by Ruskin Bond
The next day Grey did not get out of his bed until late in the afternoon.
He crossed the room in search of his dressing-gown and caught sight of himself in the glass of his wardrobe. Only then did he realise that he was clambering over the floor with his head near the carpet, his hands outstretched in front of him. He stood upright with difficulty and reached a shaking hand for brandy.
It took him two hours to struggle into his clothes, and by the time he was ready to go out it was nearly dark. He crept along the street. The shops were closing. He saw nothing of them until he reached the corner where he halted abruptly, with a queer sensation of intense hunger. On the cold marble before him lay unappetising slabs of raw fish. His body began to quiver with suppressed desire. Another moment and nothing could have prevented him seizing the fish in his bare hands, when the shutters of the shop dropped noisily across the front of the sloping marble surface.
Grey knew that something had happened, that he was very ill. Now that he could not see the vision of the yellow cat, his mind was a blank. Somehow he retraced his footsteps and got back to his room.
The bottle of brandy stood where he had left it. He had not turned on the light, but he could see it plainly. He dragged it to his lips.
With a crash it went to the floor, while Grey leapt into the air, savage with nausea. He felt that he was choking. With an effort he pulled himself together, to find that it was beyond his power to stop the ghastly whining sound that issued from his lips. He tried to lift himself on to the bed, but in sheer exhaustion collapsed on the floor, where he lay still in an attitude not human.
The room lightened with the dawn and a new day passed before the thing on the floor moved. Something of the clarity of vision which comes to starving men now possessed him. He stared at his hands.
The fingers seemed to have withered; the nails had almost disappeared, leaving a narrow streak of hornish substance forming in their place. He tore himself frantically towards the window. In the fading light he saw that the backs of his hands were covered with a thin, almost invisible surface of coarse, yellowish fur.
Unimaginable horrors seized him. He knew now that the scarlet thread of his brain was being stretched to breaking point. Presently it would snap….
Unless—unless. The yellow cat alone could save him. To this last human thought he clung, in an agony of terror.
Unconscious of movement, he crept swiftly into the street, his shapeless eyes peering in the darkness which surrounded him. He groped his way stealthily towards the one place which the last remnant of his brain told him might yield the secret of his agony.
Down the silent bank he scrambled headlong, towards the still water. The dawn's pale radiance threw his shadow into a grotesque pattern. On the edge of the canal he halted, his hands embedded in the sticky crumbling earth, his head shaking, his eyes searching in agonised appeal, into the depths of the motionless water.
There he crouched, searching, searching….
And there in the water he saw the yellow cat.
He stretched out the things that were his arms, while the yellow cat stretched out its claws to enfold him in the broken mirror of the water.
Why Herbert Killed His Mother
WINIFRED HOLTBY
Once upon a time there was a Model Mother who had a Prize Baby. Nobody had ever had such a Baby before. He was a Son, of course. All prize babies are masculine, for should there be a flaw in their gender this might deprive them of at least twenty-five per cent of the marks merited by their prize-worthiness.
The Mother's name was Mrs Wilkins, and she had a husband called Mr Wilkins; but he did not count much. It is true that he was the Baby's father, and on the night after the child was born he stood Drinks All Round at the Club; though he was careful to see that there were only two other members in the bar at the time he suggested it, because although one must be a Good Father and celebrate properly, family responsibilities make a man remember his bank balance. Mr Wilkins remembered his very often, particularly when Mrs Wilkins bought a copy of Vogue, or remarked that the Simpsons, who lived next door but one, had changed their Austin Seven for a Bentley. The Wilkinses had not even an old Ford; but then the buses passed the end of their road, and before the Prize Baby arrived, Mrs Wilkins went to the Stores and ordered a very fine pram.
Mrs Wilkins had determined to be a Real Old-Fashioned Mother. She had no use for these Modern Women who Drink Cocktails, smoke Cigarettes, and dash about in cars at all hours with men who are not their husbands. She believed in the true ideal of Real Womanliness, Feminine Charm, and the Maternal Instinct. She won a ten-shilling prize once from a daily paper, with a circulation of nearly two million, for saying so, very prettily, on a postcard.
