Creeps by Night: Chills and Thrills

And that was the first time that night that I looked at the little bronze clock which stood at the right-hand corner of my writing table. Its hands stood — if I close my eyes I can see them now, not a picture of them, nor the memory of them, but the very damn things themselves — they stood at seven minutes and a half to nine. Not eight, or seven and three-quarters to, but seven and a half to. I said:

“I’ll go there first, and wait for you. And when you do come in... well, just you look out, my girl! That’s all.”

She didn’t laugh this time. There came that little deep note into her voice which always sounded when she would say something of importance. She said: “Darling, you mustn’t, mustn’t, mustn’t! Not after you’ve been away such days of months.” And then she did laugh again, only this time it was a little double-noted laugh which, to me, was a symbol of all her magic provocativeness, and, too, of all the tender, mad, glorious, wild redemptions of provocation that afterwards would come... She said, after that laugh:

“Such days of months! This, Ivor, is a special night. An extra special command night. Come at ten, my darling; not a moment later, and not half a minute before. I’ll be ready, I promise you. And when it is ten, not a moment later, and not half a moment before, you’ll believe that ten was worth waiting for.”

I heard the little metallic click of finality which so abruptly ends a telephone conversation. Sometimes I wonder whether I thought anything special about that particular click. Whether I did or not I can’t remember. Sometimes it seems to me so vastly important that I should... But at other times it doesn’t seem to matter whether I do or not...

Anyhow, there I was left, with the dumb black instrument in my hands, and my eyes on the clock.

Bascombe came in. He coughed. That perfectly discreet, what-the-devil-are-you-up-to cough of the perfect manservant. I went back to my dinner. I was sorry that the soup was finished. I know now that it had been very good soup, as good in its way as was the rest of the meal. There is nothing like disappointment turned joy for giving a man zest; zest even for the enjoyment of lesser things than promise holds.

I firmly believe that Bascombe was incapable of listening at doors. And quite firmly I believe that, that night, he knew as well as did I the gist of that telephonic talk of mine. I had just finished my peach when there came another of his coughs. This time an excuse-me-sir-but-if-you-are-not-too-busy-I-would-like-to-speak-to-you cough. He said:

“Might I suggest, sir, that there are still two dozen of His Lordship’s port? Only half-bottles, sir, but two dozen.”

“Bascombe,” I said, “make it one dozen and ten.”

He carried the two bottles in, dust and cobwebs and all, as if they had been twin children which all his life he had longed for.

I must say old Ribbleford knew something about wine. It was good port. The best port I’ve ever tasted. I lingered over it a bit. I was trying to kill time, and this seemed a pleasant weapon. I lingered until the clock on the mantelpiece — I believe it was five minutes fast — said nine-thirty-five. And then I took my glass, and I got up, and I went over to that clock. I was damn fool enough to drink its health. I opened the foolish old chap’s case, and moved the hands round until they stood, not at a minute past ten, not at a minute before, but just exactly at ten o’clock. I was rather like that in those days. If I could give myself a symbol I could picture Claire, or the incident or emotion which the symbol symbolized, picture her so really that often did I stretch out a hand to touch her...

I was very successful then. Quite suddenly, and most damnably acutely, I saw her...

First I saw her as I thought I might see her at ten o’clock — not a minute past or half a minute to, but at ten o’clock exactly. And that, believe me, was a sight so exquisite in its intrinsic beauty and in its ineffable promise that almost I staggered on my feet...

And then I saw Claire as first I had seen her... I didn’t want then to think about that. I don’t want to write about it. Before she met me there had been no happiness for Claire. That much she told me, and that’s all... I didn’t want to think about it; not even what my chance passing by had helped her to avert... But I did not mind thinking, as I stood there drinking my port before that mantelpiece, of another time — I think it was three months after that first meeting — when Claire, now clothed as befitted her beauty, and housed as befitted her, or as nearly befitting her as my pocket would allow, first became that mistress who was to be more friend than any wife, more lovely than any mere beauty, more faithful than any simple wench, yet with her lover more gloriously wanton than any whose wantonness is their all.