her way of destroying them both, according to him, and his way, according to her. The gentle passion.
No sound came from Murphy’s room, but that did not trouble her, who knew how addicted he was to remaining still for long periods.
She fumbled in her bag for a coin. If her thumb felt the head she would go up; if her devil’s finger, down. Her devil’s finger felt the head and she rose to depart. An appalling sound issued from Murphy’s room, a flurry of such despairing quality that she dropped the bag, followed after a short silence by a suspiration more lamentable than any groan. For a moment she did not move, the power to do so having deserted her. No sooner did this return than she snatched up the bag and flew to the rescue, as she supposed. Thus the omen of the coin was overruled.
Murphy was as last heard of, with this difference however, that the rocking-chair was now on top. Thus inverted his only direct contact with the floor was that made by his face, which was ground against it. His attitude roughly speaking was that of a very inexperienced diver about to enter the water, except that his arms were not extended to break the concussion, but fastened behind him. Only the most local movements were possible, a licking of the lips, a turning of the other cheek to the dust, and so on. Blood gushed from his nose.
Losing no time in idle speculation Celia undid the scarves and prised the chair off him with all possible speed. Part by part he subsided, as the bonds that held him fell away, until he lay fully prostrate in the crucified position, heaving. A huge pink naevus on the pinnacle of the right buttock held her spellbound. She could not understand how she had never noticed it before.
“Help,” said Murphy.
Startled from her reverie she set to and rendered him every form of assistance known to an old Girl Guide. When she could think of nothing more she dragged him out of the corner, shovelled the rocking-chair under him, emptied him on to the bed, laid him out decently, covered him with a sheet and sat down beside him. The next move was his.
“Who are you?” said Murphy.
Celia mentioned her name. Murphy, unable to believe his ears, opened his eyes. The beloved features emerging from chaos were the face against the big blooming buzzing confusion of which Neary had spoken so highly. He closed his eyes and opened his arms. She sank down athwart his breast, their heads were side by side on the pillow but facing opposite ways, his fingers strayed through her yellow hair. It was the short circuit so earnestly desired by Neary, the glare of pursuit and flight extinguished.
In the morning he described in simple language how he came to be in that extraordinary position. Having gone to sleep, though sleep was hardly the word, in the chair, the next thing was he was having a heart attack. When this happened when he was normally in bed, nine times out of ten his struggles to subdue it landed him on the floor. It was therefore not surprising, given his trussed condition, that on this occasion they had caused the entire machine to turn turtle.
“But who tied you up?” said Celia.
She knew nothing of this recreation, in which Murphy had not felt the need to indulge while she