shop.'
'Well, I could, Mr Desland, but I didn't finish them until
nearly six o'clock - two or three of them I typed again - I
like to maintain high standards, as you know - and as it's a
fine evening, I decided I could easily walk -'
'You walked?'
'Oh, yes; well, I mean walking's good for you, isn't it? and
there was that Dr Barbara Moore who walked round the
world, and as for some of those 'bus conductors nowadays,
well I always think a lot of them are a great deal too
familiar with the passengers -'
'You shouldn't have done it, really. I'm most touched, Mrs
Taswell, I really am.' (Indeed, I was. It was just the kind of
characteristically pathetic thing that made me feel affection
for her.) 'Sit down and let me get you a cup of tea or a drink
or something.'
'Well, perhaps a cup of tea in a minute, Mr Desland, thank
you. But the letters first, I think. Here they are. Now in this
one to Phillips, Son and Neale, you did say "green enamelling",
didn't you? Only I've got "clean enamelling", but that
didn't seem quite right, so I typed "green" -'
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We finished the letters and I, having slipped quickly upstairs
to tell Kathe what was happening, went to make the
tea. When I brought it into the drawing-room Mrs Taswell
was standing at the open window, apparently listening to
something outside.
'Mr Desland, can you hear a child crying?'
I joined her at the window. It was a beautiful evening, the
shadows falling and faint scents of nicotiana and nightscented
stock drifting across the garden. The swifts were
plunging and screaming out of a clear sky and above the
lawn shone tiny, golden flashes as the wings of one dancing
gnat and then another momentarily caught the last sunlight
slanting through the trees. Plenty of fly up, I thought. It
would have been nice to go down and fish the Kennet this
evening: bitten to pieces, but worth it.
'No, I can't, Mrs Taswell. 'Sure you're not mistaken? Or
perhaps it's stopped -'
'No, it was only just now, Mr Desland -'
'I can hear the swifts-'
'It was a little way off, but quite distinct.'
'Oh, well, I mean, children do cry from time to time, you
know, and usually someone does something about it. That's
why they do it -'
I was turning away from the window, but she put a hand
lightly and quickly on my arm.
'It's not quite like that, Mr Desland. If you wouldn't mind
listening for a few moments - a little worrying, perhaps -'
I felt slightly irritated. I really wanted her to go, so that
I could get back to Kathe and our unfinished game of picquet.
However, Mrs Taswell had that odd sort of authority often
possessed by very limited people. 'Come along now, brush
those toothy-pegs properly,' says the stupid old aunt; and
since there's no discussing anything with her, it's quickest
and easiest just to do as she says.
I listened again. This time I not only heard it, but realized
at once what she had meant. There are several kinds of
children's crying - enraged, disappointed, frightened, the
bellowing of sudden pain and so on. What I could hear now,
however, was different from any of these. It seemed, as she
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had said, some little way off and I couldn't be sure from
which direction it was coming. It was very sorrowful - one
might almost have said 'heart-broken'; long, hopelesssounding
sobs at intervals, like a small child deserted, lost,
or bitterly unhappy. Whoever was crying like that was obviously
very much upset, and one did not have to listen long
to feel bothered about it.
'Yes, I see what you mean, Mrs Taswell. 'Sounds as though
some little girl's strayed in here and got lost, doesn't it? I
suppose I'd better go out and do something about it. I won't
be long. Make yourself comfortable and have a cup of tea
till I come back.'
'Oh, no, I'll come out with you, Mr Desland, if I may. After
all, one never knows, does one?'
What this meant, if anything, I had no idea - it was the
sort of remark she often made - but having called up the
stairs to Kathe that we were just going into the garden and
wouldn't be long, I took Mrs Taswell with me through the
kitchen and out into the yard.
