Don't Go to Sleep in the Dark Page 4

  “Oh, Auntie, Auntie, I thought you were out—asleep—I couldn’t make you hear—I rang and rang….”

  I soothed her as best I could. I took her into the kitchen and made her a cup of the weak thin tea she loves, and heard her story.

  And after all it wasn’t much of a story. Just that she had gone to the new house as usual after work, and had settled down to painting the front room. For a while, she said, she had worked quite happily; and then suddenly she had heard a sound—a shuffling sound, so faint that she might almost have imagined it.

  “And that was all, really, Auntie,” she said, looking up at me, shamefaced; “But somehow it frightened me so. I ought to have gone and looked round the house, but I didn’t dare. I tried to go on working, but from then on there was such an awful feeling—I can’t describe it—as if there was something evil in the house—something close behind me—waiting to get its hands round my throat. Oh, Auntie, I know it sounds silly. It’s the kind of thing I used to dream when I was a little girl—do you remember?”

  Indeed I did remember. I took her on my lap and soothed her now just as I had done then, when she was a little sobbing girl awake and frightened in the depths of the night.

  And then I told her she must go home.

  “Auntie!” she protested; “But Auntie, can’t I stay here with you for the night? That’s why I came. I must stay!”

  But I was adamant. I can’t tell you why, but some instinct warned me that, come what may, she must not stay here tonight. Whatever her fear or danger might be elsewhere, they could never be as great as they would be here, in this house, tonight.

  So I made her go home, to her lodgings in the town. I couldn’t explain it to her, not even to myself. In vain she protested that the last bus had gone, that her old room here was ready for her. I was immovable. I rang up a taxi, and as it disappeared with her round the corner of the lane, casting a weird radiance behind it, I heaved a sigh of relief, as if a great task had been accomplished; as if I had just dragged her to shore out of a dark and stormy sea.

  The next morning I found that my instinct had not been without foundation. There had been danger lurking round my house last night. For when I went to get my bicycle to go and help about the Mothers’ Outing, I found it in its usual place in the shed, but the tyres and mudguard were all spattered with a kind of thick yellow clay. There is no clay like that between here and the village. Where could it have come from? Who had been riding my bicycle through unfamiliar mud in the rain and wind last night? Who had put it back silently in the shed, and gone as silently away?

  As I stood there, bewildered and shaken, the telephone rang indoors. It was Linda, and she sounded tense, distraught.

  “Auntie, will you do something for me? Will you come with me to the house tonight, and stay there while I do the painting and—and sort of keep watch for me? I expect you’ll think it’s silly but I know there was somebody there last night—and I’m frightened. Will you come, Auntie?”

  There could be only one answer. I got through my day’s work as fast as I could, and by six o’clock I was waiting for Linda on the steps of her office. As we hurried through the darkening streets, Linda was apologetic and anxious.

  “I know it’s awfully silly, Auntie, but John’s still working late, and he doesn’t even know if he’ll finish in time to come and fetch me. I feel scared there without him. And the upstairs lights won’t go on again—John hasn’t had time to see the electricity people about it yet—and it’s so dark and lonely. Do you think someone really was there last night, Auntie?”

  I didn’t tell her about the mud on my bicycle. There seemed no point in alarming her further. Besides, what was there to tell? There was no reason to suppose it had any connection….

  “Watch out, Auntie, it’s terribly muddy along this bit where the builders have been.”

  I stared down at the thick yellow clay already clinging heavily to my shoes; and straight in front of us, among a cluster of partially finished red brick houses, stood Linda’s future home. It stared at us with its little empty windows out of the October dusk. A light breeze rose, but stirred nothing in that wilderness of mud, raw brickwork and scaffolding. Linda and I hesitated, looked at each other.

  “Come on,” I said, and a minute later we were in the empty house.

  We arranged that she should settle down to her painting in the downstairs front room just as if she was alone, and I was to sit on the stairs, near the top, where I could command a view of both upstairs and down. If anyone should come in, by either front or back door, I should see them before they could reach Linda.

