Collected Stories Read online

  It was difficult for Miss Emmet to get to sleep that night. The noise from the rooms below, the shouting, the gusts of laughter, continued well into the small hours, long after the public bar had closed and the last customer had relieved himself against the cowshed wall beneath her window and gone squelching away up the muddy yard.

  As soon as supper had finished, Mr Armitage, assisted by Albert Ward and supervised by Mum, had shoved the long table to the far end of the dining-room before carrying the oval table through from the library.

  ‘What game are we playing?’ the regular crowd had wanted to know, bumping into each other and ferrying chairs from one corner to another. Miss Emmet hadn’t waited to find out.

  Whatever sort of game it was, it was obviously complicated and of long duration. At one point it necessitated the singing of a negro spiritual, at which the spaniel set up a melancholy howling. It woke the collie dog in its kennel. Though Miss Emmet stuffed her fingers into her ears she still heard the brute’s strangled yelps as it hurled itself the length of its chain beyond the pig-sty. Shortly before dawn she thought there was a sound of glass breaking.

  Miss Emmet breakfasted alone. Even the children had not yet come down. Mr White hardly spoke when he brought in the fried bacon. None of the windows appeared to be broken.

  At midday Miss Emmet bought some buns at the village shop and ate them in a field down by the river. It was annoying to miss a meal already paid for, but she felt she couldn’t face luncheon at the hotel.

  Last night at supper both Mum and Mr Armitage had addressed her directly. Mr Armitage had asked her what part of the world she came from, and having been told, declared it a lovely spot, which it wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination, being not far from the centre of Wolverhampton and dreadfully built up, and Mum, prompted by some absurd remark of Albert Ward’s to the effect that Miss Emmet was a child of nature – always messing about with flowers – had promised to send her a box of geranium cuttings. ‘And she means it, you know,’ cried the schoolteacher. ‘It’s not one of those comments thrown out at random. Mum always keeps her word.’ Miss Emmet had not doubted her. She had already observed how cleverly Mum apportioned each guest his share of the limelight, how unfailingly she hit upon the one topic that suited – and oh, how unstintingly, without ever taking her attention off the speaker or averting the gaze of those light brown eyes ringed with spiky lashes, she passed the salt, the bread, the greens. Really, she had quite ordinary eyes, but for the moment, hunched beside the river, Miss Emmet thought of them as frightening, not for what they had seen, but for what they hadn’t.

  Later that afternoon, when she was sitting in the garden waiting for the gong to sound for tea, Miss Emmet overheard the land-girl and Mrs Hardwick discussing the events of the night before. ‘It was so unexpected,’ Mrs Hardwick was saying. ‘I know, I know,’ the land-girl said. ‘If you ask me, it was uncanny. Uncanny.’ And she gave a little scream.

  ‘But such fun,’ admitted Mrs Hardwick.

  ‘Not for him,’ said the girl and, laughing, they both sat up in their deck chairs and looked guiltily across the garden to where Walter Hood lay on his back in the shade of the hedge.

  When they had recovered, Mrs Hardwick called out, ‘I expect it wasn’t much fun for you either. I don’t suppose you got much sleep.’

  ‘I always sleep very soundly,’ Miss Emmet said. ‘Last night was no exception.’

  Mrs Hardwick expressed surprise. ‘I thought we made enough racket to raise the dead,’ she said.

  At which the land-girl started to laugh all over again – in the circumstances it was such an apt remark – and then both she and Mrs Hardwick began to recount the story from the beginning, not so much for Miss Emmet’s benefit as because neither of them could bear to let the subject drop.

  First Mr Armitage had moved the table from the library into the dining-room; in the process a little bit of wallpaper had been scuffed off from under the light switch, but Mum said it was hardly noticeable. Mr Armitage said that if they wanted to get in touch with the spirit world it was always better to choose the oldest part of a house for the setting. Really they should have gone down into the cellar, but Mr Armitage said it was too difficult to transport the table, so the next best thing was to be in the room directly above. He’d done a lot of it in India apparently, when it was too wet to do anything else.

  ‘When it rained,’ interrupted the girl, ‘even the books turned mouldy.’

  ‘Not mouldy,’ objected Mrs Hardwick. ‘Just limp.’

