Collected Stories (24 page)

(1975)

George Hardcastle’s downfall undoubtedly originated in his love for dogs. He could not pass one without stopping and patting its head. A flea-bit- ten mongrel had only to turn the comer of the street and he was whistling, calling out: “Come on, boy. Come on then,” and behaving in the altogether outrageous fashion that is peculiar to the devoted animal lover.

Tragedy may still have been averted had he not decided to spend a day in the Greensand Hills. Here in the region of Clandon Down, where dwarf oaks, pale birches, and dark firs spread up in a long sweep to the northern heights, was a vast hiding place where many forms of often invisible life lurked in the dense undergrowth. But George, like many before him, knew nothing about this, and tramped happily up the slope, aware only that the air was fresh, the silence absolute, and he was young.

The howl of what he supposed to be a dog brought him to an immediate standstill and for a while he listened, trying to determine from which direction the sound came. Afterwards he had reason to remember that none of the conditions laid down by legend and superstition prevailed. It was midafternoon and in consequence there was not, so far as he was aware, a full moon. The sun was sending golden spears of light through the thick foliage and all around was a warm, almost overpowering atmosphere, tainted with the aroma of decaying undergrowth. The setting was so commonplace and he was such an ordinary young man—not very bright perhaps, but gifted with good health and clean boyish good looks, the kind of Saxon comeliness that goes with clear skin and blond hair.

The howl rang out again, a long, drawn-out cry of canine anguish, and now it was easily located. Way over to his left, somewhere in the midst of, or just beyond a curtain of, saplings and low, thick bushes. Without thought of danger, George turned off the beaten track and plunged into the dim twilight that held perpetual domain during the summer months under the interlocked higher branches. Imagination supplied a mental picture of a gin- trap and a tortured animal that was lost in a maze of pain. Pity lent speed to his feet and made him ignore the stinging offshoots that whipped at his face and hands, while brambles tore his trousers and coiled round his ankles. The howl came again, now a little to his right, but this time it was followed by a deep-throated growl, and if George had not been the person he was, he might have paid heed to this warning note of danger.

For some fifteen minutes, he ran first in one direction, then another, finally coming to rest under a giant oak which stood in a small clearing. For the first time fear came to him in the surrounding gloom. It did not seem possible that one could get lost in an English wood, but here, in the semilight, he conceived the ridiculous notion that night left its guardians in the wood during the day, which would at any moment move in and smother him with shadows.

He moved away from the protection of the oak tree and began to walk in the direction he thought he had come, when the growl erupted from a few yards to his left. Pity fled like a leaf before a raging wind, and stark terror fired his brain with blind, unreasoning panic. He ran, fell, got up, and ran again, and from behind came the sound of a heavy body crashing through undergrowth, the rasp of laboured breathing, the bestial growl of some enraged being. Reason had gone, coherent thought had been replaced by an animal instinct for survival; he knew that whatever ran behind him was closing the gap.

Soon, and he dare not turn his head, it was but a few feet away. There was snuffling, whining, terribly eager growling, and suddenly he shrieked as a fierce, burning pain seared his right thigh. Then he was down on the ground and the agony rose up to become a scarlet flame, until it was blotted out by a merciful darkness.

An hour passed, perhaps more, before George Hardcastle returned to consciousness. He lay quite still and tried to remember why he should be lying on the ground in a dense wood, while a dull ache held mastery over his right leg. Then memory sent its first cold tentacles shuddering across his brain and he dared to sit up and face reality.

The light had faded: night was slowly reinforcing its advance guard, but he was still able to see the dead man who lay but a few feet away. He shrank back with a little muffled cry and tried to dispel this vision of a purple face and bulging eyes, by the simple act of closing his own. But this was not a wise action for the image of that awful countenance was etched upon his brain, and the memory was even more macabre than the reality. He opened his eyes again, and there it was: a man in late middle life, with grey, close-cropped hair, a long moustache, and yellow teeth, that were bared in a death grin. The purple face suggested he had died of a sudden heart attack.

The next hour was a dimly remembered nightmare. George dragged himself through the undergrowth and by sheer good fortune emerged out on to one of the main paths.

He was found next morning by a team of boy scouts.

Police and an army of enthusiastic volunteers scoured the woods, but no trace of a ferocious wild beast was found. But they did find the dead man, and he proved to be a farm worker who had a reputation locally of being a person of solitary habits. An autopsy revealed he had died of a heart attack, and it was assumed that this had been the result of his efforts in trying to assist the injured boy.

The entire episode assumed the proportions of a nine-day wonder, and then was forgotten.

***

Mrs. Hardcastle prided herself on being a mother who, while combating illness, did not pamper it. She had George back on his feet within three weeks and despatched him on prolonged walks. Being an obedient youth he followed these instructions to the letter, and so, on one overcast day, found himself at Hampton Court. As the first drops of rain were caressing his face, he decided to make a long-desired tour of the staterooms. He wandered from room to room, examined pictures, admired four-poster beds, then listened to a guide who was explaining the finer points to a crowd of tourists. By the time he had reached the Queen’s Audience Room, he felt tired, so seated himself on one of the convenient window-seats. For some while he sat looking out at the rain-drenched gardens, then with a yawn, he turned and gave a quick glance along the long corridor that ran through a series of open doorways.

Suddenly his attention was captured by a figure approaching over the long carpet. It was that of a girl in a black dress; she was a beautiful study in black and white. Black hair, white face and hands, black dress. Not that there was anything sinister about her, for as she drew nearer he could see the look of indescribable sadness in the large, black eyes, and the almost timid way she looked round each room. Her appearance was outstanding, so vivid, like a black-and-white photograph that had come to life.