  It was very quiet as I sat there in the darkness. The light streamed out of the downstairs room where Linda was working, and I could see her through the open door, with her back to me, just as she had been in my dream. How like poor Angela she was, with her pale hair and her white, fragile neck! She was working steadily now, absorbed, confident; reassured, I suppose, by my presence in the house. As I sat, I could feel the step of the stair behind me pressing a little into my spine—a strangely familiar pressure. My whole pose indeed seemed familiar—every muscle seemed to fall into place, as if by long practice, as I sat there, half leaning against the banisters, staring down into the glare of light.

  And then, suddenly, I knew. I knew who it was who had cycled in black hatred through the rainy darkness and the yellow mud. I knew who had waited here, night after night, watching Linda as a cat watches a mouse. I knew what was the horror closing in even now on this poor, fragile child—on this sickly, puny brat who had kept my lovely, sturdy children from coming into the world; the sons and daughters I could have given Richard, tall and strong—the children he should have had—the children I could have borne him.

  I was creeping downstairs now, on tiptoe, in my stockinged feet, with a light, almost prancing movement, yet silent as a shadow. I could see my hands, clutching in front of me like a lobster’s claws, itching for the feel of her white neck. At the foot of the stairs now … At the door of the room, and still she worked on, her back to me, oblivious. I tried to cry out, to warn her. “She’s coming, Linda!” I tried to scream; “I can see her hands clawing behind you!” But no sound came from my drawn-back lips, no sound from my swift, light feet.

  Then, just as in my dream, there were footsteps through the house, quick and loud; a man’s footsteps, hurrying—running—rushing. Rushing to save Linda; to save us both.

  LAST DAY OF SPRING

  EVEN THOUGH HER eyes were still closed, Martha Briggs knew that the sun was shining. The warmth was creeping slowly, gloriously across the blankets, and any minute now it would reach her face. But she wouldn’t open her eyes just yet. No, this was the loveliest bit of the whole day, lying here with Thomas, waiting for the sun to reach their faces. Strange how the sun seemed to shine every morning now that she was nearly ninety years old. Such lovely sun too—it must be spring, day after day. If only she could get Thomas into his chair by the window; but he was too heavy, her arms weren’t strong enough to lift him any more.

  Thomas…. What was it that was worrying at the back of her mind, spoiling this lovely lying still in the sunshine?

  Then she remembered. Of course! It was Thursday. This was the day when that Welfare woman with the clumping shoes was going to come and take Thomas away.

  Take Thomas away, indeed! Martha had never heard such nonsense! Hadn’t he ever been ill before during their sixty years together, and hadn’t she nursed him then? Of course she had—and before this clumping woman had been born or thought of, too!

  She tried her hardest to remember what the creature had said. For a little while she could only remember the great shoes, and the snorting breathy sort of voice that was so difficult to hear. Then slowly the woman’s words came back to her:

  “It isn’t that we’re criticizing you, Mrs Briggs, not for one moment. We know you’re doing your very, very best—you’ve done wonders for your age, I know you have. But you see—well, I’m sure you’ll agree with me
really—it isn’t right, is it, that he should be lying like this at past midday, not been attended to, not even had his breakfast yet! And the room! … You do see, don’t you, Mrs Briggs? It simply is too much for you—it’s you we’re considering really, you know, just as much as him. And he’ll be quite happy, I promise you, he’ll have every attention….”

  On and on went the voice in Martha’s mind, and she almost smiled at the absurdity of it all. As if she and Thomas couldn’t have their breakfast when it suited them! If they liked to lie like this in the sun for a little while first, whose business was it but their own?

  Still, perhaps it would be a good idea, this morning, to teach that creature a lesson. She’d get up early and cook a good breakfast. Now, what would they have? An egg. Of course. She would fry an egg for Thomas. He would love that, with a bit of fried bread. She knew there was an egg somewhere, and he should have it. Then she would scrub the floor until the boards shone white in the sunlight; she would wash the curtains—she could almost see them now, billowing clean and lovely on the line. She would polish the chest of drawers, and rub the window till it shone. Too much for me, indeed! thought Martha: I’ll show her!