Before the Baby came she sat with her feet up every afternoon sewing little garments. She made long clothes with twenty tucks round the hem of each robe, and embroidered flannels, fifty inches from hem to shoulder tape, and fluffy bonnets, and teeny-weeny little net veils; she draped a bassinet with white muslin and blue ribbons, and she thought a great deal about violets, forget-me-nots and summer seas in order that her baby might have blue eyes. When Mrs Burton from 'The Acacias' told her that long clothes were unhygienic, and that drapery on the bassinet held the dust, and that heredity had far more to do with blue eyes than thoughts about forget-me-nots, she shook her head charmingly, and said: 'Ah, well. You clever women know so much. I can only go by what my darling mother told me.' Mrs Burton said: 'On the contrary. You have a lot of other authorities to go by nowadays,' and she produced three pamphlets, a book on Infant Psychology, and a programme of lectures on 'Health, Happiness and Hygiene in the Nursery'. But Mrs Wilkins sighed, and said: 'My poor little brain won't take in all that stuff. I have only my Mother Love to guide me.' And she dropped a pearly tear on to a flannel binder.
Mrs Burton went home and told Mr Burton that Mrs Wilkins was hopeless, and that her baby would undoubtedly suffer from adenoids, curvature of the spine, flat feet, halitosis, bow legs, indigestion and the Oedipus Complex. Mr Burton said 'Quite, quite.' And everyone was pleased.
The only dissentient was the Wilkins baby, who was born without any defect whatsoever. He was a splendid boy, and his more-than-proud parents had him christened Herbert James Rodney Stephen Christopher, which names they both agreed went very well with Wilkins. He wore for the ceremony two binders, four flannels, an embroidered robe with seventeen handmade tucks, a woolly coat, two shawls, and all other necessary and unnecessary garments, and when he stared into the Rector's face, and screamed lustily, his aunts said: 'That means he'll be musical, bless him.' But his mother thought: 'What a strong will he has! And what sympathy there is between us! Perhaps he knows already what I think about the Rector.'
As long as the monthly nurse was there, Mrs Wilkins and Herbert got along very nicely on Mother Love; but directly she left trouble began.
'My baby,' Mrs Wilkins had said, 'shall never be allowed to lie awake and cry like Mrs Burton's poor little wretch. Babies need cuddling.' So whenever Herbert cried at first she cuddled him. She cuddled him in the early morning when he woke up Mr Wilkins and wanted his six o'clock bottle at four. She cuddled him at half-past six and half-past seven and eight. She cuddled him half-hourly for three days and then she smacked him. It was a terrible thing to do, but she did it. She fed him when he seemed hungry, and showed him to all the neighbours who called, and kept him indoors when it rained, which it did every day, and nursed him while she had her own meals, and when she didn't gave him Nestlé's, And he still flourished.
But what with the crying and the washing that hung in the garden, the neighbours began to complain, and Mrs Burton said: 'Of course, you're killing that child.'
Mrs Wilkins knew that the Maternal Instinct was the safest guide in the world; but when her husband showed her an advertisement in the evening paper which began: 'Mother, does your child cry?' she read it. She learned there that babies cry because their food does not agree with them. 'What-not's Natural Digestive In
fants' Milk solves the Mother's problem.' Mrs Wilkins thought that no stone should be left unturned and bought a specimen tin of What-not's Natural Digestive Infants' Milk, and gave it to Herbert. Herbert flourished. He grew larger and rounder and pinker, and more dimpled than ever. But still he cried.
So Mrs Wilkins read another advertisement in the evening paper. And there she learned that when Babies cry it is because they are not warm enough, and that all good mothers should buy Flopsy's Fleecy Pram Covers. So, being a good mother, she bought a Flopsy's Fleecy Pram Cover and wrapped Herbert in it. And still Herbert flourished. And still he cried.
So she continued to read the evening papers, for by this time both she and Mr Wilkins were nearly distracted, and one of the neighbours threatened to complain to the landlord, and Mrs Simpson kept her loud speaker going all night and day to drown the noise, she said. And now Mrs Wilkins learned that the reason her baby cried was because his Elimination was inadequate so she bought him a bottle of Hebe's Nectar for the Difficult Child, and gave him a teaspoonful every morning. But still he cried.
Then the spring came, and the sun shone, and the bulbs in the garden of Number Seven were finer than they had ever been before, and Mrs Wilkins put Herbert out in the garden in his pram, and he stopped crying.
