Parents’ Day function, the play attracted a storm of criticism from some and extravagant praise from others, both based on habitual positions of principle rather than artistic flaws or merits in the work itself, as Fletcher himself recognised. Realistic about his own talents, he went on in later life to become a successful director of other writers’ works, especially in dealing with notoriously “difficult” performers.
That is by the way. Carpenter, looking back over his conduct to date some years afterwards, realised that aspects of it sat uncomfortably with his generally high principles, and to ease his conscience started almost without thinking of it to ascribe his defaults to Martin rather than to his real persona. He soon recognised what he was doing and abandoned that approach in its crude form, instead playing a kind of game in making Martin a model of mendacity while the real Carpenter stuck more or less faithfully to the truth and other virtues. He now saw that in some instances his tricks had caused real difficulty for other people; mostly he had been able to make it up somehow without giving the game away, but in the half-dozen he had listed for me it had not been possible and he would like me to give them his explanation and an apology.
Meanwhile his career had prospered modestly and he had a little spare money looking for useful occupation, preferably providing amusement if not a profit. A friend in the stock-broking business had suggested speculating in the commodities market, and he toyed with the idea for a while, but felt a little uneasy about gambling on other people’s misjudgements. Nevertheless he felt an attraction to it and eventually yielded to the temptation, but only in the name of Martin. He was well aware of being just as likely to lose as to gain by his transactions, but in the circumstances it didn’t matter so long as the sums were not too great. In the event that didn’t happen and he put down the string of early successes to a surprising but not impossible run of good luck. As it continued increasingly beyond statistical probability he began to worry that there was something seriously untoward behind it, and he determined that “Martin’s” funds should be kept strictly apart from Carpenter’s. There were plenty of worthy organisations very willing to relieve his embarrassment over the recurring surpluses.
However, there came a time a few years back when his real business fell into difficulties, and he had to use some of the Martin fund to get out of them. Perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not, from then onward the profits rose sharply, and Carpenter began to fear that his whole life might have become contaminated by the infusion. In the hope of clearing the infection, he resolved after months of agonising to divest himself of the Martin account and everything connected with it, partly by paying in that name for the exceptionally expensive prize in the school raffle. When he realised that he himself had won it, the fear became a certainty; hence the state of shock in which he had fallen over the guy rope.
At that point of the narrative he fell into a kind of convulsion, but while apparently in agony he somehow got out a plea to take hold of his hand which was flailing around like a loose rope in a gale. I didn’t see the point and hesitated, but he begged again and after a few failures I managed to get hold of it. It seemed to calm him a little; gradually the convulsions subsided, and he sank back on the pillow with an expression that I read as resigned acceptance, and then, quite suddenly with a sigh of relief, actual peace. So it remained until the nurse returned, checked, and closed the eyelids.
I never heard what happened afterwards, but presumably the hospital authorities would have taken up the emergency contact to make arrangements for dealing with Carpenter’s material affairs. I had my own commission. Two people on the list had evidently moved and no one knew where, but the others I was able to meet. One of them gave me the description of Martin’s character at the start of this account. In general the trouble his lies had caused had been significant but not disastrous, for instance a matrimonial dispute that threatened to end in divorce but was amicably settled when misunderstandings were cleared up after a few months, and a broken engagement that in hindsight would probably have been more than regrettable had it actually been fulfilled. They were now “water under the bridge” and the people concerned took the news of his death as a cause for apparently genuine regret.
I then had to deal with problems that suddenly arose in my own business. At first I thought them desperate, but on closer examination they didn’t seem quite so insuperable and with a year’s hard work it was back into profitability. In fact it started to do rather better than before, and I was able with a clear conscience to take a real holiday for the first time in years.
A fellow guest at the hotel, with whom I happened to get into conversation, mentioned that he had started a publishing business as a loss-maker for tax purposes, so I told him about my stories that no one else would even look at. It was a rather humiliating ploy, but if it worked, better than not getting them out at all. He took them unseen, splashed out he hoped ruinously on publicity, and probably for that reason alone they sold like hot cakes, making a handsome profit; he wasn’t too pleased. Still, his next venture was an anthology of modern verse that got rave reviews from the critics and was very gratifyingly remaindered after selling less than a hundred copies. When I offered him my draft of a novel, written long before in my days of relative leisure, he turned it down flat, but another firm whose boss had liked my stories took it on and for the past three months it’s been doing quite nicely, thank you very much.
Then yesterday I bumped into Julia Hitchins, about whom I’ve secretly fantasised for longer than I can remember despite her total indifference, and she startled me by asking if she could come tonight for advice on how to deal with a personal difficulty. Thinking of Martin, I’m rather worried about it.
I don’t really see why I should be. After all, the whole thing is pure fiction – isn’t it?
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About the author.
Peter Wilson is a retired industrial chemist living in Seascale, on the Cumbrian coast near the north-west corner of England.
A short biography and more of his writing (short stories, plays and film scripts) may be found with contact details at his web site
https://www.peterwilson-seascale.me.uk
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