  They had tried to get in touch with the spirits, but the wine glass kept spelling out ‘Shut up’ whenever Albert Ward asked if there was anyone waiting on the other side. It was a scream. Of course some people weren’t taking it seriously, and Mum said that was probably what was causing the interference.

  ‘He took it seriously,’ the land-girl said, lowering her voice and pointing discreetly at the prone figure on the grass.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Hardwick, solemn for the moment, and then she was off again.

  The glass had finally whizzed straight off the table and hit the window. Mr White had looked a bit put out, but there was no damage. Then Mum told an eerie story of an aunt of hers who had levitated right up to the rafters during a church service. She was in the choir at the time. So they had all stood in a circle round Molly Berwick and put their hands on top of her head, the way Mr Armitage instructed, and pressed down. They sang ‘Shall we gather by the river’, because Mr Armitage thought it would help, though not all of them were sure of the words. Nothing happened except that Molly complained of feeling dizzy; that, and of the havoc they were causing to her permanent wave.

  ‘Don’t forget the dog,’ squealed the girl, and for a time Mrs Hardwick almost choked laughing.

  Then Mr Armitage said they ought to stand in a line facing the hearth, on account of the mirror above the fireplace. Mirrors, especially oval ones, were known to be conducive to the appearance of phenomena. If they all stood in a line and really concentrated, particularly the doubting Thomases, perhaps there would be some sign. And by Golly, it worked.

  ‘Oh, it did,’ shrieked the girl. ‘It did. It was uncanny.’

  Mr Armitage had missed it all. He’d just that minute popped out to get himself another gin and tonic, and while he was away the carpet rose in the air. Not all in one piece like in The Thief of Baghdad but in the middle. They all saw it. Mr Armitage said afterwards that he could kick himself, missing it like that.

  ‘And then he got a bit upset,’ whispered the land-girl, winking and gesticulating in the direction of Walter Hood. ‘He was moaning. When the carpet fell flat again he got down on his hands and knees to study it. And then suddenly he shouted and clutched his nose. He hadn’t been drinking.’

  ‘Something went up it,’ explained Mrs Hardwick. ‘He said it felt like a bit of wire.’

  ‘He bled,’ said the girl.

  ‘Not badly,’ protested Mrs Hardwick.

  ‘He called for his mother,’ the girl said, and in spite of herself she couldn’t stop laughing.

  At teatime, and again at supper, Mum apologised to Miss Emmet for the rowdiness of the night before. ‘How we must have disturbed you,’ she said. ‘It was very thoughtless.’

  ‘Please don’t mention it,’ Miss Emmet had replied on the first occasion, and on the second, ‘I may be old, but I hope I’m not a spoil-sport.’

  After supper Mum said that she could do with an early night, though it was hard to believe it. She had changed from her matador trousers into a grey costume with square shoulders. In her sling-back shoes, her silk scarf, blood-red, which she wore turban-fashion about her head, she looked ready for a night on the town – had there been one. ‘We could all do with an early night,’ she insisted, and everyone agreed with her. The land-girl, bitterly disappointed, nodded vehemently.

  Miss Emmet was about to go out of the dining-room door when the spaniel padded across the threshold. She stepped aside to let it pass.

  �
�You don’t like dogs, do you?’ said Mum.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Miss Emmet said, and could have bitten off her tongue.

  The rest of the week was relatively uneventful. Albert Ward grazed his knees – it had something to do with an egg-and-spoon race organised by Mr Armitage – and one of the Hardwick daughters fell out of an apple tree while watching the bowls tournament. She had been told to stay on the ground. Luckily Mum broke the child’s fall, and one of her own fingernails in the process. It was ironic really; the child involved wasn’t particularly in favour at the time, having been caught dragging the stuffed stoat on a piece of string along the corridor. The child knew perfectly well that the stoat was anathema to Mum. Everyone did. Fortunately Mum had been out playing tennis. There was also an incident, recounted to Miss Emmet by the land-girl, in which someone had dressed up in a white sheet and flitted about the churchyard, frightening the life out of Mrs Lambert and another guest, who may or may not have had a heart condition, but no harm resulted.

