This Is Midnight: Stories

by Bernard Taylor

  Having no intention of going out, there seemed little purpose in getting dressed, so when the coffee was made she carried it back to bed. Over the rim of the cup she gave a casual glance at the strip of wallpaper. Then she looked harder, studying intently the size, the shape and the colour of the piece. It seemed different somehow. But how? And how could it? No. It was silly; such a thing just wasn’t possible. She stared at it, unblinking. But it was true. It was different. The piece of paper had grown bigger.

  She hardly stirred from the house all that week, except to go to the shop for cigarettes and the odd items of food; not so much for the latter, as she had found that her appetite had decreased considerably. And there was the silence of the house. It was complete. She began to wish that she owned a television set, a radio or maybe a record-player. It was as if the silence, unchecked, seemed to gain in potency and, along with Reginald’s wallpaper, grew with each passing day.

  Friday came, then Saturday, then Sunday, and then Monday loomed up over her head, threatening, and suddenly she knew that she just could not face the prospect of school that day. She couldn’t face the children in the classrooms, the idle talk with the other teachers during the breaks between sessions. She’d just have to telephone in again, tell them she was sick. They’d understand.

  She got to the telephone on the floor and started to dial the school’s number. Halfway through she stopped, replaced the receiver, then turned and went back up the stairs to her room. There was no need to call them, anyway, she rationalized later: they would call her as soon as they discovered her absence. But then, in a moment the thought came to her: How could they? No one at the school was aware of her new address or telephone number. She hadn’t even told her parents, she realised – in fact, she had not even written to her parents since before leaving the hotel. Only Mr Malaczynski, the landlord, knew of her whereabouts, and he didn’t really count.

  Monday went by in silence. Tuesday morning came. She forced herself to get up, and began to get ready for school. There was a pounding in her head and a constricted feeling as if her skull was being slowly tightened. The pain was throbbing. She sat down on the chair and pulled on her boots. The wallpaper had spread inches during the night.

  She was fully dressed. It was time to go. But the thought of facing all those people – the teachers, the children – all those questions that would have been asked: ‘Has anyone seen or heard from Miss Kessellan?’ ‘Does anyone know her address . . . ?’ And the questions and the comments when she did get there: ‘Where were you . . . ? What happened . . . ? You should have let us know. Are you ill? Why didn’t you telephone . . . ?’ All those looks, all those words . . .

  It was the thought of the looks, the faces, the words that settled the matter. She took off all her clothes, threw them over the back of the chair and got back into bed.

  She was awakened some hours later by someone tapping at her door. She got out of bed and slipped on her dressing gown. ‘Who is it?’ she called.

  The landlord’s voice came to her, the Polish accent strong: ‘It’s Mr Malaczynski.’

  Sandra opened the door a few inches. ‘Yes, what is it?’

  He smiled broadly at her. ‘It’s just that – ’ he broke off, gazing at her with concern. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Why?’

  ‘You . . . you don’t look well. Are you ill?’

  She felt a growing sense of impatience under the well-­meaning questions. ‘Of course I’m not ill. What did you want?’ Her tone was slightly sharp.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ he said, wilting a little under the edge on her voice. ‘I just wanted to tell you that if you hear footsteps above, there is no need to be frightened. Mr Robertson, the new tenant, is moving in today. He is an old man. He won’t cause you worry with rock-and-roll music.’ He smiled again, trying to break through the impatient, cold exterior she presented. He added lamely: ‘He will be here soon.’

  There seemed to be nothing more to say. They looked at each other for a few seconds, and Sandra, trying to ease the warmth into her voice, said: ‘Thank you, very much.’ He smiled back at her, grateful. ‘Thank you,’ he answered and moved toward the stairs.

  When he had gone from sight, she closed the door and walked over to the mirror. She stood there, gazing at her reflection.

  She certainly didn’t look one hundred per cent, she had to admit. Her face was drawn and pale, and the lines around her eyes made her look older than her twenty-six years. And her hair needed washing, she observed. It hung limp, lifeless and uncombed to her shoulders. She’d do it tomorrow, she thought.

