The Fly

"You're very comfortable in here," said old Mr. Woodifield, and he looked out of the great, green-leather armchair beside his friend's, the boss', desk as a baby looks out of its pram.

His chat was over; it was time for him to go. But he did not want to. Since he had retired, since his... stroke, the wife and the girls kept him in the house every day of the week except Tuesday. On Tuesday he was washed, dressed and allowed to return to the City for the day, although his wife and girls couldn't imagine what he did there. He made a nuisance of himself with his friends, they supposed... Well, perhaps so. We hold on to our last pleasures as the tree holds on to its last leaves. So old Woodifield sat there, smoking a cigar and staring almost greedily at the boss in his office chair, stout, rosy, five years older than he was and still going strong, still at the top.

Quietly, the old voice added, "It's comfortable in here; really it is!"

"Yes, it's comfortable enough," agreed the boss. As a matter of fact, he was proud of his room; he liked people to admire it, especially old Woodifield. It gave him a feeling of deep, solid satisfaction to be there in front of that frail old man.

"I've had it decorated lately," he explained, as he had explained for the past – how many? – weeks. "New carpet," and he pointed to the bright red carpet with a pattern of large white rings. "New furniture," and he pointed towards the huge bookcase and the meeting table. "Electric heating too!"

But he did not draw old Woodifield's attention to the photograph on the table of a grave-looking boy in uniform. It was not new. It had been there for over six years. "There was something I wanted to tell you," said old Woodifield, and his eyes grew dim remembering. "Now what was it? I had it in my mind when I started out this morning." His hands began to tremble.

Poor old man, he's not got long to go, thought the boss. And, feeling kind, he winked at the old man and said jokingly, "I tell you what. I've got something here that'll do you good before you go out into the cold again. It's beautiful. It wouldn't hurt a child." He unlocked a cupboard below his desk and took out a dark bottle. "That's the medicine," he said.

Old Woodifield's mouth fell open. He couldn't have looked more surprised if the boss had produced a rabbit.

"It's whisky, isn't it?"

The boss turned the bottle and lovingly showed him the label. Whisky it was.

"D'you know," said he, "they won't let me touch it at home." And he looked as though he was going to cry.

"Ah, that's where we know a bit more than the ladies," cried the boss, fetching two glasses that stood on the table with the water-bottle, and pouring a generous drop into each. "Drink it. It'll do you good. And don't put any water with it. It's a crime to mix stuff like this. Ah!" He drank his quickly, pulled out his handkerchief and hastily wiped his moustache.

The old man swallowed, was silent a moment and then said faintly, "It's nutty!"

But it warmed him; it crept into his old brain – he remembered.

"That was it," he said, pulling himself out of his chair. "I thought you'd like to know. The girls were in Belgium last week looking at poor Reggie's grave and they came across your boy's. They're quite near each other, it seems."

Old Woodifield paused, but the boss made no reply. Only a tremble in his eyes showed that he heard.

"The girls were delighted with the way the place is kept," said the old voice. "Beautifully looked after. Couldn't be better if they were at home. You've not been, have you?"

"No, no!" For various reasons the boss had not been.

"It's huge," muttered old Woodifield, "and it's all as neat as a garden. Flowers growing on all the graves. Nice broad paths." It was plain from his voice how much he liked a nice broad path.

The pause came again. Then the old man brightened wonderfully.

"Do you know what the hotel made the girls pay for a pot of jam?" he asked. "Ten francs! Robbery, I call it. It was a little pot, so Gertrude says, no bigger than a coin. And she hadn't taken more than a spoonful when they charged her ten francs. Gertrude took the pot away with her to teach them a lesson. Quite right, too; it's trading on our feelings. They think because we're over there having a look round, we're ready to pay anything. That's what it is." And he turned towards the door.

"Quite right, quite right!" cried the boss, though what was quite right he hadn't the least idea. He came round by his desk, followed the footsteps to the door and saw the old man out. Woodifield was gone.

For a long moment the boss stayed, staring at nothing, while the grey-haired office messenger, watching him, walked in and out. Then: "I'll see nobody for half an hour, Macey," said the boss. "Understand? Nobody at all."