  The land-girl had become almost one of the regular crowd, though not all of them remembered her name. She had taken to painting her toenails, and wore turbans, night and day, in imitation of Mum. On the Sunday, as Miss Emmet was coming downstairs ready for church, Mr Armitage called out to her from the bar parlour. He and Mum were without company for once. Reluctantly she went through to them. Mr Armitage asked if he might be allowed to buy her a drink.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Miss Emmet. ‘I don’t drink, and besides I’m just on my way to church.’

  ‘So are we,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of time.’ And he took her by the elbow and practically forced her to sit down. It wasn’t yet opening hours and Mr White was out bell-ringing, but Mr Armitage felt so much at home that he nipped behind the counter and poured out two gin and tonics and a glass of lemonade. ‘Drink up,’ he said, setting the glass before her. And obediently Miss Emmet sipped at the fizzy liquid, for, although it was a long time ago, she had once been used to doing what men told her.

  Neither he nor Mum were dressed for church. He wore his blazer, and Mum was wearing grey flannel trousers and a jacket to match. Her white turban was printed all over with the heads of dogs.

  ‘We were wondering,’ said Mum, ‘if you’d care to come for a run this afternoon. Just the three of us. Mr White has offered the loan of his car.’

  ‘Do come,’ Mr Armitage urged.

  ‘Well, now,’ Miss Emmet told them, ‘I was thinking of writing letters.’

  ‘It would give us so much pleasure,’ said Mum.

  Miss Emmet couldn’t help smiling; it was such a ridiculous statement.

  Mistaking that smile, Mr Armitage cried out jubilantly, ‘Jolly good,’ and took the matter as settled.

  During morning service Miss Emmet prayed that Mum would think of something better to do with her afternoon. She and Mr Armitage had changed their minds about coming to church, and it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that even at this moment they were driving off into the countryside. But when she came out into the sunshine the first thing she saw was the black motor-car parked against the hedge.

  She hardly touched her lunch. Not for years had anyone sought her company, and the thought of two hours, one hundred and twenty minutes, in which Mum and Mr Armitage would give her their undivided attention, interrogating her, raking over all the small details of her life, took away her appetite. She considered hiding in her room. But then, how would she deal with the rest of the week?

  Mr Armitage gallantly helped her into the back seat of the car. There was a smell of fertiliser and warm leather. Mum sat at the front. The land-girl hovered in the porch of the hotel, hoping to be included even at this late stage. Mum gave her a cheerful wave as they drove off. A Hardwick child ran with them as far as the corner. ‘Little pest,’ said Mum.

  They took the Marton road towards Corndon and the heather-covered slopes of the mountain, winding uphill between fields of barley hedged with hawthorn.

  ‘What a beautiful day,’ said Mr Armitage.

  ‘Beautiful,’ murmured Mum, dangling her hand outside the window as though the breeze were the sea. Miss Emmet, with her hat on, said nothing.

  They reached a plateau of moorland above Marton. Mr Armitage stopped the car and got out to stretch his legs. Mum appeared to be asleep; her turbaned head lolled against the window. Miss Emmet too fell into a doze. Presently Mr Armitage returned and they drove on.

  After perhaps half an hour the car stopped again. Waking, Miss Emmet saw that they were at a crossroads. On her right, some few yards down the lane, stood ornamental gates, flanked by posts topped with stone birds, green with moss. The gates were open.

  ‘Oh, look,’ said Mum. ‘Do let’s go in. I love old houses.’

  ‘We’ll be trespassing,’ said Mr Armitage, and looking over his shoulder asked Miss Emmet what she thought. Miss Emmet said she had no idea.

  ‘Please,’ said Mum. ‘We can say we took a wrong turning.’

  They drove up a dark avenue of towering rhododendrons, and emerged into the sunlight beside a kitchen garden, beyond which squatted a brick bungalow with vulgar shutters at the windows. An ugly baytree stood in a tub on the brick front step.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mum. ‘How disappointing.’

  ‘They’re obviously away,’ Mr Armitage said, and he pointed at the runner beans withering on their canes.

  ‘I’d be away if I lived somewhere like that,’ remarked Mum, quite fiercely, and Miss Emmet was surprised, for she had imagined Mum as living in just such a house, though without the grounds.