  But the sun was right on her face now in all its glory. It would be a shame to get up just at this minute, just while it was like this. She would lie and enjoy it for a minute or two longer….

  Martha woke with a start. How tiresome! She must have dozed off, and now she would have to hurry to get everything done before that woman arrived.

  She climbed stiffly out of bed and fumbled about for her dress. Where could it have got to? Then she remembered: of course, she had to sit quite still on the edge of the bed for a bit in the mornings, then things sort of straightened themselves out.

  Her head was dropped a little forwards, and she could see lots and lots of floor. It was quite true; it was dirty. And what was worse, now that she was up all her enthusiasm for scrubbing it had drained away. The vision of sunlit, white-scrubbed boards was gone, and she could think only of the backbreaking weight of the pail, and the ever more perilous feat of getting down on to one’s knees and then, somehow, getting back up again….

  But at least she had found her dress. At least that woman would find her up and dressed this time, and Thomas with a good breakfast in front of him. She made her way into the kitchen and set about preparing the meal.

  But how had the fat in the frying-pan managed to burn black and smoking in just that moment or two it had taken her to find the egg? How tiresome things were! She poured the blackened mess away and started again, and this time it was wonderful. The egg was fried plump and golden, a little crisp round the edges, just the way Thomas liked it, and the fried bread was delicately brown. That’s what he needed to build up his strength, a good breakfast like this every morning. It would be quite a job to buy an egg every day out of her tiny pension, but she’d managed it this time, and she’d manage it again.

  Now to get it into the bedroom. Slowly—oh, so slowly, because the boards had grown so uneven and treacherous of late—she carried it across the landing and into the bedroom. First she must put it down while she got Thomas propped up comfortably on his pillows.

  But when she tried to put the plate down on the chest of drawers she found to her annoyance that there was no room there. It was all cluttered up with stuff—what was all this rubbish? She looked more carefully—and a dull bewilderment gripped her. For on the chest of drawers already was a plate with a fried egg on it—ice cold and congealed. And another, and another and another—each with its loathsome wrinkled egg, staring at her like ancient eyes.

  Something, half a memory, half a fear, made her turn, slowly, slowly, to look at the bed.

  Yes, it was empty. Stark, staring empty. Thomas was gone.

  She knew she must sit down on the edge of the bed and think this out. There was something—something she half remembered—something that made sense of all this.

  It was the wrong Thursday! That woman had already come on some other Thursday—last Thursday?—the Thursday before?—and had taken Thomas away.

  Taken Thomas away! The import of the words burned into her. How could she have let it happen? She, who had defended her family against all comers: she who in her time had stood up to rent collectors, probation officers, school-attendance officers, bailiffs, all the lot of them—how could she have let this flatfooted woman take her Thomas away?

  She must think, think. When did they take him? Where would they have taken him to? Where did that woman say?

  The hospital. Of course, Thomas was ill; it must have been the hospital. She would go there right now and fetch him, fetch him home herself through the spring sunshine.

  Such a long, long way to the hospital, and when she got there and sat down at last on the hard bench, how they did talk! One after another of them, flashing about in front of her, snapping out questions like firecrackers.

  “No record of it.” “No such admission”—the senseless words kept tossing about among them like paper balls—like little girls playing ball in a sunlit garden….

  Sister spoke a little louder, still patiently:

  “Do you understand? You must go to the enquiry desk, and they’ll give you a form. You must fill in the patient’s name and address, the date of admission….”

  But Martha Briggs was no longer listening to her. Because right now at the far end of the shadowy stone corridor she could see Thomas. How well he looked! and—why—he was running, actually running towards her, with his dear grey hair all rumpled and his arms outstretched.

