My first thought was to retrieve the cork and attempt somehow to stuff it back in. Still holding the bottle, I began a panicked search, which eventually turned up the missing cork, still in its wire cage and cloak of foil, lying on its side beneath the table. I saw immediately that I would not be able to force it back into the bottle unless I pared it down with a knife, for it had fattened into a stubbornly flared shape. Even were I to succeed by this method, I realized, the champagne would still be ruined by the loss of pressure.
Within a short time, I had considered all my options; which were, admittedly, limited. The first was that I succeeded somehow in acquiring a bottle of champagne to replace that which I had ruined. I had, at least, the time to attempt this, but with neither money nor transportation was restricted to the faint hope that this bottle would be available in Hilltop, and available, moreover, in such a way that I would be able to steal it. The second option was that I conserved the remains of the bottle as best I could and confessed everything to Pamela — offering, perhaps, a portion of my wages in recompense — when she returned. The third was that I drank the contents of the bottle and proceeded similarly.
While the first of these two alternatives would undoubtedly result in the champagne being wasted, my response to the crisis would at least constitute an albeit futile attempt at virtue. The other was more pragmatic but easily misconstrued: I could, for example, be accused of inventing the story of the exploding cork — which, when considered in that light, did seem rather incredible — to conceal my craven theft and consumption of the champagne. The former course, though illogical, was evidently preferable. At that moment, however, I had a vision of Pamela’s face as I apologetically handed her an almost full bottle of flat champagne. ‘Why on earth didn’t you just drink it, you silly girl?’ she cried.
Being by now familiar with the vicissitudes of Pamela’s sense of etiquette, my vision struck me as a likely one. Addled, I thought the matter through again. It grew more and more irresolvable with every approach, until my mind was so knotted that I was forced to sit down at the table with my head in my hands and my eyes closed. As I did so, a notion slyly snipped its way through the tangle. I opened my eyes and regarded it with awe. What if I merely absconded with the champagne and then denied having had any involvement with its disappearance? Pamela had successfully been duped over the bottle of gin. Why should she not be again? In fact, her memory of that episode could be the very thing to undermine any conviction she might have about the champagne having been in the refrigerator when she left the house that morning. The whole affair began to gather significance in my mind, until I became convinced that I had been intended to steal the gin as a sort of foundation for the grander theft I was now designing.
It is difficult to consign any event to mere regret, no matter how unpleasant; and the thought of making simultaneous use of two of the darker episodes in my sojourn in the country in this way gathered more appeal with every moment. What, indeed, could be more pleasant on my day off than to sit in the sun and drink champagne; a plan I would never have conceived myself, but on which fate had now kindly insisted by bringing about the accident in the kitchen?
Borne along on this highly coloured wave of logic, I picked up the bottle of champagne, down whose sides chilly beads of moisture now alluringly ran, and went with it out into the garden. From the cool of the kitchen I had momentarily forgotten the heat outside, and as it bludgeoned me along the gravel path I wavered in my resolve. How pleasant could it be, sitting out in the sun? I would have to force myself to do it; and there was no point in being degenerate if it required an effort to do so. I rounded the corner and emerged on the back lawn, where the garden table and chairs sat displayed in an inviting circle. As I saw them, I had an idea. Placing the champagne on the table, I turned and retraced my steps back up the path. I was looking for the umbrella, which I clearly remembered Mr Madden producing on more than one occasion and slotting into the hole at the centre of the table. He had certainly carried it from the side of the house, but it seemed unlikely to me that such an unwieldy object would be kept inside. I guessed that it was in the shed, the door to which stood just beyond the back door at the end of the path. This process of deduction was far from arduous, but nonetheless I was gratified when I opened the shed door to find the umbrella collapsed and leaning against the wall directly in front of me. It was a clumsy object to carry, and surprisingly heavy, but I succeeded after some manoeuvring in removing it from the shed, whereupon I began to drag it along the path back towards the lawn.
At that moment I heard a faint, rapid patter of footsteps ahead of me. Instinctively I stopped short; but before I could even register the sound, a great dog came hurtling around the corner of the house, and skidded to a halt at the sight of me, planting itself in my path. I say ‘a dog’; of course, I knew it to be Roy, but detached from his owners he lost the patina of tameness and reverted to the condition of a beast. He lifted his head menacingly, ears alert. A stone of fear dropped down the well of my body. I could see the white points of his teeth flashing in his drooling muzzle. His black belly heaved surreptitiously beneath his rigid frame. The heat rained down between us.
‘Hello, Roy,’ I said.
At the sound of my voice, a terrible snarl began to emanate from within the vice of his teeth. He drew back slightly in a tensile crouch, his eyes yellow with suspicion.
‘It’s all right, Roy,’ I shrilled. ‘It’s only me.’
In a flash he was galloping towards me with a volley of savage barking, moisture flying from his gnashing jaws, his shining, muscled body madly contorted in a frenzy of attack. With the dreaminess of terror I watched him come. He landed in front of me with a giant pounce, his legs splayed, writhing as if swarmed by invisible bees, and seemed to gather himself in for another leap. What happened next was so clearly a matter of instinct rather than calculation that I cannot blame myself for it. As he readied himself to spring on me, I remembered the umbrella in my hand. In sheer self-defence I thrust it forward like a lance, rooting myself behind it. The dog leaped; and as he flew through the air, a chasm of horror and disbelief yawned open between us. I met his eyes, suspended in the moment before his collision, and saw them register the canopied pole, the unavoidability of impact. The seconds slowed to a crawl; and then snapped back with a thud as his forehead hit the metal head of the umbrella. His body gave a great flip, tossing itself high in the air and landing with a smack on the gravel, where it lay inertly on its side.
I stood, unable to move, the umbrella still gripped in my hands, for some time. The black heap at my feet was motionless, gorgeous with glossy fur and plump flesh. Roy did not, in so far as I was able to see, appear to be breathing. My fear of him dead was triple that which I had had of him alive, even during his last, brutal moments. I could not bring myself even to take a step towards him, let alone try to help or resuscitate him. Through this curious, shameful terror I tried to assess the implications of this latest and most unfortunate development. To have murdered Roy, even in self-defence, presented extraordinary, perhaps insurmountable, social difficulties. How could the Maddens comprehend, let alone forgive, it? I felt a constriction in my chest and had a sudden sensation of faintness. My entire body, I realized, was trembling. The sun seared the top of my head. Fresh cascades of sweat erupted from my pores. I had to get into the shade and sit down.