Malice in Wonderland

by Nicholas Blake

  The war-cry was repeated twenty times, each syllable strongly stressed, in a whisper at first, then louder and faster till it reached the hysterical pitch of the Sieg Heils at a Nazi congress.

  Paul Perry was both fascinated and horrified. His fastidious soul was intensely embarrassed by the proceedings. The synthetic American accent, like a dance-band leader’s, which had replaced Edward Wise’s normal tones, the slick, confident gestures with which he conducted the war-cry—these were vastly repugnant to Paul. But, as a dispassionate observer, he could not fail to be interested; while, as one who approved of mass production on principle, he had to approve this curious, machine-like production of mass sound. And not mass sound only. Mass emotion was being stirred, the Wonderland visitors were being welded into a Wonderland community—a great pleasure-unit with a single voice. Mr. Thistlethwaite, bellowing rhythmically at his side, no longer seemed a ridiculous figure. Paul himself was soon chanting away with the best of them. When the war-cry had ended in a final clap of thunder, they all turned to each other, laughing, happy—or, as Paul would have preferred to put it, their inhibitions liquidated.

  Paul, indeed, was so carried out of himself that, when Teddy Wise called for members of the audience to come forward as voluntary sports organisers, to assist the Wonderland staff, he surprised himself by being one of the first to volunteer. Sally Thistlethwaite’s sceptical glance only confirmed him in his resolution.

  After half an hour of community singing, most of the guests moved over to the dance hall. As soon as the band struck up, Paul went up to Sally and her mother, and asked Mrs. Thistlethwaite for the first dance. The matron demurred, beamed with pleasure, was finally persuaded. That’ll show her, thought Paul, glancing coolly at Sally as he took her mother on to the floor. He knew he danced well.

  The dance had been in progress for about an hour when a spotlight number was put on. By tacit consent, only the best dancers took part in this. Paul had boldly asked one of the staff to partner him—a slinky brunette who turned out to be Miss Jones, the resident manager’s secretary. Not more than a dozen couples were on the floor, moving to a slow fox-trot, each couple picked out in turn by the spotlight as they glided round smoothly preoccupied, like fish in some submarine grotto. Paul hoped that Sally Thistlethwaite was watching: he held Miss Jones closer as the spotlight came down on them. They seemed all alone, cut off by the sword of light from the onlookers and the other dancers. He became aware that the dancing couples had thinned out. Presently he felt a tap on his shoulder.

  “This is where we get off,” said Miss Jones. “Well done, partner.”

  “But I—why should we?”

  Miss Jones explained. The band leader had been eliminating one couple after another as they passed the platform, till only the best pair of dancers was left. Paul hardly listened to her explanation. He was watching the last couple left—Sally Thistlethwaite moving like silk, like running water, in the arms of Edward Wise, the spotlight bathing them in a shaft of changing colour. Damn her, thought Paul with a viciousness that startled him. Damn them both!

  It was a few seconds after this that the voice came through the loud-speakers—a strained, metallic, squeaky voice that rasped against the quiet rhythm of the band.

  “Watch out for the Mad Hatter, boys and girls,” it said.

  Sally felt a slight check in Teddy Wise’s step, a momentary tightening of his fingers on her wrist.

  “What’s all this?” she asked, as they moved to the last few bars of the music. “A new competition, or something?”

  “Er, yes. Yes, that’s it,” replied Teddy. “A sort of crazy competition.”

  “Oh, do tell me all about it.”

  But the music came to its close with a dying clash on the cymbal, all the lights went up, and the onlookers began to applaud Teddy and Sally as they stood, blinking in the glare, smiling at each other vaguely, as if awakened from a deep sleep.

  III

  THE NEXT MORNING was Sunday. After breakfast, together with a considerable body of the Wonderlanders, Paul trooped down to bathe in the sea. The path took them along the cliff for a hundred yards, then zigzagged down the face of the cliff where many years ago there had been a big landslide. This now offered a declivity tangled with bushes and trees, through which glimpses of the sea below could be caught. The bathers, scrambling down this path in single file, gay in their coloured bath-robes, resembled—Paul thought—a procession of pilgrims descending towards some sea-shrine. He gave the Wonderland company full marks for not having replaced the path by concrete steps or the wilderness by formal terraces. The animation, giggling and mild horseplay, the sense of adventure, too, which this wild path aroused, fully justified their leaving it in a state of nature.

