This Is Midnight: Stories

by Bernard Taylor

  ‘He said he wanted to do the right thing.’ Aunt Mildred snorted slightly. ‘When he left me, I mean. The right thing! He said he didn’t want to just – go off – like that – without telling me. He said he owed it to me – to tell me the truth. It was the right thing that I should know, he said. Huh.’

  For a moment she sat gazing into her tea cup, clearly seeing some moment from the past. Then she said:

  ‘Did you know that, Guy?’

  ‘I beg your pardon . . . ?’

  ‘Did you know that I was engaged to be married and that my fiancé – turned from me – to – to another? Did you know that?’

  Guy nodded. He felt a trifle embarrassed. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I had heard – something . . .’

  ‘And why not?’ Aunt Mildred said. ‘It was no secret at the time. In fact it was the talk of the village.’ She shifted her gaze and looked out over the geraniums to the distant hills. ‘You know, I used to think Albert was the most handsome man I had ever seen.’ She looked back at Guy. ‘You remind me of him somewhat, you know. Same colouring . . . He was the son of a local farmer. Oh, such a charming young man. Oh, dear, yes, so charming.’ She paused briefly, her lips set, then she went on:

  ‘The girl was from the next village. A silly chit of a thing. I couldn’t understand him. I was so much prettier. You might not believe me, Guy, but I was very pretty when I was young.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure . . .’ Guy said.

  ‘She wasn’t pretty,’ Aunt Mildred said. ‘Oh, I suppose she had a kind of vulgar country charm, but that’s all. Mind you, Albert always lacked taste. He must have. And I told him so the night he came to say goodbye. Oh, dear.’ She shook her head. ‘That was an awful scene, that was. But it was brave of him, I have to admit.’ She gave a nod and then fell silent. Guy waited and, after a few moments, gently prompted her.

  ‘Yes . . . ? What – what happened?’

  ‘They were eloping, the fools. To New Zealand, so they said, and they’d just stopped off to tell me.’

  She slapped at the tablecloth, making the china rattle. ‘Can you believe such a thing? Stopped off to tell me. Those were the actual words he used.’ She recovered her composure and dabbed daintily at her mouth with a linen napkin.

  ‘ “I’m in love with Marianne,” that’s what he told me. Just like that. That was her name – Marianne. And there she sat all the time, his little Marianne, simpering, gazing at him so adoringly. It was sickening. Sickening. And there he sat, just where you are now, drinking his tea, looking back at her with those great calf eyes. Sickening. But I kept cool – composed. I served tea and let him say what he’d come to say. Not once did I reproach him for his behaviour. No – I tried to be – civilized. And do you know – ’ Here she came to an abrupt halt, and waved a slender white hand, as if dismissing it all. ‘Oh, it’s over, anyway,’ she said with a sigh. ‘It’s all in the past.’ She gave Guy a warm smile. ‘And anyway, you don’t want to sit here listening to the recollections of some silly, boring old woman.’ Her chuckle was the gentlest sound. ‘I’m sure you’ve had quite enough of me for one day.’ She got to her feet and wagged a finger at him. ‘I’m going to send you on your merry way now,’ she said. ‘But you must promise to come back and see me before you go on home to New York.’

  ‘Uh – yes, I will,’ Guy assured her. ‘I’d love to.’ He rose and pushed his chair back to the table. ‘I’ve had a great afternoon. You can’t imagine.’

  Aunt Mildred looked up at him for a moment. ‘You’re a dear, sweet boy,’ she said. She hesitated for a second, then turned, saying, ‘Come along, before you go. I want to give you a few little things to take home with you. Some nice jam, perhaps . . . a few little pickles . . .’ She moved away, starting towards the little hall. ‘Come on, we’ll go down to the cellar.’

  Guy followed her from the room into the hall, then down a narrow flight of stairs to the cellar.

  ‘Here we are . . .’

  After Aunt Mildred had switched on a light, Guy looked about him. The walls, he saw, were lined with shelves from floor to ceiling, and in the dim light from the single bulb he saw row upon row of jars and bottles of all shapes and sizes. So much food. Aunt Mildred, it seemed, could get carried away when it came to her pickles and preserves.