  “Thomas!” she cried, in joy and anxiety, “Thomas, my darling, you mustn’t run!—your heart! …”

  She drew one breath of sweet, cool air, and then somehow seemed not to need another; for now she too was running, lightly, lightly, like a young girl, like a bird, her feet skimming over the stone floor. How wonderful it was to run, and run, and run to meet your love.

  “Will you please go to the enquiry desk—” Sister’s voice broke off suddenly. A less expert eye than hers would scarcely have noticed the slight change as the old woman’s head dropped a little farther towards her chest and the faint breathing stopped.

  THE SPECIAL GIFT

  EILEEN GLANCED DISCONSOLATELY at the little group cowering round the fire in her big, cold sitting-room. Only five of them tonight. It was the weather, of course, that was keeping most of the members away; not everyone was willing to battle through wind and sleet just for the pleasure of reading aloud to one another their amateur attempts at writing, and receiving some equally amateur criticism.

  Still, thought Eileen, drawing her cardigan more tightly about her, it was a pity; these meetings weren’t nearly so much fun with only a few. A crowd might have made it seem a bit warmer, too.

  “Well—do you think we ought to begin, Mr Wilberforce?” she said, sitting down on the big horsehair ottoman next to the secretary, a plump, important-looking man in his fifties.

  Mr Wilberforce glanced at the clock, rubbing his pink hands together.

  “Only twenty past,” he said. “Better give them a few more minutes. The snow, you know—buses—”

  “I think we should start,” piped up old Mrs Perkins, peering out like a little aggrieved mouse from the depths of the fur coat she had refused to take off. “We’ve got a lot to get through this evening. I’ve brought one of my little tales of unrequited love, if you’d care to hear it. And I’m sure Miss Williams here”—she indicated a pleasant, vacantly-smiling girl on her right—“I’m sure Miss Williams has brought us another chapter of her psychological novel. And Mr Walters”—the pale young man lowered his eyelashes self consciously—“We hope Mr Walters is going to read us another of his Ballads of the Seasons. It’ll be Summer this time, won’t it, Mr Walters?”

  “Yes, Summer,” agreed Mr Walters, speaking rapidly and staring at the carpet. “But not Summer in the conventional sense, you understand. Now, my interpretation of Summer—”

  A sharp, imperative ring at the f
ront door brought Eileen to her feet, and she hurried eagerly out of the room. One more makes six, she was thinking, that’s not too bad; all the same, I wish I hadn’t cut all those cheese sandwiches….

  A gust of wind and snow swirled into her face as she opened the front door, and the little dark man seemed almost to be blown in by it, so slight was he and thin in his flapping dark coat.

  “You haven’t been to these meetings before, have you?” Eileen was beginning and then stopped, for in the dimness of the hall the stranger seemed to be staring at her with a look of delighted recognition.

  “We—we haven’t met before, have we?” she went on awkwardly; and the little man seemed to rouse himself.

  “Why—er—no!” he said hastily, shaking the snow from his boots on the doormat. “No, indeed, I assure you! I just—had a feeling—”

  Again he stared at her with that odd look of recognition in his eyes; and for some reason Eileen began to feel uncomfortable; for some reason she became very eager to escape from the piercing gaze of this stranger in the dimly lit hall.

  “Come along and meet the others,” she said hastily, and led him briskly into the sitting-room.

  “Fitzroy is my name,” the dark man introduced himself. “Alan Fitzroy.” He glanced round the company with dark, sparkling eyes, and there was a little stir of interest. Not that anybody had heard of him, but something in the way he spoke made them feel that perhaps they ought to have heard of him. Perhaps, each of them was thinking, perhaps this at last is the real writer I have always hoped would turn up! The real writer who not only gets his own work published, but who will be able to tell me how to get mine published; who will recognize it as the masterpiece it is…. With such thoughts behind them, five pairs of eyes followed the little man as he moved towards the fire; eager hands drew up a comfortable armchair for him; eager voices plied him with questions.