  “Look out, Sally,” he exclaimed suddenly to the girl, who was clambering down the path in front of him.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Didn’t you see him? Just over there behind that bush? Old Rip Van Winkle, it was.”

  “Ooh!” Sally shrank back, clutching the side of his coat. “Where? I can’t see anything.”

  “It’s all right. I was only pulling your leg.”

  “Well, you are mean! It’s no joke, believe me. If you’d seen him. Hey, wait a minute. Who told you about Rip Van?”

  “I heard you talking to your mother yesterday evening. And then to our Dictator of Athletics.”

  “Dictator of——? Oh, you mean Teddy. I do believe you’re jealous. Golly, it’s human after all!”

  They were moving on again, and Paul’s remarks had to be addressed to the girl’s back, which somehow took the edge off them.

  “Don’t you ever think about anything except trousers?” he asked coldly.

  “Never. I’m just a stupid, frivolous girl. Not at all your type, I’m afraid. It’s rather a pity. You don’t look so bad, now you’ve taken those pansy, horn-rimmed spectacles off.”

  “Thanks for the testimonial. You’re not unattractive yourself, when you forget that you’re trying to be something out of a film weekly.”

  “Do you make a habit of listening-in to other people’s conversations?”

  “What on earth——?”

  “You know quite well. Me and Teddy talking about Rip Van Winkle.”

  “You shouldn’t talk so shrilly if you don’t want people to overhear your confidential chats with your young men.”

  “He’s not—I—really, you do get in my hair. Just a common snoop is what you are, Mr. Paul Perry. Perry spelt P-r-y, I suppose. Yes, I shall call you Paul Pry in future, my pet.”

  “You’d better not. And what did your young man tell you about Rip Van Winkle, anyway?”

  “Never you mind. You’re too young. And, if you call him my young man again, I’ll get him to bust you in the nose.”

  “Yes, I can see you’d like that. The alluring little piece, with two great big he-men fighting over her.”

  “He-men? Don’t speak for yourself, Paul Pry. I could knock you cold myself, I believe. I’ve learnt boxing.”

  “That must account for your over-developed arms. Like bolsters, they are.”

  “Go away. I hate you.”

  Paul derived a certain pleasure from this swapping of back-chat. There was the holiday feeling, the irresponsibility of indulging in a conversation which at other times one would have condemned as vulgar, dull and below one’s standards. There was also the pleasure of finding that one could hold one’s own at this kind of badinage. Paul’s work had brought him into contact with many people who talked in this way, certainly: theoretically, he knew the argot backwards, but this was the first time he had practised it.

  So, at least, he reasoned with himself, as he negotiated the last fifty yards of the cliff path. He would have been surprised to know what Sally was thinking at this moment. What a queer young man, she was thinking, and what a funny, pompous way he talks. I suppose that’s the way clever people talk; it’s rather attractive, really; no, it isn’t, he’s a hateful creature—saying my arms
were too fat—I hate him. Paul would have been even more shocked if someone had told him that the real reason why he had enjoyed the exchanges with Sally was nothing more complex or recherché than that he was physically attracted by her. He could speak scientifically and at great length about sex attraction and sex antagonism: what he could not do was to recognise them when he met them in person.

  The Wonderland private bathing beach lay in a cove between two small headlands. Under the limestone cliffs, the beach was flat and sandy; farther down it shelved sharply towards the sea, so that bathers soon found themselves out of their depth. Some rafts were moored about fifty yards from the shore, and already a number of visitors were diving from these or paddling about on brightly-coloured floats. On the flat part of the beach a game had been started. A ring of young men and girls were throwing a beach-ball across, which a man in the middle tried to intercept. The “he,” Paul saw as he came closer, was Albert Morley. His pince-nez were off, he was beaming and making the most ludicrous attempts to catch the ball, jumping up and down like a frog on a hot plate.