  ‘Your pickling,’ Guy said, indicating the many containers, ‘it looks like you’ve made it into quite an art.’

  ‘Oh, yes, indeed I have.’ She nodded gravely. ‘You could indeed say that. I’ve won awards for my pickles, you know. Oh, yes. When I do a job I believe in doing it properly. No half measures for me.’ She paused. ‘Now – let’s see . . .’

  From a shelf nearby she took a cardboard box, and then from the cellar shelves began to take down various bottles and jars, packing them into the box. Watching her, Guy wondered how on earth he was going to carry it all. Aunt Mildred, seeing the doubtful look on his face, said brightly:

  ‘You’ll manage it all right, Guy. Big strong lad like you. And we can’t have you going away empty-handed. Dear me. Whatever would your mother think? We want to make the right impression, don’t we?’

  The box was full. She gave a nod of satisfaction, a little conspiratorial smile and then thrust the laden box into his hands. ‘You give these to your mother, with my best wishes,’ she said. ‘And tell her, as I said, that I’m famous for my pickles.’

  Guy thanked her. She studied him judiciously for a moment, as if deliberating, then said, with a little laugh in her voice that threatened to bubble over, ‘Guy, I like you – and I’m going to show you something else. Something that’s secret.’ From a shelf nearby she took a lamp, switched it on and, beckoning to him to follow, turned and led the way to towards a door that was almost hidden in a shadowy corner.

  Stopping at the door she took a key from her pocket and inserted it into the lock. ‘Now you’re going to see something,’ she said, her voice slightly hushed, touched with a note of awe. ‘I wouldn’t show just anyone but, well – you are one of the family.’

  She turned the key, opened the door and led the way into a smaller, darker room. Guy followed. Inside, it took a few seconds for his eyes to become accustomed to the deep shadows, and in his temporary blindness he almost stumbled over a bundle of old rags that lay in his path.

  ‘Careful,’ Aunt Mildred said, and raised the lamp to aid his vision.

  Guy stared aghast.

  The bundle of rags moved beneath his gaze, and a thin, scrawny arm reached out to him. In the lamp’s dim light Guy saw the figure of an old man, indescribably ragged and dirty. He was chained to a large ring set in the stone wall, his grey hair, like his beard, hanging matted and unkempt.

  ‘Oh, that’s Albert,’ said Aunt Mildred. ‘I should have warned you about him.’

  ‘Did you – did you say – Albert?’

  ‘Yes. My fiancé – I told you about him.’ She glanced down at the shambolic wreck. ‘I think perhaps I should shorten his chain.’

  With his mouth open, Guy watched as Aunt Mildred’s erstwhile fiancé crawled towards her, one arm stretched out. Seeing the look on Guy’s face, Aunt Mildred said, ‘Not a pretty sight, is he? And he used to take such pride in himself.’ She shook her head, and added: ‘But take no notice of him. He’s always trying to get attention. Never mind him – look at this.’

  Guy watched then as she grasped the door handle of a large cupboard and pulled open the door.

  ‘There,’ she said proudly, raising the lamp higher. ‘What do you think of that?’

  Guy peered closer, frowning in puzzlement at an enormous glass jar that almost filled the cupboard. It was not easy to see so well in the gloom, but the jar seemed to contain some large white, oddly-shaped mass. At his shoulder Aunt Mildred’s voice was hushed, faintly apologetic.

  ‘I had to double her up like that. She wouldn’t have gone in otherwise.’

  And then Guy saw what the t
hing was.

  In the cloudy, yellowish-green liquid hung the naked body of a young woman. Trussed up into a tortuous, unnatural position, she hung suspended, her dull, wide eyes lifelessly gazing out at her viewers.

  ‘Marianne was my best pickle,’ Aunt Mildred said, a faint note of pride in her voice.

  Behind them, Albert Collier made a feeble attempt to speak, and Aunt Mildred quickly turned to him and snapped out:

  ‘Be quiet! Can’t you see I’ve got company.’ To Guy she said, ‘I do apologize.’ She turned back to study Albert for a few seconds then said casually: ‘I must say he’s lasted rather well – all things considered. More than I can say for Marianne. She didn’t last more than a few months. No stamina.’