  About seven o’clock she heard the arrival of the new tenant; she could hear the soft movements of his feet as he moved around on the floor above. What was his name? Robertson? Yes, that’s what Malaczynski had said. Perhaps they could be friends. It might be nice to talk to someone. Just a little talk. Just something to relieve the silence . . .

  The days went by. And each day was like the one before. The only way of actually seeing that time had progressed was by watching the wallpaper. It looked different each time she awoke. Always it grew during the night – some nights more than others. The silence grew with it.

  The arrival of Mr Robertson upstairs had made no difference to the house at all. It was just as quiet. Other people were plagued with neighbours who played their radios and their records too loudly – not so Sandra. Mr Robertson had none of these and lived as silently as she. The only evidence of his presence was the soft sound of his feet as he occasionally moved about the room. The faint noises did nothing to alleviate the stillness. They just seemed to emphasize it. The stillness grew louder all the time, and the paper seemed to feed upon the stillness. Yes! That was what was happening. She suddenly realised. Although normally silent – the house – throughout the day – it was at night when the silence became absolute, so strong, so complete, that it was almost tangible. And it was during the night that the wallpaper seemed to grow at such an alarming rate . . . All the plans for transforming the ugly little flat into something that was truly her own were now forgotten. They had ceased to be important. Sandra sat on the bed, a cup of cold, untouched coffee in her hand, looking about her. What was happening to her? She didn’t understand it. How long had she been here in this room – three weeks? – four? She shivered violently. The room was cold, and she had run out of shillings for the meter. She’d have to go down to the shop to get some more. Sighing, she put down her cup and began to get dressed.

  As she moved quietly about, the idea came into her mind that she should buy herself a radio. She had seen some inexpensive transistors not too far away. And she could just about afford it from the little she had left of her savings. The idea added impetus to her movements and she finished dressing quickly, anxious to be out. As she turned toward the door she caught sight of her reflection. Hurriedly she crossed to the sink and splashed cold water on her face. (The soap she had bought on her first day lay unused, still in its wrapper.) Then she raked a hand through her tangled hair.

  First of all she got the supply of shillings. She got them from the bank – two pounds’ worth. Now, she thought, she’d get that radio.

  It was while she stood outside the entrance to the bank, wondering which way to go, that the weakness came over her. Suddenly she felt that her legs were about to give way. Her knees wobbled, she thought she was about to fall and she clutched at the wall for support.

  ‘Are you feeling all right, love . . .’

  She turned at the soft voice and tried to focus on the man who stood there, leaning toward her. For a moment she stared at herself, mirrored in the lenses of his steel-rimmed glasses, and then she turned, swinging away on her unsteady feet.

  Back in her room, she collapsed, gasping, on the bed. It was a long time before she gathered the strength to undress and get in between the sheets. On the wall, Reginald’s paper was enormous.

  Late
r, feeling calm again, she lay back and studied the paper. It had now spread in all directions, reaching out to the right as far as the mirror and on the left almost as far as the shabby wardrobe. But she was no longer shocked by it. It had long since ceased to amaze her in any way. She looked at it now with acceptance, interest. After all, there was nothing she could do about it.

  With the change in its size, the wallpaper had also changed in quality – or rather than that – it appeared to be newer. In fact it looked brand-new now. She wondered how she could ever have had to decide on its colour; it was quite obviously blue, a rather pretty pale blue. Likewise, the flowers that dotted its surface were now easily identifiable. They were the prettiest forget-me-nots, always among her favourite flowers. She thought: So goddamn English, too, and found herself smiling. The wallpaper was like some fungus – a creeping, thriving, rapacious, beautiful, beautiful fungus.

  After a while, she got out of bed, lit the gas fire and put on some water for coffee. Nervously she stretched out a hand and touched the paper. It felt slightly damp, yet the other walls – the grey ones – were quite dry under her fingers. Gently she tried to insert a fingernail under the edge of the paper, but she couldn’t do it – the paper was too firmly fixed. With the second try – in a different spot – she only succeeded in breaking her nail. Without any sense of disappointment, she picked up her coffee and moved back to the bed.