As soon as we got into the garden I heard the weeping
again, faint but distinct. It seemed to be coming from the
shrubbery down at the bottom, but there was something
odd about it which I found hard to define. Though clearly
audible, it was not like the screaming of the swifts, the
minute insect-noises or the rustling of the leaves. The dissimilarity
was something like that between live conversation
and a voice on the wireless. Though distressing to hear, it
did not quite seem spontaneous and appeared, as it were,
to reach the ear from elsewhere. This peculiar quality was
so striking and perplexed me so much that I stopped for a
few seconds to try to make it out. I put it down to the
emotional effect of the weeping, but all the same I knew that
this did not really account for what I was feeling.
As we walked down the lawn the sounds continued intermittently.
They didn't seem to be getting any louder, so that
I began to wonder whether we were going in the right direction.
Mrs Taswell, however, appeared in no doubt, and as we
reached the little path between the flower-beds unhesitatingly
went ahead of me and herself opened the gate into the
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shrubbery. When we had walked a tew yards between the
rhododendrons she stopped and called, 'Coo-ee! Coo-ee!' in
a high-pitched voice. Silly twit! I thought, but then realized
that this, to a little girl lost in a strange place, would be
less alarming and easier to answer than me bellowing,
'Hullo, there!' or 'Where are you?'
However, although she repeated it several times, pausing
to listen, there was no reply, and the weeping had now
ceased. I tried 'Don't be frightened! Just call out to us!'
but this produced no result either.
'Perhaps she's afraid - hiding, do you think?' I said. 'I
suppose we'd better take a look through the bushes.'
For the next ten minutes or so we searched the shrubbery
more thoroughly than ever it had been searched since Flick
and I used to play hide-and-seek. I knew the hiding-places,
of course, and looked in all of them, even crawling on my
hands and knees into the pirates' cave (it seemed a lot
smaller now) inside the bigger rhododendron clump. Emerging
on the far side, by the swing, I was annoyed to see that
the tap was dripping quite fast and had half-filled the little
hollow. As I stooped to turn it off I saw a wooden Dutch
doll, about as big as my hand, lying on the bottom. I fished
it out. It couldn't have been there very long, for none of the
paint had soaked off. I showed it to Mrs Taswell.
'I suppo
se she must have been playing with the tap, drat
her, and either she dropped this and didn't notice, or else
she just ran off and left it. But where the hell is she now?
That's the point.'
Til take it, Mr Desland, and give it back to her when we
find her.'
'Well, if she was here - in the shrubbery, I mean - I'm
virtually certain she's not here now.'
'Ought we perhaps to have a look round the garden, Mr
Desland, do you think?'
'Is there really any point? Wherever she's got to, she
doesn't seem to be crying any more. I reckon she just slipped
off down the lane when she heard us coming.'
'Well, that's always possible, of course, Mr Desland, and
just as you think best. But I'd be happier to look in the
328
garden. After all, when people think they're going away
from something, they very often find they've gone straight
towards it, don't they?'
'I can't say I've ever experienced that myself, but I'm ready
to give it five minutes if it'll make you feel better.'
We walked round the garden calling, but the weeping had
stopped altogether and there was no one to be found. I
tried the sheds, the coal-house and the length of the over-'
grown laurel bank, but only succeeded in becoming still
more annoyed. The pity I had been feeling evaporated. This
infuriating little girl had evidently made her way into my
garden, turned on the tap, wasted quite a bit of water, put us
all to a deal of trouble and then, not to mince words, buggered
off, leaving neither hair nor hide.
I rejoined Mrs Taswell on the lawn. The light in the west
had faded and it was getting dark. The moths were already
fluttering round the nicotianas and I could hear the crickets
rousing up to their chirping in the big, yellow-leaved hollybush
behind the herbaceous border.
'She must have gone, Mrs Taswell. I know every inch of the
garden, you know - well, naturally I do - and I'm as good as
certain she's not here now.'
'It's a pity we couldn't find her, though, Mr Desland. The
crying sounded so - well, upsetting, don't you think?'
'Yes, I admit that. All the same, I dare say just hearing us
may have brought her to her senses and she simply went
home. Shall I take the doll, just in case she turns up again?'
