WATSON, EDWIN (1956 - ) Indigent - Christine and I both inherited our mother's compassionate nature, a trait which Spencer, incidentally, failed to absorb. While my own concern for others has, by necessity, been tempered by pragmatism, Christine has constantly allowed herself to be taken advantage of by unscrupulous individuals whose misfortune is entirely of their own making. The Edwin Watson episode is a case in point. Alarmed by Muriel's disgusted response to the unfortunates and outcasts she occasionally encountered in Drumfeld, Christine and her idiotic then-husband embarked upon a hare-brained scheme to increase her empathy levels. This involved inviting various members of the local underclass into her home, enjoying a meal with them and listening to their tales of woe. I naturally warned Christine of the inevitable repercussions, but was pooh-poohed. After a lifetime of peering into the darkness, after all, what would I know?
The experiment, admittedly, went well until the Loaves and Fishes charity Christine had approached for potential house-guests sent Edwin Watson. In my experience, if a man looks and behaves like a lunatic, it's judicious to assume that he is and act accordingly. Christine, however, has always been bound by the demands of propriety and, rather than risk hurting Watson's feelings by sending him away and asking Loaves and Fishes to send somebody else, she treated him to lunch, an act of kindness that was rewarded by a reign of terror.
When sober, Watson was meek and, frankly dull with a conversational range that rarely extended beyond the weather and what type of food he enjoyed. In his cups, however, he was a terrifying psychopath, displaying all of the traits that had caused society to exclude him in the first place. Turning up at my sister's house in the early hours, he would demand admittance. "Let me in, Christine, or I'll blow your house down!" he'd bellow, before attempting to do just that, puffing at the front door until he turned puce and collapsed.
The police, suspecting that Watson might not respect their authority, thought it judicious not to intervene while he was drunk, preferring to confront him about his behaviour when he'd sobered up. On one of these occasions, he confessed to having been offended by the gift of a jumper he considered hideous. This jumper, originally a Christmas gift I gave to Guy, was part of a bundle Watson set fire to on my sister's lawn at the outset of his campaign. His umbrage, I felt, was partially justified. Good manners dictate that in buying knitwear for others, we only select items we'd happily wear ourselves.
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