  Albert was trying to speak again, his mouth opening wide, showing blackened tooth stumps. The sound that issued from his slobbering lips was a long, whining groan.

  ‘You know what, Guy – ?’ Aunt Mildred laid a gentle hand on her nephew’s arm, her lips pursed. ‘Sometimes I ask myself, whatever did I see in him.’

  PAT-A-CAKE, PAT-A-CAKE

  I like it here in this place. It’s warm and cosy. And the people around me are nice. The face on the dark-haired lady who leans over my cot is especially nice. She has the softest brown eyes. I kept stealing little glances at her as she tucked me in with this beautiful new Rupert Bear eiderdown. I never had anything like this before. It’s really nice. Not that I could tell them, of course – the man or the woman. Well, I could tell them, but they just wouldn’t understand, and I’ve learned now that it’s quite useless to try – no matter how clear I make myself. I think it must be something they learn – an ability they develop as we grow older and bigger. I hope so. I hope they will learn. There’s so much I want to tell them.

  I think this place is going to be my new home. Just now the woman leaned over me and said: ‘You’re going to stay here with your daddy and me for ever and ever.’ Oh, I felt so glad. It’s exactly what I wanted. I would have hugged her except that my arms aren’t long enough. So I sort of clapped my hands instead. Just think – these two people are going to be my new mummy and daddy. They must be.

  I had a mummy before. But the new one is much nicer. I never had a daddy before, though. I must say I like it. This one’s got a very faint tobacco-y smell about him. I can recognize it. But it’s not unpleasant, and his voice is very kind and gentle. I wonder if all daddies are like him.

  I’m going to stay here. I shall. I don’t think I’ll ever move on again. It’s so nice.

  I just clapped my hands together again, and the lady – I must always try to think of her as Mummy – went all smiley and happy. She said to me: ‘That’s it! Clever boy! That’s it – Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man . . . Go on . . . Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man.’ So I clapped my hands together even harder – as well as I could – and gave her a big grin. She laughed then, and said again:

  Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man,

  Bake me a cake as fast as you can.

  Pat it and prick it and mark with B,

  And put it in the oven for baby and me!

  I think that’s how it went. Mind you, I’m not absolutely sure what this pat-a-cake thing is. I think it must be this clapping thing I do – waving my arms around – things like that. Though I’m not all that good at it yet – the clapping, pat-a-cake thing, I mean. It’s not always easy to make your hands actually meet – hit together, you understand. The new mummy seems to know this, and she took my hands and held them and gently clapped them together. And all the time she sang about pat-a-cake. I suppose I shall get the hang of it all sooner or later. I hope so. Some people do seem to set such store by these funny things, and I would so like to please her. And Daddy, too. I wonder what a baker’s man is . . . I expect I’ll find that out some time as well.

  That must have been what I did with my first mummy – the pat-a-cake, I mean. Well, something like it.

  My first mummy. She was my real mummy. I didn’t like her.

  I’m not proud of it. Because she was my real mummy, after all. But she was quite horrid. I’ve no idea where a daddy was – if there was one. There was just her. And me. Well, sometimes there were other men around – strangers who’d stay for an odd night or so in her bed – but no one I ever got to like. Oh, I’m so glad I’m not with her any more.

  This lady now, this new mummy, calls me nice names like – like baby, and – sweetheart, and darling, and other things, and the way she says them they sound nice. I can tell she’s smiling even when I can’t see her face. You see, her smile is in her voice. But the other mummy – the real one – she didn’t call me nice things. She used to call me things like bloody kid, and bastard, and snivelling little sod. And they didn’t sound nice. Not at all. Not the way she said them.

  My nose is always clean now. It wasn’t before. Before, I often had a runny nose. That mother never bothered at all. Once I got up all my courage and said to her: ‘How would you like it if your nose was never wiped . . .’ But she just said: ‘I’ll bloody well goo-goo-goo you in a minute!’ Oh, it’s best to forget her.

