“Do you think you’ll make me love you by keeping me prisoner?”
I want you to get to know me.
“As long as I’m here you’ll just be a kidnapper to me. You know that?”
I got up. I didn’t want to be with her any more.
“Wait,” she said, coming towards me, “I’ll make a promise. I understand. Really. Let me go. I’ll tell no one, and nothing will happen.”
It was the first time she’d given me a kind look. She was saying, trust me, plain as words. A little smile round her eyes, looking up at me. All eager.
“You could. We could be friends. I could help you.”
Looking up at me there.
“It’s not too late.”
I couldn’t say what I felt, I just had to leave her; she was really hurting me. So I closed the door and left her. I didn’t even say good night.
No one will understand, they will think I was just after her for the obvious. Sometimes when I looked at the books before she came, it was what I thought, or I didn’t know. Only when she came it was all different, I didn’t think about the books or about her posing, things like that disgusted me, it was because I knew they would disgust her too. There was something so nice about her you had to be nice too, you could see she sort of expected it. I mean having her real made other things seem nasty. She was not like some woman you don’t respect so you don’t care what you do, you respected her and you had to be very careful.
I didn’t sleep much that night, because I was shocked the way things had gone, my telling her so much the very first day and how she made me seem a fool. There were moments when I thought I’d have to go down and drive her back to London like she wanted. I could go abroad. But then I thought of her face and the way her pigtail hung down a bit sideways and twisted and how she stood and walked and her lovely clear eyes. I knew I couldn’t do it.
After breakfast—that morning she ate a bit of cereal and had some coffee, when we didn’t speak at all—she was up and dressed, but the bed had been made differently from at first so she must have slept in it. Anyhow she stopped me when I was going out.
“I’d like to talk with you.” I stopped.
“Sit down,” she said. I sat down on the chair by the steps down.
“Look, this is mad. If you love me in any real sense of the word love you can’t want to keep me here. You can see I’m miserable. The air, I can’t breathe at nights, I’ve woken up with a headache. I should die if you kept me here long.” She looked really concerned.
It won’t be very long. I promise.
She got up and stood by the chest of drawers, and stared at me.
“What’s your name?” she said.
Clegg, I answered.
“Your first name?”
Ferdinand.
She gave me a quick sharp look.
“That’s not true,” she said. I remembered I had my wallet in my coat with my initials in gold I’d bought and I showed it. She wasn’t to know F stood for Frederick. I’ve always liked Ferdinand, it’s funny, even before I knew her. There’s something foreign and distinguished about it. Uncle Dick used to call me it sometimes, joking. Lord Ferdinand Clegg, Marquis of Bugs, he used to say.
It’s just a coincidence, I said.
“I suppose people call you Ferdie. Or Ferd.”
Always Ferdinand.
“Look, Ferdinand, I don’t know what you see in me. I don’t know why you’re in love with me. Perhaps I could fall in love with you somewhere else. I…” she didn’t seem to know what to say, which was unusual “…I do like gentle, kind men. But I couldn’t possibly fall in love with you in this room, I couldn’t fall in love with anyone here. Ever.”
I answered, I just want to get to know you.
All the time she was sitting on the chest of drawers, watching me to see what effect the things she said had. So I was suspicious. I knew it was a test.
“But you can’t kidnap people just to get to know them!”
I want to know you very much. I wouldn’t have a chance in London. I’m not clever and all that. Not your class. You wouldn’t be seen dead with me in London.
“That’s not fair. I’m not a snob. I hate snobs. I don’t pre-judge people.”
I’m not blaming you, I said.
“I hate snobbism.” She was quite violent. She had a way of saying some words very strong, very emphatic. “Some of my best friends in London are—well, what some people call working class. In origin. We just don’t think about it.”
Like Peter Catesby, I said. (That was the young man with the sports car’s name.)
“Him! I haven’t seen him for months. He’s just a middle-class suburban oaf.”
I could still see her climbing into his flashy M.G. I didn’t know whether to trust her.
“I suppose it’s in all the papers.”
I haven’t looked.
“You might go to prison for years.”
Be worth it. Be worth going for life, I said.
“I promise, I swear that if you let me go I will not tell anyone. I’ll tell them all some story. I will arrange to meet you as often as you like, as often as I can when I’m not working. Nobody will ever know about this except us.”
I can’t, I said. Not now. I felt like a cruel king, her appealing like she did.
“If you let me go now I shall begin to admire you. I shall think, he had me at his mercy, but he was chivalrous, he behaved like a real gentleman.”
I can’t, I said. Don’t ask. Please don’t ask.
“I should think, someone like that must be worth knowing.” She sat perched there, watching me.
I’ve got to go now, I said. I went out so fast I fell over the top step. She got off the drawers and stood looking up at me in the door with a strange expression.
“Please,” she said. Very gently and nicely. It was difficult to resist.
It was like not having a net and catching a specimen you wanted in your first and second fingers (I was always very clever at that), coming up slowly behind and you had it, but you had to nip the thorax, and it would be quivering there. It wasn’t easy like it was with a killing-bottle. And it was twice as difficult with her, because I didn’t want to kill her, that was the last thing I wanted.
She often went on about how she hated class distinction, but she never took me in. It’s the way people speak that gives them away, not what they say. You only had to see her dainty ways to see how she was brought up. She wasn’t la-di-da, like many, but it was there all the same. You could see it when she got sarcastic and impatient with me because I couldn’t explain myself or I did things wrong. Stop thinking about class, she’d say. Like a rich man telling a poor man to stop thinking about money.
I don’t hold it against her, she probably said and did some of the shocking things she did to show me she wasn’t really refined, but she was. When she was angry she could get right up on her high horse and come it over me with the best of them.
There was always class between us.
I went into Lewes that morning. Partly I wanted to see the papers, I bought the lot. All of them had something. Some of the tripe papers had quite a lot, two had photographs. It was funny, reading the reports. There were things I didn’t know before.
Longhaired blonde, art-student Miranda Grey, 20, who last year won a major scholarship to London’s top Slade School of Art, is missing. She lived in term-time at 29 Hamnet Rd., N.W.3, with her aunt, Miss C. Vanbrugh-Jones, who late yesterday night alerted the police.
After class on Tuesday Miranda phoned to say she was going to a cinema and would be home soon after eight.
That was the last time she was seen.
There was a big photo of her and beside it it said: Have You Seen This Girl?
Another paper gave me a good laugh.
Hampstead residents have been increasingly concerned in recent months about prowling “wolves” in cars. Piers Broughton, a fellow-student and close friend of Miranda, told me in the coffee-bar he often took Miranda to, that she seemed perfectly happy the day of her disappearance and had arranged to go to an exhibition with him only today. He said, “Miranda knows what London is like. She’s the last person to take a lift from a stranger or anything like that. I’m most terribly worried about all this.”