Free The Collector by John Fowles Page B

things.
    One day, she was sitting showing me the secrets of some paintings—secrets were the things you had to think about to see, the secrets of proportion and harmony she called them. We sat with the book between us and she talked about the pictures. We sat on the bed (she made me get cushions and a rug on it for the day), close but not touching. I made sure of that after the events in the garden. But one evening she said, don’t be so stiff, I shan’t kill you if your sleeve touches mine.
    All right, I said, but I didn’t move.
    Then she moved, so our arms touched, our shoulders. All the time she went on talking and talking about the picture we were looking at, I thought she wasn’t thinking about the touching but a few pages later she suddenly looked at me.
    “You’re not listening.”
    Yes, I am, I said.
    “No, you’re not. You’re thinking about touching me. You’re all stiff. Relax.”
    It was no good, she’d got me all tense. She stood up. She was wearing a narrow blue skirt I bought her and a big black jumper and a white blouse, the colours really suited her. She stood in front of me and after a bit she said, Oh, God.
    Then she went and beat her fist against the wall. She used to do that sometimes.
    “I’ve got a friend who kisses me every time he sees me and he doesn’t mean anything—his kisses are meaningless. He kisses everybody. He’s the other side of you. You don’t have any contact with anybody and he has it with everybody. You’re both equally sick.”
    I was smiling, I used to smile when she attacked me as a sort of defence.
    “Don’t put on that ghastly smile.”
    There’s not much else I can do. You’re always right.
    “But I don’t want always to be right. Tell me I’m wrong!”
    Oh, you’re right, I said. You know you’re right.
    “Oh, Ferdinand!” she said. And then twice more, Ferdinand, Ferdinand, and she sort of prayed to heaven and acted someone in great pain, so I had to laugh, but suddenly she was all serious, or pretending it.
    “It’s not a little thing. It’s terrible that you can’t treat me as a friend. Forget my sex. Just relax.”
    I’ll try, I said. But then she wouldn’t sit by me again. She leant against the wall reading another book.
    Another day, it was downstairs, she just screamed. For no reason at all, I was fixing up a painting she’d done and wanted to see up on the wall and suddenly sitting on the bed she screamed, bloodcurdling it was and I jumped round and dropped the tape and she just laughed.
    What’s up, I said.
    “I just felt like a good scream,” she said.
    She was unpredictable.
    She was always criticizing my way of speaking. One day I remember she said, “You know what you do? You know how rain takes the colour out of everything? That’s what you do to the English language. You blur it every time you open your mouth.”
    That is just one sample of many, of the way she treated me.
    Another day she got round me on the subject of her parents. She’d been on for days about how they would be sick with worry and how mean I was not letting them know. I said I couldn’t take the risk. But one day after supper she said, I’ll tell you how to do it, without any risk. You wear gloves. You buy paper and some envelopes from Woolworth’s. You dictate a letter to me to write. You go to the nearest big town and post it. You can’t be traced. It might be any Woolworth’s in the country.
    Well, she kept on at me so about it that one day I did what she suggested and bought some paper and envelopes. That evening I gave her a sheet and told her to write.
    “I am safe and not in danger,” I said.
    She wrote it, saying, “That’s filthy English, but never mind.”
    You write what I say, I answered, and went on, “Do not try to find me, it is impossible.”
    “Nothing’s impossible,” she said. Cheeky as usual.
    “I am being well looked after by a friend,” I went on. Then I said, that’s all, just put your name.
    “Can’t I say, Mr.