  The school, her job as a teacher, her home in New York – all seemed to be disconnected somehow. None of it was real. Not anymore. These were the only things that were real: this room, and this silence. And the wallpaper. Reginald’s forget-me-not wallpaper.

  The paper had spread so far now. It had reached the far end of the wall and was beginning to turn the corner. There seemed to be no pattern to its actual movement – it just seemed to move, slowly creeping, spreading – rather like some spilled liquid on a polished surface. Some areas of the wall would be left bare, she noticed, and then, later, she would see that they had been filled in. The paper was relentless and very, very thorough.

  Even the little peasant boy was not safe.

  She had pinned the postcard up on the wall far away from the paper, and even though the mass of paper had not yet reached it, she could see that the lovely little picture had now become infected. It had started with just a tiny little dot of blue down in one corner. She had noticed it one morning – her eyes seemed to be drawn to it – a little spot that had surely not been in the original. She knew what was happening. The little peasant boy did not, though, and – like Mrs Christie in the photograph – he smiled his smile, unaware of the nearness of the evil. Unconcerned, he continued to lean on the sill, his tanned, peasant boy’s face beaming, while the forget-me-nots grew up around him. Sandra thought the picture was prettier. It’s a pity, she thought, that Murillo couldn’t be here to see it. Looking towards the photograph of Reginald and his wife, she was not surprised to see that it remained exactly as before. No forget-me-nots grew on that one. Looking closer, she saw that the paper was spreading underneath it.

  Nothing was staying the same. Nothing. Even the quality of the silence was changing. Looking toward the window she saw the reason why. Snow was falling, thick and fast, the great soft shapes tumbling against the pane, settling. They fell without sound, insulating her more completely against the outside world.

  And suddenly, she began to grow afraid. It had to stop. Everything had to stop. She had to do something. She didn’t know what she was afraid of, but the fear grew, unexplainable, threatening, as if at any moment it would engulf her. She knew at once that she had to see someone, talk to someone. But who? There was no one she knew. Not Mr Robertson; she had only glimpsed him on the stairs on two or three occasions. He had nodded to her, smiling, a slow-moving, sad old man of seventy-odd. He couldn’t help. Who, then?

  David. David Hampshire. She saw his face before she thought of his name; that nice young man who had been so helpful on the Tube that day of her arrival.

  She took the piece of paper bearing his phone number and snatched a handful of coins from the shelf. Then, throwing on a coat and slippers, she went downstairs. Carefully, her hands trembling, she dialled his number.

  ‘Hello . . . ?’ There was his voice.

  ‘Hello . . . David?’ She paused, then added quickly: ‘This is Sandra Kesselan.’

  ‘Who?’

  Oh, God, he’d forgotten. ‘I’m the girl you met on the Tube,’ she said. ‘The American girl.’ She could hear herself almost whimpering. ‘Don’t you remember . . . ?’

  And then she heard the smile in his voice as recollection returned.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ he said. ‘Yes, of course, I remember. How are you? Have you been okay?’

  She began to blurt out her need for help. She had not meant to do this; she had meant to ask him to come round to see her – to tell him then – to do it more – casually. But somehow the desperation inside her had taken over, and she was pleading with him.

  ‘Help me. You’ve got to help me!’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, his voice sounding heavy with concern.

  ‘I don’t know – I don’t know – I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Right, listen,’ he said, forcing the calmness into the situation. ‘Tell me where you are. I’ll drive round straight-away.’ He took up a pencil. ‘Give me your address.’

  She was almost incoherent, but he managed to write down the address she gabbled out.

  ‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Yes, yes! Please hurry . . . Please hurry!’ And she was gone.

  David heard the click of the receiver and put the phone down. As he reached for his coat he looked at the address he had scribbled on the notepad. He stopped, gazing at it. What was she doing? Was she was having some kind of joke with him? Some joke on a night like this. He screwed the paper into a ball and tossed it into the wastebasket. It didn’t make sense, he thought, and he was in no mood for games. There was no longer any such address as 10, Rillington Place.

  Reaching her room, Sandra ran in and closed the door behind her. While she had been out the wallpaper had spread even further. Almost three walls were covered now, and the peasant boy had been completely wiped out. Reginald continued to smile.

