Elidor (Essential Modern Classics) (9 page)

P
LANCHETTE

T
he telephone rang while Mr Watson was having breakfast.

“That was the Brodies,” he said when he came back to the table. “They’re giving a party for their two on the twenty-ninth, and ours are invited. There’ll be a card in the post, but John Brodie wanted to know now so that the date can be fixed. It’ll be your night out,” he said to the children, “to make up for when your mother and I go to the Greenwoods’ New Year dance.”

“I’m still not sure about that,” said Mrs Watson. “They’re young to be left.”

“They’re plenty old enough to look after themselves,” said Mr Watson. “Aren’t you?”

“But do we have to go to this party?” said Nicholas.

“Of course,” said Mrs Watson. “It’ll be great fun. And the Brodies are such nice people. We ought to see more of them.”

“But we don’t know the kids,” said Nicholas. “It sounds deadly. I can’t stand pass-the-parcel.”

“We’ve accepted now,” said Mr Watson. “And it lasts till eleven-thirty, so I think you’ll find it’s quite a grown-up party.”

“Oh, heck,” said Nicholas.

“I must remember to put them on the Christmas card list,” said Mrs Watson.

David came in from outside.

“Dad! Have you seen the front door? It isn’t half a mess!”

There were three gashes in the door. Two of them were cut an inch into the oak, but the third was more of a dent, as if it had been made with less force than the others.

“I thought I heard banging in the night,” said Mrs Watson, “but I must have turned over again.”

“But this is vandalism!” said Mr Watson. “We’re being persecuted. It’s – it’s intolerable. Really, the lengths they’ll go to just to vent their spite. Why, this must have been done with an axe!”

“That’s what you must expect when you have overspill in a decent area,” said Mrs Watson. “They shouldn’t be allowed to build out in the country. People aren’t going to change when they move from the city. And goodness knows what it will do to property values.”

“It’s sheer vandalism,” said Mr Watson.

But later in the day he filled the gashes with a wood compound, and tightened the hinges and the door catch,
which seemed to cure the vibrations.

“I thought a touch of the screwdriver would do the trick,” he said.

The party loomed. The Brodies lived in a big house that had stood by itself among fields but was now surrounded by the local council’s new estate. Both the children went to boarding school.

“It’s going to be wet,” said Nicholas as they set out on the night.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Mr Watson. “Hard frost. Clear sky. It’ll stay like this for a couple of days at least. The glass is very steady.”

“I meant the party,” said Nicholas.

Jennifer and Robert Brodie met the Watsons formally on the doorstep. There were about a dozen other guests, and they drank fruit cup. They played games, “to break the ice”. These involved pushing a matchbox from nose to nose, and mixing the girls’ shoes up and then having to find the owners.

Then they danced to gramophone records. But Helen was the only one of the four who could dance. Nicholas had had two lessons, which made him more wretched than anybody. There were Excuse-me Dances, and Novelty Dances, and Forfeit Dances. Those without a partner had to dance with a mop.

At nine o’clock they went in to supper. There was a game with name-cards to decide who sat where, but Nicholas cheated so that the Watsons were together and at the far end of the table.

“Isn’t it smashing!” said Helen.

“Two and a half hours more,” said David.

“Can’t we go now?” said Roland.

But the food was good. The Brodie children called their father Jo-jo, and he told funny stories all the time.

Then everybody started to pull crackers. Roland pulled his with Helen. He unrolled the paper hat, and read the motto, and shook the cracker to see if it was empty. Something dropped on the table.

“What’s up, Roland?” said David. “Are you feeling sick?”

“What have you got?” said Roland.

“A hat; and a motto; same as you.”

“What else?”

“Only one of those useless bits of junk you always have in crackers.”

“What is it?”

“A tie clip, or something: a kind of sword made of pink plastic. It says ‘Hong Kong’ on the back.”

“I’ve got a spear,” said Roland.

“Mine’s a little plastic goblet,” said Helen.

“What have you got, Nick?” said Roland.

“Please, Roland!” said Helen. “Please don’t go on!”

“What’s inside your cracker?” said Roland.

“Calm down,” said Nicholas. “You’ll have them thinking you’ve gone barmy.”

“Tell me what’s in that cracker besides the hat and the motto!”

“Oh, that,” said Nicholas. “A pink brick. Do you want it?”

“A brick? You mean a stone!”

“Oh, good grief, Roland! Not again! Anyway, it’s a dice. And it’s a pretty poor one, too. The spots aren’t coloured.”

“It’s shaped like a stone; it could be made of stone even if it is a dice,” said Roland.