  What started it, Paul could not be quite sure. He fancied it was Edward Wise, though, who first deliberately threw the ball so that it struck little Mr. Morley and bounced off him back to the circle again. At any rate, it became infectious. Instead of throwing the ball past Albert or over his head, they all began to fling it at him, shrieking with laughter, flinging the ball harder and harder till the little man was trying to dodge it instead of catching it—and with no greater success. He was still beaming, though, taking it all in good part, but with the uncertain expression of one who is not quite sure whether a joke has not turned against him.

  Paul became aware of Sally at his side. She was breathing hard, her eyes flashing.

  “They’re baiting him. It’s not fair,” she said. “Go and stop them, Paul. Please.”

  Some perverse impulse, which he heartily regretted a moment later, made him say, “Why should I? I’m not a policeman.”

  “Oh, you’re too damned marvellous to be alive,” the girl exclaimed, and hurried off towards the circle of players.

  But Mortimer Wise, who was strolling about in his bathing-dress, got there first.

  “Hey, hey!” he called good-humouredly, breaking into the circle. “Let someone else have a turn in the middle, Mr. Morley.” He took the ball, pushed his step-brother into the centre, and flung the ball neatly past his left hand.

  Paul saw Albert Morley emerge through the circle, which had grown suddenly subdued, rubbing his eyes. For a horrible moment he thought the little man was crying. Then Albert said:

  “It’s the sand in my eyes. Off that ball.”

  Sally took out a handkerchief, put one hand on Mr. Morley’s shoulder, and worked the sand out of his eyes for him. Watching her, Paul felt a real pang of humiliation. Her body, in the white bathing-suit, was beautifully formed: the tenderness in her attitude made him feel alone and resentful. He walked down to the sea, and swam out.

  It was ten minutes later, not far from a throng of splashing, shrieking bathers, that Sally Thistlethwaite suddenly threw up her hands, opened her mouth, and disappeared under the water. They assumed she was just ragging about. But she was a long time reappearing; and, when she did, her face was white and she was trying to scream through the water that choked her throat. As she went under again, Paul was not far from her. But Edward Wise had seen it too, and his racing stroke brought him more quickly to where the girl had gone under. He dived, to emerge presently on his back, his hands under Sally’s shoulders, and towed her towards the shore. In a moment, Captain Wise was by his side, helping him. Some distance behind they were followed by Albert Morley, Paul noticed, swimming a desperate breast stroke that gave the impression of a bicyclist in a very low gear, a comical look of consternation on his face.

  By the time Paul reached land, Sally was sitting up between the two brothers, coughing out sea-water and saying:

  “I’m sorry. I lost my head. Some silly ass ducked me and held me under a bit too long. When I came up again, I sort of couldn’t keep up. I’m quite all right now. Really.”

  A small crowd had assembled round them. Captain Wise motioned them away, saying, “It’s all right. No damage done.”

  But, when the crowd had dispersed, he turned to Sally with a serious expression.

  “You didn’t notice who it was, I suppose? We don’t want that kind of thing happening here.”

  “No. I’m afraid not. Someone clutched my ankles and pulled me under and held me there.”

  “Didn’t you struggle with him? Was it a man or a woman?”

  “I don’t know. A man, I suppose. The hands felt big. I couldn’t get at him. He kept below me, somehow.”

  “Well, if you’re quite sure you’re all right——” Captain Wise moved away, beckoning his brother to follow him. Paul overheard him say, “It’s probably nothing but a silly prank. Still, keep an eye out, Teddy, will you?”—and then something Paul could not catch.

  “If I catch the joker, I’ll give him something to take home,” said Teddy angrily.

  “Oh, no, no. The customer is always right, within limits. Keep the strong-arm stuff to yourself, my boy. We’ll give the chap a warning, if we catch him.”

