The Collector Read Free Page B

nasty. There were stone steps down. At the bottom he shone his torch round. Someone had whitewashed the walls, but it was a long time ago, and pieces had come off so that the walls looked mottled.
    Runs the whole length, he said, and there’s this too. He shone the torch and I saw a doorway in the corner of the wall facing us as we came down the stairs. It was another large cellar, four big steps down from the first one, but this time with a lower roof and a bit arched, like the rooms you see underneath churches sometimes. The steps came down diagonally in one corner so the room ran away, so to speak.
    Just the thing for orgies, he said.
    What was it for? I asked, ignoring his silly facetiousness.
    He said they thought it might be because the cottage was so on its own. They’d have to store a lot of food. Or it might have been a secret Roman Catholic chapel. One of the electricians later said it was a smugglers’ place when they used to be going to London from Newhaven.
    Well, we went back upstairs and out. When he locked the door and put the key back under a flowerpot, it was like down there didn’t exist. It was two worlds. It’s always been like that. Some days I’ve woken up and it’s all been like a dream, till I went down again.
    He looked at his watch.
    I’m interested, I said. Very interested. I was so nervous he looked at me surprised and I said, I think I’ll have it. Just like that. I really surprised myself. Because before I always wanted something up to date, what they call contemporary. Not an old place stuck away.
    He stood there looking all gormless, surprised that I was so interested, surprised I had money, I suppose, like most of them.
    He went away back to Lewes then. He had to fetch someone else interested, so I said I would stay in the garden and think things over before a final decision.
    It was a nice garden, it runs back to a field which had lucerne then, lovely stuff for butterflies. The field goes up to a hill (that is north). East there are woods on both sides of the road running up from the valley towards Lewes. West there are fields. There is a farmhouse about three-quarters of a mile away down the hill, the nearest house. South you have a fine view, except it was blocked by the front hedge and some trees. Also a good garage.
    I went back to the house and got the key out and went down into the cellars again. The inner one must have been five or six feet under the earth. It was damp, the walls like wet wood in winter, I couldn’t see very well because I only had my lighter. It was a bit frightening, but I am not the superstitious type.
     
     
    Some might say I was lucky to find the place first go, however I would have found somewhere else sooner or later. I had the money. I had the will. Funny, what Crutchley called “push.” I didn’t push at the Annexe, it didn’t suit me. But I would like to see Crutchley organize what I organized last 5 summer and carry it through. I am not going to blow my own trumpet, but it was no small thing.
    I read in the paper the other day (Saying of the Day)—“What Water is to the Body, Purpose is to the Mind.” That is very true, in my humble opinion. When Miranda became the purpose of my life I should say I was at least as good as the next man, as it turned out.
     
     
    I had to give five hundred more than they asked in the advert, others were after it, everyone fleeced me. The surveyor, the builder, the decorators, the furniture people in Lewes I got to furnish it. I didn’t care, why should I, money was no object. I got long letters from Aunt Annie, which I wrote back to, giving her figures half what I really paid.
    I got the electricians to run a power cable down to the cellar, and the plumbers water and a sink. I made out I wanted to do carpentry and photography and that would be my workroom. It wasn’t a lie, there was carpentry to do all right. And I was already taking some photographs I couldn’t have developed in a shop. Nothing nasty.