'Certainly, Mr Desland. Why, that's very odd! I don't seem
to have it. I wonder where -'
'Oh, never mind. It'll be there to-morrow, wherever it is.
Let's go indoors again. I'm afraid that tea won't be worth
drinking now. I'll make some fresh - it won't take a
moment.'
'No, thank you, Mr Desland. Not for me. I think it's
getting rather-' she glanced at her watch - 'good gracious, it
is getting late! I must be starting back. I've got several other
matters to see to this evening. Foreign coins are the most
awkward things, I always think, don't you? - apart from
razor-blades, of course -'
329
'Well, I'm sure you can spare ten minutes for a cup of tea
or a drink, can't you, Mrs Taswell? I don't like to let you
go without something. It was really very kind of you to walk
all the way up here with the letters, and now you've had a
lot of extra trouble on top of that -'
'Thank you, no, Mr Desland. I've done what was required
of me and that's all that matters. Who was that man on the
wireless, do you remember? - oh, a long time ago now - who
used to say "I go. I come back"? I can't recall the name -'
'I'm not letting you walk.'
'Oh, yes, Mr Desland, it's nothing. It's all downhill from
here, you know-' '
'No, I'll run you down in the car. I really insist, Mrs
Taswell. Just wait a moment while I tell Mrs Desland what's
happening. I assure you it'll be no trouble at all.'
She was plainly about to raise some lunatic objection, but
I left the room without waiting for it and ran upstairs.
'Kathe, look, I'm just going to -'
I stopped. Kathe was lying with the bedclothes over her
head, and gave no sign that she had heard me.
'Come out, sweetheart, can you? There's something I want
to tell you. I'm just going to run Mrs T. home in the car -'
I gave the blanket a little tug and she cried out as though
in terror.
'Kathe, what on earth's the matter? Look, do come out a
moment, darling. It's only me, for God's sake.'
In one swift movement she flung back the bedclothes, sat
up and threw her arms round my neck, crying frantically,
'Oh, Alan, Alan, save me! You can save me -'
'Here, steady on! Don't be an ass! Mrs Taswell will hear
you. She's only just downstairs-'
'You don't realize, Alan! You don't understand-'
'How can I, unless you tell me? Dearest, don't be hysterical,
whatever it is. Tell me, are you bleeding or what? Do
you want me to ring up the doctor?'
'Don't let it, Alan, don't let it come here! It was for you,
it was all for you! You said I changed your life -'
'Of course you did, darling. Just calm yourself, now,
there's a good girl. Come on, lie down and take it easy.'
330
I laid her back on the bed and sat beside her. Taking my
hands in hers, she lay staring into my eyes as though afraid
to look anywhere else, even for an instant. I was at a loss
to know what sort of help it was that she was asking me for.
At last I said, 'But you were all right a little while ago.
What's gone wrong?'
'You heard it, didn't you?' she whispered. iYou heard it?'
'The little girl crying, you mean? Yes, we looked all over
the garden, but there was no one there. She must have
pushed off when she heard us coming. Oh, don't take on
about it, love. I agree it was a distressing thing to hear - she
cetjainly sounded absolutely wretched - but I'm sure she
can't have come to any actual harm.'
At this she dropped my hands and buried her face in the
pillows, sobbing. Impatient less with her than my own helplessness,
I bent over her and said, 'Look, I'm sorry, darling,
but you've got me worried and this is more than I can cope
with. I'm going to ring up the doctor. You need a sedative
- hypnotic - something or other. You're thoroughly overwrought.'
She sat up, brushed the tears from her eyes and, obviously
making every effort to speak calmly, answered, 'Alan, all I'm
asking is that you should stay here with me. You must stay
here! I don't need anything else, believe me.'
I forced a smile. 'All right - that's easy enough, for I
certainly don't want to be anywhere else. But I must go down
and see to Mrs Taswell. I said I'd run her home in the car,
but I'll get her a taxi instead. Now don't take on, darling!