  But they did not catch him. Far from it. In spite of Teddy Wise’s vigilance, two more duckings took place in the next hour. One victim was Albert Morley, the other no less a person than the resident manager himself. Neither of them received as severe a ducking as Sally; but Mortimer Wise, at least, was very angry. Not only angry, Paul observed, but worried. He saw him take his brother aside; and shortly after, Teddy fished pencil and paper from his blazer pocket, and was evidently putting down the names of everyone who left the beach.

  There must have been nearly a hundred bathers there, many of whom were still unaware that anything out of the ordinary had taken place—apart from what had happened to Sally. They were not to remain long in ignorance, however.

  Paul went back to the chalets with Mr. Thistlethwaite, who showed no signs of his long immersion, though for the best part of an hour he had been floating on his back, very high in the water, like a freighter in ballast.

  “Mark my words, Mr. Perry,” he said, when they had attained the cliff top, “something is afoot.”

  “These duckings, d’you mean? Surely it’s just some practical joker. He’ll try it on once too often, and get caught, and be asked to leave the camp. That’s all there is to it.”

  Mr. Thistlethwaite gave him a look of extraordinary significance, sighed dramatically, and said:

  “I wish I could think it, sir. I am singularly susceptible to atmosphere, though. And I contend that all is not well with the atmosphere of Wonderland. The tone, as you might say.”

  “Did you notice it as soon as you arrived?”

  “No, sir. I noticed it first at precisely six minutes past ten last night.”

  “Six minutes past ten? Why, what——?”

  “If you will cast your mind back to the events of last night, sir, you will remember that the spotlight dance began at ten of the clock. Just before the dance ended, a certain announcement was made over the loud-speakers. At ten-six, the lights went up.”

  “Well?”

  “You did not observe the expression on the faces of the staff—the dance-band leader, the hosts and hostesses, young Mr. Edward Wise, for instance?”

  “No, I can’t say I did particularly. I’d been dancing with Miss Jones. She looked normal enough, as far as I remember.”

  “The expression I noted, sir,” continued Mr. Thistlethwaite in his most grandiose manner, “was one of dubiety—I might almost say of puzzlement.” He advanced his huge face close to Paul’s. “What deductions may we draw from that?”

  “I’m trying to remember what the announcement was. Oh, I’ve got it. Something about a Mad Hatter.”

  “The allusion is to a fictitious character in a children’s book entitled Alice in Wonderland, by the late Mr. Dodgson, of Christ Church
. My firm had the honour of supplying him with a dozen shirts once.”

  “Yes, I had grasped that much. But I don’t see——”

  “The point is, sir, that the staff were taken aback by the announcement. The generality assumed it referred to some forthcoming competition. The staff evidently knew of no such competition. We may deduce, therefore, that some unauthorised person obtained access to the microphone under cover of darkness, and broadcast the announcement for purposes of his own.”

  “But——”

  “You will notice particularly,” Mr. Thistlethwaite continued in a voice that, for all its ludicrous, wheezing solemnity, imparted an unaccountable chill to Paul’s blood, “the significance of Wonderland. Moreover, the word mad may offer food for conjecture. We have not seen the end of this matter.”

  And indeed he was right. As they passed the entrance hall of the great white building, they saw a considerable crowd gathered round the notice-board. It was an angry crowd. They pressed forward and saw, written in capitals on a sheet of paper pinned to the notice board:

  HOW DID YOU LIKE THE DUCKINGS?

  WATCH OUT FOR MY NEXT BIT OF FUN.

  THE MAD HATTER.

  Paul listened to the comments of the crowd.

  “Who’s this Mad Hatter? …”

  “Some people were ducked in the sea this morning. Held under. One lady was nearly drowned …”

  “The management ought to do something …”

  “One of the visitors was drowned this morning, they say, deliberately.”

  “Who did it?”

  “The Mad Hatter …”

  “Get out! It’s just another of these competitions. Like the treasure-hunt. A mystery programme, like …”

  “Watch out, Gertie! There’s the Mad Hatter! Just behind you!”

  ——“Eee!——Oh, you gave me a scare! Why, it’s only Mr. Thistlethwaite.”

  “At your service, madam …”

  “Wonder what he’ll do next? …”

  “Someone ought to take steps. It’s an outrage that …”