The Collector

I promised that if she wasn’t well the next day I would carry her upstairs and get a doctor to come. So then she wanted to go up at once, she even wanted to know the time and when I told her, not thinking, she pointed out it was night and no one would see. But I said none of the rooms or beds was aired.

Then she changed, she said, “I feel so afraid. I’m going to die.” She didn’t speak quickly, there were pauses.

She said, “I’ve tried to help you. You must try to help me now.” I said of course I would, I sponged her face again and she seemed to be dropping off, which was what I wanted, but she spoke up again.

She said in a loud voice, “Daddy? Daddy?”

Go to sleep, I said. You’ll be recovered tomorrow.

She began to cry again. It wasn’t like ordinary crying, she just lay there with the tears around her eyes as if she didn’t know she was crying. Then suddenly she said, “What will you do if I die?”

I said, you’re not going to die, don’t be silly.

“Will you tell anyone?”

I’m not going to talk about it, I said.

“I don’t want to die,” she said. And then, “I don’t want to die,” again. And a third time, and each time I said don’t talk about it, but she didn’t seem to hear.

“Would you go away? If I died?”

I said, you’re daft.

“What would you do with your money?”

I said, please let’s talk about something else, but she insisted, after a pause, she was speaking normally, but there were funny gaps and then she’d suddenly say something again.

I said I didn’t know, I hadn’t thought. I was just humouring her.

“Leave it to the children.”

I said, what children, and she said, “We collected money for them last term, they eat earth,” and then a bit later, “We’re all such pigs, we deserve to die,” so I reckon they pinched the money they should have given in. Well, the next thing was she went to sleep for it must have been ten minutes. I didn’t move, I thought she was well asleep but suddenly she said, “Would you?” again, as if we hadn’t stopped talking. Then, “Are you there?” and she even tried to sit up to see me. Of course I calmed her down but she was awake again and she would go on about this fund she had collected for.

I gave up trying to say it was all silly, she wasn’t going to die, so I said, yes, I would, but she wasn’t, and so on.

“You promise?”

Yes.

Then she said, “Promises.” Then some time after, “They eat earth.” And she said that two or three times while I tried to pat her calm, it seemed it really distressed her.

The last thing she said was, “I forgive you.”

She was delirious of course, but I said I was sorry again.

You might say things were different from this time. I forgot all she did in the past and I was sorry for her, I was truly sorry for what I did that other evening, but I wasn’t to know she was really ill. It was spilt milk; it was done and there was an end to it.

It was really funny, though, how just when I thought I was really fed up with her all the old feelings came back. I kept on thinking of nice things, how sometimes we got on well and all the things she meant to me back home when I had nothing else. All the part from when she took off her clothes and I no longer respected her, that seemed to be unreal, like we both lost our minds. I mean, her being ill and me nursing seemed more real.

I stayed in the outer room like the night before. She was quiet half an hour or so, but then she began talking to herself, I said are you all right, and she stopped, but then later on she began talking again, or rather muttering and then she called my name out really loud, she said she couldn’t breathe, and then she brought up a mass of phlegm. It was a funny dark brown, I didn’t like the look of it at all, but I thought the pills might have coloured it. After that she must have dozed off for an hour or so, but suddenly she began to scream, she couldn’t, but she was trying and when I rushed in she was half out of bed. I don’t know what she was trying to do, but she didn’t seem to know me and she fought like a tiger, in spite of being so weak. I really had to fight to lie her down again.

Then she was in a horrible sweat, her pyjamas were soaked, and when I tried to get the top off to put on new ones she started fighting, rolling about as if she was mad, and getting in a worse sweat. I never had a worse night, it was so terrible I can’t describe it. She couldn’t sleep, I gave her as many sleeping tablets as I dared but they seemed to have no effect, she would doze off a little while and then she would be in a state again, trying to get out of bed (once she did before I could get to her and fell to the floor). Sometimes she was in delirium, calling for a G.P. and talking to people who she’d known, I suppose. I didn’t mind that so much, as long as she lay quiet. I took her temper-ature, it was over 104 degrees, and I knew she was ill, really ill.