She entered the Queen’s Audience Room and now he could hear the light tread of her feet, the whisper of her dress, and even those small sounds seemed unreal. She walked round the room, looking earnestly at the pictures, then as though arrested by a sudden sound, she stopped. Suddenly the lovely eyes came round and stared straight at George.

They held an expression of alarmed surprise, that gradually changed to one of dawning wonderment. For a moment George could only suppose she recognised him, although how he had come to forget her, was beyond his comprehension. She glided towards him, and as she came a small smile parted her lips. She sank down on the far end of the seat and watched him with those dark, wondering eyes.

She said: “Hullo. I’m Carola.”

No girl had made such an obvious advance towards George before, and shyness, not to mention shock, robbed him of speech. Carola seemed to be reassured by his reticence, for her smile deepened and when she spoke her voice held a gentle bantering tone.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

This impertinent probe succeeded in freeing him from the chains of shyness and he ventured to make a similar retort.

“I can speak when I want to.”

“That’s better. I recognised the link at once. We have certain family connections, really. Don’t you think so?”

This question was enough to dry up his powers of communication for some time, but presently he was able to breathe one word. “Family!”

“Yes.” She nodded and her hair trembled like black silk in sunlight. “We must be at least distantly related in the allegorical sense. But don’t let’s talk about that. I am so pleased to be able to walk about in daylight. It is so dreary at night, and besides, I’m not really myself then.”

George came to the conclusion that this beautiful creature was at least slightly mad, and therefore made a mundane, but what he thought must be a safe remark.

“Isn’t it awful weather?”

She frowned slightly and he got the impression he had committed a breach of good taste.

“Don’t be so silly. You know it’s lovely weather. Lots of beautiful clouds.”

He decided this must be a joke. There could be no other interpretation. He capped it by another.

“Yes, and soon the awful sun will come out.” She flinched as though he had hit her, and there was the threat of tears in the lovely eyes.

“You beast. How could you say a dreadful thing like that? There won’t be any sun, the weather forecast said so. I thought you were nice, but all you want to do is frighten me.”

And she dabbed her eyes with a black lace handkerchief, while George tried to find his way out of a mental labyrinth where every word seemed to have a double meaning.

“I am sorry. But I didn’t mean ...”

She stifled a tiny sob. “How would you like it if I said—silver bullets?”

He scratched his head, wrinkled his brow, and then made a wry grimace.

“I wouldn’t know what you meant, but I wouldn’t mind.”

She replaced the lace handkerchief in a small handbag, then got up and walked quickly away. George watched her retreating figure until it disappeared round the corner in the direction of the long gallery. He muttered: “Potty. Stark raving potty.”

On reflection he decided it was a great pity that her behaviour was so erratic, because he would have dearly liked to have known her better. In fact, when he remembered the black hair and white face, he was aware of a deep disappointment, a sense of loss, and he had to subdue an urge to run after her. He remained seated in the window bay and when he looked out on to the gardens, he saw the rain had ceased, but thick cloud banks were billowing across the sky. He smiled gently and murmured, “Lovely clouds—horrible sunshine.”

George was half way across Anne Boleyn’s courtyard when a light touch on his shoulder made him turn, and there was Carola of the white face and black hair, with a sad smile parting her lips.

“Look,” she said, “I’m sorry I got into a huff back there, but I can’t bear to be teased about—well, you know what. But you are one of us, and we mustn’t quarrel. All forgiven?”

George said, “Yes, I’m sorry I offended you. But I didn’t mean to.” And at that moment he was so happy, so ridiculously elated, he was prepared to apologise for breathing.

“Good.” She sighed and took hold of his arm as though it were the most natural action in the world. “We’ll forget all about it. But, please, don’t joke about such things again.”

“No. Absolutely not.” George had not the slightest idea what it was he must not joke about, but made a mental note to avoid mention of the weather and silver bullets.

“You must come and meet my parents,” Carola insisted, “they’ll be awfully pleased to see you. I bet they won’t believe their noses.”

This remark was in the nature of a setback, but George’s newly found happiness enabled him to ignore it—pretend it must be a slip of the tongue.

“That’s very kind of you, but won’t it be a bit sudden? I mean, are you sure it will be convenient?”

She laughed, a lovely little silver sound and, if possible, his happiness increased.

“You are a funny boy. They’ll be tickled pink, and so they should be. For the first time for years, we won’t have to be careful of what we say in front of a visitor.”

George had a little mental conference and came to the conclusion that this was meant to be a compliment. So he said cheerfully, “I don’t mind what people say. I like them to be natural.”

Carola thought that was a very funny remark and tightened her grip on his arm, while laughing in a most enchanting fashion.

“You have a most wonderful sense of humour. Wait until I tell Daddy that one. ‘I like them to be natural...’”

And she collapsed into a fit of helpless laughter in which George joined, although he was rather at a loss to know what he had said that was so funny. Suddenly the laugh was cut short, was killed by a gasp of alarm, and Carola was staring at the western sky where the clouds had taken on a brighter hue. The words came out as a strangled whisper. “The sun! O Lucifer, the sun is coming out.”

“Is it?” George looked up and examined the sky with assumed interest. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re not right...” Then he stopped and looked down at his lovely companion with concern. “I’m sorry, you... you don’t like the sun, do you?”

Her face was a mask of terror and she gave a terrible little cry of anguish. George’s former suspicion of insanity returned, but she was still appealing—still a flawless pearl on black velvet. He put his arm round the slim shoulders, and she hid her eyes against his coat. The muffled, tremulous whisper came to him.