“Well it isn’t, it’s made of plastic, and so’s everything else.”

“It’s pushing things a bit,” said David. “Or are you saying Malebron’s sending us souvenirs from Hong Kong?”

“I don’t know what I’m saying—”

“That’s true,” said Nicholas.

“—but it’s not a coincidence.”

“Of course it’s a coincidence,” said Nicholas.

“Then if it is,” said Roland, “it coincides with something. You don’t have a coincidence on its own. And what it coincides with is the Treasures. It makes them more real.”

David crossed and uncrossed his eyes.

“You can’t laugh them off now!” said Roland. “Everything’s linked. Malebron said so. Even if these are bits out of a cracker, they’re part of something else, and you can’t get away from it.”

“Oh, do belt up,” said Nicholas.

“Are we all happy down this end of the table?” said Mr Brodie, appearing behind David’s shoulder. “Plenty of what you want? More pudding? Fruit cup?”

“Thanks: we’re fine,” said Nicholas.

Roland went through the rest of the evening in a daze, which insulated him from the round of games and dances that followed. By about eleven o’clock everyone was tired of dancing, and nobody could think of any fresh games. They all sat round the room, and it looked as though the last thirty minutes were going to drag into exhaustion.

“I know,” said Jennifer Brodie. “Let’s have a séance! Like we had last Christmas! Please, Jo-jo!”

“Oh, yes! Let’s!” several others said.

“Right you are,” said Mr Brodie. “But don’t go scaring yourselves. It’s only a parlour game, remember. There’s nothing in it.”

“What’s a séance?” said Helen.

“Talking to ghosts – table-rapping, and that sort of thing,” said Nicholas.

“I don’t want to do it,” said Roland. “It sounds too creepy.”

“Come on,” said David. “It’s Christmas. And you heard him say it’s only a game.”

“Please may we use Grannie’s planchette?” Jennifer asked her mother. “It’s more fun with that, and you had it out for your party last night.”

“If you take care of it, darling,” said Mrs Brodie.

“Yes, Mummy.”

There was a conversation between Mr and Mrs Brodie at the door, but all Roland heard was, “—not as if they’re old enough – scribble – nothing frightening—”

“Our grannie was a Spiritualist,” said Robert Brodie. “And she had this planchette for getting messages from Grandpa. All he ever said was, ‘Bury me under the river’.”

“And did you?” said Nicholas.

“You try it,” said Robert.

Mrs Brodie came back into the room holding a small, heart-shaped board with a pencil sticking through a hole at the pointed end. The board stood on castors so that it could move in any direction.

“The thing is,” said Jennifer, “that we all sit round the table, and whoever works the planchette lays their right hand on it very gently, and the board travels across the paper on these wheels. The pencil’s touching the paper, and so you get what’s called Automatic Writing. Only you mustn’t watch what you’re doing, because it’s not you writing. It’s the Other Side.”

“Sounds corny to me,” said Nicholas.

“No, it isn’t,” said Jennifer. “If you try to write deliberately the board skids about. Now who’s going to do it?”

“I think it’s time young Roland here did his stuff,” said Mr Brodie. “He’s been very quiet all evening.”

“I’d rather not,” said Roland.

“It’s only fun,” said Robert.

Roland was hustled to the table, where the planchette was laid on the back of a roll of wallpaper. “The writing’s big,” said Jennifer, “so you need plenty of room.

“Put your finger tips on the planchette very lightly: that’s it. Now, everyone sit still. You mustn’t speak. Think of nothing. And if the board moves, Roland, don’t look at it. It’s best if you keep your eyes closed all the time. I’ll do the talking bit. Right. Off we go.”

They all sat round the table. Complete silence was impossible. Some of the girls started giggling almost at once.

“Sh!” said Jennifer every few seconds.

“My arm’s going numb,” said Roland. “Can I have a rest?”

“No,”said Jennifer, “Sh!”

Two minutes went by, and Jennifer cleared her throat.

“Is anyone there?” she said to the ceiling. “Is anyone there?”

The planchette jerked as if Roland had cramp in his arm, and the pencil made a formless scribble on the wallpaper.

“Is anyone there?” said Jennifer, and she nodded excitedly and stuck her thumb up.

The planchette scribbled again.

“Who is it?”

The planchette moved along the paper in loops like someone’s first attempt at writing.

“Not bad, Roland,” said Nicholas.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Sh!” said Jennifer. “Who is it?”

“My arm’s gone cold,” said Roland. “I can’t feel anything.”

“If you talk you’ll spoil it,” said Jennifer. “Look!”

“What’s happening?” said Roland.