The Midwich Cuckoos

by John Wyndham

  ‘If you’ve any sense you’ll stay here out of harm’s way,’ Angela replied bluntly, and turned again to her husband. ‘Gordon, we’re wasting time. Will you ring up Trayne, and see whether anyone has told the police there, and ask for ambulances as well.’

  ‘Ambulances! Isn’t that a bit – er – premature?’ Zellaby protested.

  ‘You introduced this “true to form” consideration – but you don’t seem to have considered it,’ Angela replied. ‘I have. I say ambulances, and if you don’t, I will.’

  Zellaby, with rather the air of a small boy subdued, picked up the telephone. To me he remarked:

  ‘We don’t even know – I mean, we’ve only Mrs Brant’s word for any of it….’

  ‘As I recall Mrs Brant, she was one of the reliable pillars,’ I said.

  ‘That’s true,’ he admitted. ‘Well, I’d better risk it.’

  When he had finished he returned the telephone thoughtfully to the rest, and regarded it for a moment. He decided to make one more attempt.

  ‘Angela, my dear, don’t you think that if one were to keep at a discreet distance… ? After all, I am one of the people the Children trust, they’re my friends, and –’

  But Angela cut him short, with unweakened decision.

  ‘Gordon, it’s no good trying to get round me with that nonsense. You’re just inquisitive. You know perfectly well that the Children have no friends.’

  CHAPTER 18

  Interview With a Child

  THE Chief Constable of Winshire looked in at Kyle Manor the next morning, just at the right time for a glass of Madeira and a biscuit.

  ‘Sorry to trouble you over this affair, Zellaby. Ghastly business – perfectly horrible. Can’t make any sense of it. Nobody in your village quite on target, seems to me. Thought you might be able to put up a picture a fellow can understand.’

  Angela leant forward.

  ‘What are the real figures, Sir John? We’ve heard nothing officially yet.’

  ‘Bad, I’m afraid.’ He shook his head. ‘One woman and three men dead. Eight men and five women in hospital. Two of the men and one woman in a pretty bad way. Several men who aren’t in hospital look as if they ought to be. Regular riot by all accounts – everybody fighting everybody else. But why ? That’s what I can’t get at. No sense out of anybody.’ He turned back to Zellaby. ‘Seeing that you called the police, and told them there was going to be trouble, it’d help us to know what put you on to it.’

  ‘Well,’ Zellaby began cautiously, ‘it’s a curious situation –’

  His wife cut him short by breaking in:

  ‘It was Mrs Brant, the blacksmith’s wife,’ she said, and went on to describe the vicar’s departure. ‘I’m sure Mr Leebody will be able to tell you more than we can. He was there, you see; we weren’t.’

  ‘He was there all right, and got home somehow, but now he’s in Trayne hospital,’ said the Chief Constable.

  ‘Oh, poor Mr Leebody. Is he badly hurt?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know. The doctor there tells me he’s not to be disturbed for a bit. Now.’ He turned back to Zellaby once more, ‘you told my people that a crowd was marching on The Grange with the intention of setting fire to it. What was your source of information?’

  Zellaby looked surprised.

  ‘Why, Mrs Brant. My wife just told you.’

  ‘Is that all! You didn’t go out to see for yourself what was going on?’

  ‘Er – no,’ Zellaby admitted.

  ‘You mean that, on the unsupported word of a woman in a semi-hysterical condition, you called out the police, in force, and told them that ambulances would be needed?’

  ‘I insisted on it,’ Angela told him, with a touch of chill. ‘And I was perfectly right. They were needed.’

  ‘But simply on this woman’s word –’

  ‘I’ve known Mrs Brant for years. She’s a sensible woman.’

  Bernard put in:

  ‘If Mrs Zellaby had not advised us against going to see for ourselves, I’m quite sure we should now be either in hospital, or worse.’

  The Chief Constable looked at us.

  ‘I’ve had an exhausting night,’ he said, at last. ‘Perhaps I haven’t got this straight. What you seem to be saying is that this Mrs Brant came here and told you that the villagers – perfectly ordinary English men and women, and good Winshire stock, were intending to march on a school full of children, their own children, too, and –’

  ‘Not quite, Sir John. The men were going to march, and perhaps some of the women, but I think most of the women would be against it,’ Angela objected.

  ‘Very well. These men, then, ordinary, decent, country chaps, were going to set fire to a school full of children. You didn’t question it. You accepted an incredible thing like that at once. You did not try to check up, or see for yourselves what was happening. You just called in the police – because Mrs Brant is a sensible woman?’

  ‘Yes,’ Angela said icily.

  ‘Sir John,’ Zellaby said, with equal coolness. ‘I realize you have been busy all night, and I appreciate your official position, but I think that if this interview is to continue, it must be upon different lines.’

  The Chief Constable went a little pink. His gaze dropped. Presently he massaged his forehead vigorously with a large fist. He apologized, first to Angela, and then to Zellaby. Almost pathetically he said:

  ‘But there’s nothing to get hold of. I’ve been asking questions for hours, and I can’t make head or tail of anything. There’s no sign that these people were trying to burn The Grange: they never touched it. They were simply fighting one another, men, and a few women, too – but they were doing it in The Grange grounds. Why? It wasn’t just the women trying to stop the men – or, it seems, some of the men trying to stop the rest. No, it appears they all went up from the pub to The Grange together, with nobody trying to stop anybody, except the parson, whom they wouldn’t listen to, and a few women who backed him up. And what was it all about? Something, apparently, to do with the children at the school – but what sort of a reason is that for a riot like this ? It just doesn’t make sense, any of it.’ He shook his head, and ruminated a moment. ‘I remember my predecessor, old Bodger, saying there was something deuced funny about Midwich. And, by God, he was right. But what is it?’