  My new mummy and daddy are both near me now. He just looked down at me. His smile is so wide. He put a hand to my face. And I flinched. I didn’t mean to. But his hand turned out to be the softest, gentlest touch you ever felt. So I put my hand up and held on to his thumb. He looked so pleased that I held on even harder. He likes that a lot. It’s funny: it’s very easy to make some people happy. The new mummy said:

  ‘Look, Dave, look at the little love . . .’

  She never talked like that – the first one.

  But I won’t think about her. I said I wouldn’t. I shall just think about these two. They love me. You can tell; it’s easy. They’re nice. I think these are the two I would have chosen if I’d had any choice, any say in the matter. I think it’s a great pity that babies have to put up with what they get in the way of parents. I mean, without any thought or consideration at all I just got dumped with that awful woman who swore all the time, and who had nicotine-stained fingers and bad teeth. And her breath was really terrible. Not that she ever kissed me or anything, I’m glad to say. Most of the time she just left me sitting there in this terrible battered old pram she got from somewhere. And I could be really filthy, honestly, and she wouldn’t bother in the least. She used to go out to the pub and play darts most evenings, sometimes with one or other of the men who came to the door. Or else she’d go to Bingo. It didn’t make much difference to me. Wherever she went, I’d be left. For ages and ages and ages. Sometimes with the woman who lived next door and sometimes – mostly – on my own. Yes, I think it’s really unfair that we can’t choose our own mummy and daddy.

  I remember thinking that first of all when I was sitting outside the supermarket one day – in my pram. And I was looking at some of the other babies around me. They were so clean and smelt so lovely. And you should have seen some of the mummies and daddies – beautiful. Absolutely. And I thought then – how unfair it all was. I felt really ashamed. There I was, covered with this disgusting, dirty old blanket (not like my Rupert Bear eiderdown), and feeling very uncomfortable because I hadn’t been changed for ages and I decided, then and there, that I had to do something about it. It couldn’t go on. I mean, it just couldn’t, could it?

  My new daddy just said to my new mummy:

  ‘That scar on his arm. Look. Poor little chap. Really must have hurt him. Fancy burning a kid like that – I mean, accident or no accident. Still, the doctor says it’ll fade in time . . .’

  They mean that mark where she spilt boiling milk over me from the saucepan. Honest, I just wasn’t safe. I had to get out.

  Anyway, as I said, I’d made up my mind. Now I just had to wait for the right chance. And the right time. And I had to think of a good way. And there weren’t that many ways open to me, still being on the little side as people go. But I was sure there’
d be something.

  All this, of course, was still outside the supermarket. And I didn’t have much chance to think on the problem then, as she came out loaded down with groceries. The next second I was almost smothered under a whole heap of instant mashed potatoes, tinned beans and tinned spaghetti and sliced bread. I said, before I could stop myself:

  ‘For goodness’ sake have a bit of consideration, will you? I mean, I’m not made of rubber!’

  And she said, crossly: ‘Don’t you start bleedin’ cryin’, you little misery. If you’ve got wind it’s your own bloody fault. I wish to Christ I’d never ’ad you.’

  You can see what I was up against. One felt totally impotent. And it was just so hard to get anything across to anyone. I remember once when I was in my pram outside an off-licence one lunchtime. This policeman came by and stopped and crouched down by me. He said: ‘Hello, young fellow. Waiting for your mother, are you? She won’t be long.’

  I thought, now’s my chance. I said to him:

  ‘Look at the state I’m in. You wouldn’t believe it but I’ve had this nappy on since last night. Last night! And she doesn’t care. Not a bit. Do you suppose you could report the matter to the proper authorities when you get an opportunity . . . ? Do you think you could help to get me moved to someone else? Another mummy? As you can see, things are just not working out as they are . . . Please . . . ?’

  I didn’t have a chance to say any more as she came out of the shop carrying all the bottles. The policeman stood up as she approached and smiled at her.

  ‘I think he’s getting impatient for you,’ he said. He turned back to me and put his face close up to mine. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Go on, say it. Mum-mum-mum-mum-mum-mum. You’ll be talking next, won’t you. Mum-mum-mum-mum.’

  I dribbled and made a rude noise.

  That night we went to the pub. It was her darts night. She wheeled me into the shadow of the wall that I knew so well, grabbed her darts and her handbag and went off inside. I was left alone. Just like that.