CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

New Zealand Listener, Volume 20, Issue 508, 18 March 1949, Page 20

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

Written for "The Listener’

by

M.

B.

GOT quite a shock when I ran into Muriel the other day. I can never get out of the habit. of seeing her as a somewhat faf and freckled seventeen-year-old, terribly in earnest about Life, but nevertheless given to giggling in corners. Now she’s quite different, poised, rather on the thin side, and certainly not given to giggling. I suppose there’s nothing like grief for taking away puppy-fat and ebullience. Muriel’s only.21 but she looks older, When she was 18 she married Gordon Blake, a very dashing ex-flyer who insisted on going right on being dashing | in peacetime, Actually he was an ideal husband for Muriel, because he was always making her leave the dishes in the sink and dash off to a party or a dance. Unfortunately on their way back from

one Gordon drove their new car straight over the level crossing, at quite the wrong time. He was killed instantly. Muriel was in hospital for months, and during that time produced a_ son, (Two and a half pounds, it was, and I remember the staff was very smug about having kept it alive.) Everybody went round saying what a good thing it was for Muriel to have the baby, to take her mind off things. But I never thought it was a

good thing. If Muriel hadn’t had the baby she’d have gone back to her old job (quite an interesting one) agd lived once more the sort of life that is normal for girls of her own age, and had companions of her own age. ‘As it is she leads an uneventful existence at home with her mother and the baby, diversified by occasional trips to Gordon’s parents. (The only difference is that at her home the doting grandparents think Douglas just like Muriel, and at the Blakes he’s the absolute image of Gordon.) Yes, Muriel is lonely. Unhappiness is always a lonely business, especially for the young. After the accident her friends were lavish with flowers and letters of condolence but more sparing of their company. They sensed she was different, marked off from them by the barrier of her tragedy. This feeling would have worn off in time if Muriel had been leading the same sort of life as her friends, but all this time she was withdrawing further and further into the narrow world bounded by the four walls of her home and the four sides of her baby’s cot. ’ When I met Muriel this day in town she told me she had taken a cottage’ at the beach for the summer. She thought it would be good for the baby. (Wanted a change from home, was my explanation.) Would I come up for the weekend? I said I’d be -delighted. I’m very

fond of Muriel, and she’s always appeared to have a certain dmownht of time for me, which is odd ‘considering that I used to teach her English and Latin at High School. And I was ‘anxious to renew acquaintance with youhg Douglas, now rising two. An interesting age, they tell me. I got to the place fairly late on Friday evening, after groping around in the rain for at least half-an-hour. I suppose the bus driver had some excuse for being vague, as Muriel had moved in only, the previous Tuesday, and I couldn’t remember the name of the people who owned the house. I was thoroughly badtempered by the time I found it, but

there was Muriel in the doorway kissing me firmly on a rather damp cheek, and behind her a fire of driftwood and leaping flames. And soon I had been: hustled out of my wet things and was. stretched in front of the fire listening to Muriel dishing dinner. One thing about Muriel, she’s wonderful in the house and her cooking’s excellent, which is more than could be said for her Latin. "Where's Douglas?" I asked, as Muriel came in with the cloth. "Asleep," said Muriel, "He hated going to bed. He wanted to see you." We tiptoed into the bedroom. I’ve always thought babies infinitely more attractive asleep than awake. Douglas was no exception, He had Muriel’s colouring, pink, white, and gold. And as if this wasn’t enough to tug at the thickened heartstrings of an unemotional schoolmaam, he was clutching a teddy bear. Children always seem to me so much more human when they've reached the stage of being attached to something inanimate. Affection towards a parent can be diagnosed by the cynic as cupboard love, towards a teddy bear, never. — "He’s adorable!" I exclaimed with genuine enthusiasm. 5 "Even more so awake," whispered his fond mother. I took another look’ at Douglas. (continued on next page) 3