  Fifteen minutes, David had told her. Fifteen minutes. She could hold out for fifteen minutes. It wasn’t very long. Not too long. She could try counting them off – that might help. Count the seconds: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven . . . She closed her eyes, shutting out the forget-me-nots that grew all around her. Eight . . . nine . . . ten . . . Now the silence was getting in the way. Where was she? Eight . . . nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . . She tried to shut her ears to the silence, but it was no good. It got through. Whatever you did it got through. Make some coffee, she told herself – make some coffee and smoke a cigarette, do something. Act naturally . . .

  The paper had crept onto the fourth wall now. It was moving faster than ever. She hurried to the kitchen, lit the gas under the kettle. That’s it – be steady – be calm. Get the jar of coffee – don’t spill any. One spoonful . . . sugar . . . milk ready . . . the wallpaper had now gotten into the kitchen, too. There were forget-me-nots everywhere. Take no notice of it. Don’t look. Ignore it. David will be here soon. Everything will be all right then. You can wait till then. He won’t be long now. The water’s boiling. The sound of the steam and the gas are the only sounds. Turn off the gas, pour on the water. Silence. The coffee’s made. Add the milk. Sip it, sip it slowly. Concentrate . . . concentrate . . . She looked at the clock. Half an hour had gone by since she had called David! Where could he be? What had happened to him? Why wasn’t he here? Fifteen minutes, he had told her. It was over half an hour . . . She sipped at the coffee. It was stone cold, and she put it down in disgust. She moved from the kitchen, back into the larger room, walking slowly, forcing her way through the silence. The silence was like the sea, an
d it was rising, moment by moment. Reginald liked the silence. He smiled into it from his forget-me-not heaven.

  Would David never come? But yes! He was here! At last! The gentle tap at her door had taken her completely by surprise. She pressed herself against the silence, pushing a way through. She got to the door, opened it. She saw the thin face, the smile, and the blue eyes behind the glasses. She spun, and the sweet, sweet forget-me-not fungus lurched, reaching out. The whole room was blue now, quivering in silence. Then the man spoke. After a second, the silence itself was shattered.

  ‘I wonder if I could borrow a little milk?’ the man on the landing had said, holding out an empty cup. ‘I’ve just moved in downstairs . . .’ The girl, dirty, emaciated, her tangled hair hanging about her face, just stood there in the open doorway, staring at him dumbly from wide, frightened eyes. He smiled at her, adding: ‘My name is Reg,’ and suddenly she screamed. Her voice echoed in the quiet house – the sound of something in pain. The screams continued, the loudness cutting into the snowbound silence.

  When the screaming stopped, her mouth went on moving, opening and closing like the mouth of a ventriloquist’s dummy.

  OUR LAST NANNY

  Mummy says we won’t have another nanny. Not after Janie. She was the last one – Janie, I mean. But it isn’t really a nanny that I want, anyway. They’re just for babies, and I’m eight – last July. I’d just like somebody who can take you out a bit – round those places where children can’t go on their own. Those places are always the most fun, I think. But Mummy says no. No more nannies. So now it’s all boring again. I wish Janie was back. We had some good times then.

  I shouldn’t talk about Janie; I know Mummy wouldn’t like me to. She says I’ve got to forget all about her – to put her out of my head. Whenever I do mention Janie my mother goes all quiet for a minute and then starts talking about something else. I do try. I mean, I do try to ‘Put her out of my head’, but you can’t always do that, can you? I mean, not when it’s there. You can’t stop yourself thinking things, can you? – or remembering things – even if you don’t want to. Anyway, I don’t think I want to forget Janie. She was a lot of good fun. And there wasn’t anybody else around to have fun with. Oh, yes, there was Rick, my brother, but boys are so boring most of the time. And Mummy was always so busy. See, that’s how we came to get Janie – because of Mummy’s busyness. Mummy always had so much to do, and I suppose she just couldn’t spend all her time looking after us. I don’t know where my father was. He was always away somewhere. Well, I don’t remember him being there at the time, so he must have been away somewhere. So it was just Mummy, Rick and me.