She was such a nice woman and such a proud mother that she wrote at once to the proprietors of What-not's Natural Digestive Infants' Milk, and Flopsy's Fleecy Pram Covers, and Hebe's Nectar for the Difficult Child, and told them that she had bought their things for Herbert and that he had stopped crying.
Two days later a sweet young woman came to the Wilkins' house, and said that What-not's Limited had sent her to see Herbert, and what a fine Baby he was, and how healthy, and could she take a photograph? And Mrs Wilkins was very pleased, and thought: 'Well, Herbert is the most beautiful Baby in the world, and won't this be a sell for Mrs Burton,' and was only too delighted. So the young woman photographed Herbert in his best embroidered robe drinking Natural Digestive Infants' Milk from a bottle, and went away.
The next day a kind old man came from Flopsy's Fleecy Pram Covers Limited, and photographed Herbert lying under a Fleecy Pram Cover. It was a hot afternoon and a butterfly came and settled on the pram; but the kind old man said that this was charming.
The next day a scientific-looking young man with horn-rimmed spectacles came from Hebe's Nectar Limited and photographed Herbert lying on a fur rug wearing nothing at all. And When Mr Wilkins read his Sunday paper, there he saw his very own baby, with large black capitals printed above him, saying: 'My Child is now no longer Difficult, declares Mrs Wilkins, of Number 9, The Grove, SW 10.'
Mrs Burton saw it too, and said to Mr Burton: 'No wonder, when at last they've taken a few stones of wool off the poor little wretch.'
But Mr And Mrs Wilkins saw it differently. They took Herbert to a Court Photographer and had him taken dressed and undressed, with one parent, with both parents, standing up and sitting down; and always he was the most beautiful baby that the Wilkinses had ever seen.
One day they saw an announcement in a great Sunday paper of a £10,000 prize for the loveliest baby in the world. 'Well, dear, this will be nice,' said Mrs Wilkins. 'We shall be able to buy a saloon car now.' Because, of course, she knew that Herbert would win the prize.
And so he did. He was photographed in eighteen different poses for the first heat; then he was taken for a personal inspection in private for the second heat; then he was publicly exhibited at the Crystal Palace for the semi-finals, and for the Final Judgment he was set in a pale blue bassinet and examined by three doctors, two nurses, a Child Psychologist, a film star, and Mr Cecil Beaton. After that he was declared the Most Beautiful Baby in Britain.
That was only the beginning. Baby Britain had still to face Baby France, Baby Spain, Baby Italy, and Baby America. Signor Mussolini sent a special message to Baby Italy, which the other national competitors thought unfair. The Free State insisted upon sending twins, which were disqualified. The French President cabled inviting the entire contest to be removed to Paris, and the Germans declared that the girl known as Baby Poland, having been born in the Polish Corridor, was really an East Prussian and should be registered as such.
But it did not matter. These international complications made no difference to Herbert. Triumphantly he overcame all his competitors, and was crowned as World Baby on the eve of his first birthday.
Then, indeed, began a spectacular period for Mr and Mrs Wilkins. Mrs Wilkins gave interviews to the Press on 'The Power of Mother Love', 'The Sweetest Thing in the World', and 'How I Run My Nursery'. Mr Wilkins wrote some fine manly articles on 'Fatherhood Faces Facts', and 'A Man's Son'—or, rather, they were written for him by a bright young woman until Mrs Wilkins decided that she should be present at the collaborations.
Then a firm of publishers suggested to Mr Wilkins that he should write a Christmas book called Herbert's Father, all about what tender feelings fathers had, and what white, pure thoughts ran through their heads when they looked upon the sleeping faces of their sons, and about how strange and wonderful it was to watch little images of themselves growing daily in beauty, and how gloriously unspotted and magical were the fairy-like actions of little children. Mr Wilkins thought that this was a good idea if someone would write the book for him, and if the advance royalties were not less than £3,000 on the date of publication; but he would have to ask Mrs Wilkins. Mrs Wilkins was a trifle hurt. Why Herbert's Father? What right had Paternity to override Maternity? The publisher pointed out the success of Mr A.A. Milne's Christopher Robin, and Mr Lewis Hind's Julius Caesar, and of Mr A. S.M. Hutchinson's Son Simon, to say nothing of Sir James Barrie's Little White Bird. 'But none of these children was my Herbert,' declared Mrs Wilkins—which, indeed, was undeniable. So the contract was finally signed for The Book of Herbert, by His Parents.