(continued. from previous page) "Don’t you tie him in?’ I asked-I remembered that my own nephews, at a similar age, had gone to bed trussed up like fowls. Muriel looked shocked. "Don’t you realise,’ she said, "that it has an extremely bad psychological effect on the child to deny him freedom of movement?" I confessed I hadn’t thought about it at all, It was obvious that Muriel had. The trouble with Muriel is that she’s too conscientious. It was noticeable at school, but one naturally didn’t offer adverse comment on it then. Now the. situation was different. I taxed her with it when we had finished the casserole and were starting on the lemon snow. Muriel herself gave me the opening by telling me about some book on Child Development she | was reading. "I can’t help feeling, my dear," " I began, "that you're sacrificing too much of your life to your baby. You should go out more, develop other interests, see more of your: old school friends. Elma was telling me there’s a job going in her office. You’d have such fun togetheryou always did at school--and I know your mother would love looking after Douglas in the day-time." "Yes, I know," said Muriel. { "Well?" I countered. "IT couldn't." : "Why not?" "Well, for one thing Mother’s a member of the old school. She doesn’t really understand about bringing up children. | I was shocked. "Her methods certainly | seemed to work out all right with you and Mary and the boys." | "It was easier for us. There were | four of us, you see, so we had a normal | sort of family life. But I have to be | very careful with Douglas because he'll | be an only child." "4 We both avoided looking at the photograph of the young ‘man in uniform on the mantelpiece. The smoke from my cigarette stung my eyes. I pitched it into the fire. "I know what comes next," I said. | "You're going to tell me that you never say ‘don’t’ and you never smack," | "I sometimes say ‘don't,’ Cocaie I try not to: I never smack." "You wait," I said, and smiled. A | hateful, superior, spinsterish smile. Colour flamed in Muriel’s cheeks. Her | eyes were bright. "I don’t think there’s any excuse for | deliberately inflicting physical pain," | said Muriel. "There must surely be better ways of ensuring obedience. If there’ aren't I'd rather do without obedience!" Something in me must have recog- | nised the essential rightness of ‘Muriel’s attitude. I turned the conversation to less controversial topics, ones on which I felt my years of experience did not go for naught. For could any mother be expected to pay atterition to the views on child-upbringing of a celebate female of middle age? Soothed by warmth, gossip, and sea air we retired early. I lay on my surprisingly comfortable camp bed clutching my hot water bottle and listening to Muriel fussing round in the kitchen. She’s an inveterate housekeeper. Then I heard her switch off the light in the bedroom next door. I was almost asleep. The heavenly warmth, the ‘murmur of the sea... .

I was completely awake. | That wretched child. It sounded more | like a shriek of triumph than a yell of | pain. It was a shriek of triumph. He | seemed to be standing up and bouncing r on the wirewove. | I heard Muriel get out of bed and go | over to the cot. j / "Naughty Douglas,’ she said. "It’s | sleep time now." | / ; She always had a beautiful voice, or maybe it was just the maternal solicitude in it. There were tucking-up sounds, and I heard thet bed creak as Muriel got back into it. Douglas went right on with his song-and-dance act. For half-an-hour, Then it (continued on next page) | :

. SHORT -STORY

(continued from previous page) appeared that Douglas wanted a drink. Muriel went to the kitchen and got it for him. Then Teddy had to have a drink, which Douglas insisted on giving him himself. There were tongue-clicking sounds from Muriel (evidently Teddy hadn’t drunk the water) and sounds of more bedding being got out of a suitcase. Simple water seemed to have the same socially-enlivening effect on Douglas that straight gin might have had on me. He announced that he and Teddy wanted to play trains, "No darling," said Muriel. Her voice sounded a trifle worn. "Time for sleep now..We’ll play in the morning." The debate continued. After another half-hour I went to sleep. Perhaps it was Muriel’s good dinner, followed too closely by béd, but I certainly dreamt. Horrible dreams. The zoo, crowds of chattering sightseers, Douglas’s teddy bear eating lemon snow, and a whiskered mandrill screaming and rattling the bars of its cage. No, I wasn’t asleep. I looked at my watch; 1.15, and it was Douglas, not the mandrill. His shrieks of baffled rage threatened to splinter the thin wallboard between the two rooms. And it could —

only be a matter of time before the cot collapsed. When Douglas paused for breath I could hear Muriel, less dulcet than at ten o’clock, but with voice still passion-purged., "For God’s sake smack the little brute!" I hissed into my pillow. At 1.30 I sat up. Gordon would have had no compunction. He would have protected Muriel even if it meant the sacrifice of Douglas. I rolled up my slevees in the darkness. But Muriel was there before me. Three dull thuds of hand on six layers of napkin, a seemingly interminable silence (it lasted ten seconds) and the howls compared with which all previous sounds had the unarresting quality of early morning news commentaries. Heartpiercing wails, like those of a lost soul, the cries of one who sees his whole world shattered and knows. he cannot rebuild it. 2 Fortunately they ceased. They were succeeded by sobs, by whimpers, finally by silence. I couldn’t sleep, I saw him, clutching his teddy. Would he have forgotten by morning? There would be tear-marks on his face, but he was asleep. Port after stormy seas. I sighed with relief. Half an hour had passed. He wouyld sleep till morning, and surely by then he would have forgotten? Then the sobbing began again. But this time it came frort the other side of the room. | ; ae