  ‘There’s a water tap,’ said Mr Armitage. ‘And a hosepipe. Those plants could do with a spot of moisture.’ He turned again to Miss Emmet. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Mum.

  ‘It does seem a shame,’ Miss Emmet said, looking at the shrunken lettuces, the parched blackcurrant bushes, and making up her mind she opened the car door and struggled out.

  ‘Don’t blame me if you’re caught,’ called Mum.

  Miss Emmet had advanced some way down the path towards the water tap – Mr Armitage had not yet left the car – when she heard the dog. Its howl was deep-chested, threatening; it was an awful sound. Miss Emmet froze on the path, clutching her old woman’s coat about her, too frightened to breathe. Joke time, she thought, knowing she had been caught.

  The Alsatian that bounded round the side of the bungalow was jet-black, huge. It was followed by a smaller, emaciated red setter with a mean and bony head. The ferocity of their barking, the slither of their claws on the gravel as they rounded the fence almost drove Miss Emmet out of her mind. Both dogs stopped ten yards from her, ears flat, teeth bared.

  Someone screamed, but it was not Miss Emmet. She was concentrating on the red setter; he was the leader, she was sure of it. If she transmitted her fear the brute would go for her throat. She forced herself to look into its hateful eyes. It lay down on the path, snarling.

  Miss Emmet heard the click of the car door as it opened behind her. ‘Don’t move,’ she called out, keeping her voice as steady as she could manage. ‘You mustn’t move.’ She could smell mint in the garden, and thyme, and saw dust spiralling upwards in the sunlight as the dog’s heart thumped in its chest against the path.

  After minutes had elapsed, or it might have been hours, Miss Emmet began to move backwards in the direction of the car. The setter wrinkled its muzzle and half rose. Miss Emmet halted. The dog crouched again.

  It took an age. Once, the dog ran forward alarmingly, but this time it stopped of its own accord, and Miss Emmet continued to move backwards, slowly, slowly, and now she had only to put out a hand and she would touch the bonnet of the car.

  ‘Close the windows,’ she said, and waited. ‘Now, open the door on my side.’

  But it was already open for her, and she was through it and scrabbling to slam it shut as the red setter hurled itself against the glass, the Alsatian leaping like a dolphin as high as the roof, slobbering as it snapped
its jaws, flecking the windows with spittle.

  Mr Armitage said it was an outrage, a disgrace; she might have been mauled to death. The village constable must be told. Only a madman would go on holiday leaving that sort of dog roaming at will. His hands shook on the wheel.

  Miss Emmet sensed, rather than saw, the road stretching ahead, the fields beyond, the distant mountain, all permeated by the clear and golden light of the afternoon. There was no shade anywhere, no darkness, except in her heart.

  Mum was crying. Twice, she swivelled round on her seat as though she meant to say something to Miss Emmet, but the tears just ran down her cheeks, and she turned away again. Her head in its scarf patterned with dogs wobbled as she wept. But then, thought Miss Emmet, tears were cheap.

  The land-girl was disappointed when Mum failed to come down for her usual drink at six o’clock. And during supper she found Mum subdued, not quite up to par. When she attempted to tell her what had happened that afternoon at the bowling green – it was an amusing story and featured one of the ‘lads’ – Mum cut her short and spoke instead to Miss Emmet, who had caught the sun and whose eyes blazed in her scorched face. Mum talked to no one else during the entire meal. On the few occasions Miss Emmet bothered to reply her tone of voice was peculiarly condescending. Everyone noticed it, or at least the members of the regular crowd, of whom the land-girl was now one.

  As soon as the pudding plates had been cleared away, Mum went up to her room. Eyebrows raised, the crowd looked at Mr Armitage. ‘She’s a little under the weather,’ he explained, and left the table.

  He went upstairs to her room and did his best to comfort her. He said the ordinary things, the right things; that she mustn’t punish herself, that she was not to blame.

  ‘I know,’ she said, ‘I know.’ But oh, how she blamed herself. If she had not insisted on their driving up to that awful house it would never have happened. Miss Emmet was such a frail woman, such a lonely woman. How she must have suffered, not only this afternoon but through all the other afternoons of her solitary life in which she had stood alone, facing fearsome beasts.