It was a success. Success? It was a Triumph, a Wow, a Scream, an Explosion. There was nothing like it. It was The Christmas Gift. It went into the third hundredth thousand before December 3rd. It was serialised simultaneously in the Evening Standard, Home Chat, and The Nursery World. Mr Baldwin referred to it at a Guildhall Banquet. The Prince used a joke from it in a Broadcast Speech on England and the Empire. The Book Society failed to recommend it, but every bookstall in the United Kingdom organised a display stand in its honour, with photographs of Herbert and copies signed with a blot 'Herbert, His Mark' exquisitely arranged.
The Herbert Boom continued. Small soap Herberts (undressed for the bath) were manufactured and sold for use in delighted nurseries. Royalty graciously accepted an ivory Herbert, designed as a paper-weight, from the loyal sculptor. A Herbert Day was instituted in order to raise money for the Children's Hospitals of England, and thirty-seven different types of Herbert Calendars, Christmas Cards, and Penwipers were offered for sale—and sold.
Mrs Wilkins felt herself justified in her faith. This, she said, was what mother love could do. Mr Wilkins demanded ten per cent royalties on every Herbert article sold. And they all bought a country house near Brighton, a Bentley car, six new frocks for Mrs Wilkins, and an electric refrigerator, and lived happily ever after until Herbert grew up.
But Herbert grew up.
When he was four he wore curls and a Lord Fauntleroy suit and posed for photographers. When he was fourteen he wore jerseys and black finger-nails and collected beetles. When he left one of England's Great Public Schools he wore plus-fours and pimples and rode a motorcycle and changed his tie three times in half an hour before he called on the young lady at the tobacconist's round the corner. He knew what a Fella does, by Jove, and he knew what a Fella doesn't. His main interests in life were etiquette, Edgar Wallace, and the desire to live down his past. For on going to a preparatory school he had carefully insisted that his name was James. His father, who knew that boys will be boys, supported him, and as he grew to maturity, few guessed that young James Wilkins, whose beauty was certainly not discernible to the naked eye, was Herbert, the Loveliest Baby in the Wor
ld. Only Mrs Wilkins, in a locked spare bedroom, cherished a museum of the Herbert photographs, trophies, first editions, soap images, ivory statuettes, silver cups, and Christmas cards. The Herbert vogue had faded, as almost all vogues do, until not even a gag about Herbert on the music hall stage raised a feeble smile.
But Mrs Wilkins found the position hard to bear. It is true that the fortunes of the family were soundly laid, that Mr Wilkins had invested the profits of his son's juvenile triumphs in Trustee Stock, and that no household in South Kensington was more respected. But Mrs Wilkins had tasted the sweet nectar of publicity and she thirsted for another drink.
It happened that one day, when (Herbert) James was twenty-three, he brought home the exciting news that he had become engaged to Selena Courtney, the daughter of Old Man Courtney, whose office in the city Herbert adorned for about six hours daily.
Nothing could have been more fortunate. Mr Wilkins was delighted, for Courtney, of Courtney, Gilbert and Co., was worth nearly half a million. Herbert was delighted, for he was enjoying the full flavour of Young Love and Satisfied Snobbery combined, which is, as everyone knows, the perfect fulfilment of a True Man's dreams. The Courtneys were delighted, because they thought young Wilkins a very decent young man, with none of this damned nonsense abut him. And Mrs Wilkins—well, her feelings were mixed. It was she, after all, who had produced this marvel, and nobody seemed to remember her part in the production, nor to consider the product specially marvellous. Besides, she was a little jealous, as model mothers are allowed to be, of her prospective daughter-in-law.
The engagement was announced in The Times—the reporters came, rather bored, to the Kensington home of Mrs Wilkins. She was asked to supply any details about her son's career. 'Any adventures? Any accidents? Has he ever won any prizes?' asked a reporter.
This was too much. 'Come here!' said Mrs Wilkins; and she led the reporters up to the locked spare bedroom.