"Very good, sir."

The door shut, the heavy steps crossed the bright carpet, the fat body sat down in the chair and, putting his head in his hands, the boss covered his face. He wanted, he intended, he had arranged to weep...

It had been a terrible shock to him when old Woodifield made that remark about the boy's grave. It was exactly as though the earth had opened and he had seen the boy lying there with Woodifield's girls staring down at him. For it was strange. Although over six years had passed, the boss never thought of the boy except as lying unchanged in his uniform, asleep for ever.

"My son!" groaned the boss. But no tears came yet.

In the past, in the first few months and even years after the boy's death, he had only to say those words to be overcome by such grief that nothing except violent weeping could help. Time, he had known then, he had told everybody, could make no difference. Other men perhaps might recover, might forget their loss, but not he. How was it possible? His boy was an only son. Ever since his birth, the boss had worked at building up this business for him; it had no other meaning if it was not for the boy. Life had come to have no other meaning. How could he have slaved, denied himself, kept going all those years without the promise of the boy's carrying on where he left off?

And that promise had been so near its goal. The boy had been in the office learning the business for a year before the war. Every morning they had started off together; they had come back by the same train. And what congratulations he had received as the boy's father! No wonder! He had done marvellously. Every man on the staff – even old Macey – loved the boy. And he wasn't the least spoilt. No, he was just his bright natural self, with the right word for everybody, with that boyish look and his habit of saying, 'Simply wonderful!'

But all that was over as though it had never happened. The day had come when Macey handed him the telegram and the whole plan fell apart. 'Deeply regret to inform you...' And he had left the office a broken man, with his life in ruins.

Six years ago, six years... How quickly time passed! It might have happened yesterday. The boss took his hands from his face; he was puzzled. Something seemed to be wrong with him. He wasn't feeling as he wanted to feel. He decided to get up and have a look at the boy's photograph. But it wasn't a favourite photograph of his; the expression was unnatural. It was cold, even stern-looking. The boy had never looked like that.

At that moment the boss noticed that a fly had fallen into his ink, and was trying feebly but desperately to climb out again. 'Help! Help!' said those struggling legs. But the ink was wet and slippery; it fell back again and began to swim. The boss took up a pen, picked the fly out of the ink and shook it on to a piece of paper.

For a fraction of a second it lay still on the dark ink stain around it. Then the front legs moved and, pulling its small, wet body up, it began the huge task of cleaning the ink from its wings. Over and under, over and under, went a leg along a wing. Then there was a pause while the fly, seeming to stand on its toes, tried to expand first one wing and then the other. It succeeded at last and sitting down it began, like a tiny cat, to clean its face. The horrible danger was over; it had escaped; it was ready for life again.

But just then the boss had an idea. He put his pen back into the ink and, as the fly tried its wings, down came a great drop of ink. What would it do now? The fly seemed absolutely stunned and afraid to move because of what would happen next. But then, painfully, it pulled itself forward. The front legs moved and, more slowly this time, the task began from the beginning.

He's a brave little devil, thought the boss, and he felt a real admiration for the fly's courage. That was the way to face life. But the fly had again finished its laborious task and the boss had just time to refill his pen, to shake on the new-cleaned body yet another dark drop. What about it this time? A painful moment of suspense followed. But the front legs were moving again. He leaned over the fly and actually had the brilliant idea of breathing on it to help the drying. All the same, there was something weak about its efforts now and the boss decided that this time would be the last, as he dipped the pen deep into the ink.

It was. The last drop fell on the soaked paper and the fly lay in it and did not move. The back legs were stuck to the body.

"Come on!" said the boss. And he moved it with his pen – in vain. Nothing happened or was likely to happen. The fly was dead.

The boss lifted the corpse and threw it into the waste-paper basket. But such a feeling of unhappiness got hold of him that he felt frightened. He moved forward and pressed the bell for Macey.

"Bring me some fresh paper," he said sternly, "and be quick." And while the old man walked slowly away he wondered what it was he had been thinking about before. What was it? It was... He could not remember.