Honestly, I won't be any time at all. Only I can't just let her
go on waiting downstairs, can I? Look, I'll leave this door
open and I'll be back in less than five minutes.'
With this I went straight out on the landing and down to
the drawing-roo
m. The drawing-room was empty. I ran to
the front door and then out to the gate, but Mrs Taswell was
nowhere in sight. Returning, I saw for the first time a
pencilled note propped against the telephone on the hall
table.
'Dear Mr Desland, I assure you it is not the least trouble
to me to walk. The weather is perfectly fine at the moment,
331
though I believe high wind is forecast for later to-night. I am
glad to have done what I came to do. Thank you. Vera
Taswell.'
24
KATHE, very pale, was standing with bowed head and closed
eyes at the top of the stairs. She was breathing hard and
gripping the banisters with both hands. Sweat stood on her
forehead.
I took her arm and said, 'This is like that old Punch joke,
darling, about the channel steamer, " 'You can't be sick here,
sir!' 'Can't I?' (Is.)" Come on, let's get you back to bed,
shall we? Are you going to be sick?'
She shook her head, went back into the bedroom and sat
down in front of the glass. After a few moments, as though
speaking to herself, she said slowly, 'I'm not going to - not
any more - try to escape. Das ist sinnlos. I'd rather - yes keep
my dignity.' And then, with a sudden burst of bitter
tears which cut me to the heart, 'My beauty! I believe - Oh,
Alan, I believe I wouldn't mind, if it weren't for my beauty!'
'Kathe, I thought you were so happy to be pregnant? Of
course it won't spoil your beauty, you silly pet! I'd say it'd
make you more beautiful, only that wouldn't be possible.
This is only a passing mood, you wait and see. You'll feel
better to-morrow. Just hang on a tick while I put this moth
outside, and then why not let's go on with our game, unless
you feel too tired?'
A pale-green moth with bronze-coloured eyes - one of the
geometridae - had fluttered in through the open window and
was beating its frail, papery wings against the bedside light.
I could hear, from inside the lamp-shade, the rapid, intermittent
pattering against the bulb. Although I knew that it
stood every chance, in the garden, of being snapped up by
a bat, it was so beautiful that I could not leave it to batter
itself to a crawling wreck. After one or two attempts I
332
managed to catch it in my cupped hands, carried it over to
the window and tossed it into the deep twilight outside.
I was still standing at the window, gazing down into the
quiet, dusky garden, when the crying began again. Very close
it was this time; the child might have been no more than
thirty feet away on the grass below me. Yet there was nothing
to be seen. As I bent forward, peering and leaning out
over the sill, it ceased; and then, a few seconds later, resumed
among the trees at the far end of the garden. No living
creature could have covered the distance during those
seconds.
My head swam and I clutched at the sill for support.
Turning to look behind me into the lit room I saw Kathe,
lips compressed and hands clasped tightly in her lap, watching
me steadily from where she sat at the dressing-table.
After a few moments she said, 'Don't go out, Alan. Shut the
window and draw the curtains.'
In that instant the room, which I had known all my life,
became strange to me. The furniture and other things about
us no longer seemed familiar. This was not my home, but an
unknown place of dread, dark as a forest, alien and minatory;
a place where, as for a wild animal, to move freely or
make any noise was to expose oneself to mortal danger.
I stood motionless, feeling the beating of my pulse and
my tongue dry against the roof of my mouth. In horrible fear
I waited for whatever must surely be about to happen. Yet
nothing broke the room's stillness. The distant crying ceased:
and at length, since my legs would not support me, I sank
down where I was, on the carpet under the window.
Kathe said again, 'Shut the window, Alan;' and then, since
I did not move, came over and shut it herself, leaning across
me where I crouched on the floor. Having drawn the curtains
closely, she turned and was about to go back to her chair
when I reached up and caught her hand.
'You - you know - about this?' I blurted, scarcely able to
mouth the words. 'You know - why?'
She answered 'Yes,' went across to the bed and lay down
on it.
I tried to get to my feet but could not; and so crawled
333