  ‘It seems to me that the best we can do is to refer you to Colonel Westcott,’ suggested Zellaby, indicating Bernard. With a slightly malicious touch, he added: ‘His Department, for a reason which has continued to elude me for nine years, preserves a continuing interest in Midwich, so that he probably knows more about us than we do ourselves.’

  Sir John turned his attention to Bernard.

  ‘And what is your Department, sir?’ he inquired.

  At Bernard’s reply his eyes bulged slightly. He looked like a man wishing to be given strength.

  ‘Did you say Military Intelligence?’ he inquired flatly.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Bernard.

  The Chief Constable shook his head. ‘I give up.’ He looked back at Zellaby, with the expression of one only two or three straws from the end. ‘And now Military Intelligence,’ he muttered.

  ∗

  About the same time that the Chief Constable had arrived at Kyle Manor, one of the Children – a boy – came walking unhurriedly down the drive of The Grange. The two policemen who were chatting at the gate broke off their conversation. One of them turned and strolled to meet the boy.

  ‘And where’ll you be off to, son?’ he inquired amiably enough.

  The boy looked at the policeman without expression, though the curious golden eyes were alert.

  ‘Into the village,’ he said.

  ‘Better if you didn’t,’ advised the policeman. ‘They’re not feeling too friendly there about your lot – not after last night, they’re not.’

  But the boy neither answered, nor checked his walk. He simply kept on. The policeman turned and walked back towards the gate. His colleague looked at him curi
ously.

  ‘Lumme,’ he said. ‘Didn’t make much of a job of that, did you ? Thought the idea was to persuade ’em to keep out of harm’s way.’

  The first policeman looked after the boy, going on down the lane, with a puzzled expression. He shook his head.

  ‘Funny, that,’ he said uneasily. ‘I don’t get it. If there’s another, you have a try, Bert.’

  A minute or two later one of the girls appeared. She, too, was walking in a casually confident way.

  ‘Right,’ said the second policeman. ‘Just a bit of advice – fatherly-like, see?’

  He began to stroll towards the girl.

  After perhaps four steps he turned round, and came back again. The two policemen standing side by side watched her walk past them, and into the lane. She never even glanced at them.

  ‘What the hell – ?’ asked the second policeman, in a baffled voice.

  ‘Bit off, isn’t it?’ said the other. ‘You go to do something, and then you do something else instead. I don’t reckon I like it much. Hey!’ he called after the girl. ‘Hey! you, missie!’

  The girl did not look back. He started in pursuit, covered half a dozen yards, and then stopped dead. The girl passed out of sight, round the corner of the lane. The policeman relaxed, turned round, and came back. He was breathing rather fast, and had an uneasy look on his face.

  ‘I definitely don’t like it,’ he said unhappily. ‘There’s something kind of funny about this place….’

  ∗

  The bus from Oppley, on its way to Trayne via Stouch, stopped in Midwich, opposite Mrs Welt’s shop. The ten or a dozen women waiting for it allowed the two off-loading passengers to descend, and then moved forward in a ragged queue. Miss Latterly, at its head, took hold of the rail, and made to step aboard. Nothing further happened. Both her feet appeared to be glued to the ground.

  ‘Hurry along there, please!’ said the conductor.

  Miss Latterly tried again; with no better success. She looked up helplessly at the conductor.

  ‘Just you stand aside, and let ’em get on, mum. I’ll give you a hand in a minute,’ he advised her.

  Miss Latterly, looking bewildered, took his advice. Mrs Dorry moved up to take her place, and grasped the rail. She, too, failed to get any further. The conductor reached down to take her arm and pull her up, but her foot would not lift to the step. She moved beside Miss Latterly, and they both watched the next in turn make an equally fruitless attempt to get aboard.

  ‘What’s this? Some kind of joke?’ inquired the conductor. Then he saw the expression on the faces of the three. ‘Sorry, ladies. No offence. But what’s the trouble?’

  It was Miss Latterly who, turning her attention from the fourth woman’s ineffective approach to the bus, noticed one of the Children. He was sitting casually on the mountingblock opposite The Scythe and Stone, with his face turned towards them, and one leg idly swinging. She detached herself from the group by the bus, and walked towards him. She studied him carefully as she approached. Even so, it was with a touch of uncertainty she said:

  ‘You’re not Joseph, are you?’

  The boy shook his head. She went on:

  ‘I want to go to Trayne to see Miss Foresham, Joseph’s mother. She was hurt last night. She’s in the hospital there.’

  The boy kept on looking at her. He shook his head very slightly. Tears of anger came into Miss Latterly’s eyes.

  ‘Haven’t you done enough harm? You’re monsters. All we want to do is to go and see our friends who’ve been hurt – hurt because of what you did.’

  The boy said nothing. Miss Latterly took an impulsive half-step towards him, and then checked herself.

  ‘Don’t you understand ? Haven’t you any human feelings?’ she said, in a shaking voice.

  Behind her, the conductor, half-puzzled, half-jocular was saying:

  ‘Come along now, ladies. Make up your minds. The old bus don’t bite, you know. Can’t wait ’ere all day.’

  The group of women stood irresolute, some of them looking frightened. Mrs Dorry made one more attempt to board the bus. It was no use. Two of the women turned to glare angrily at the boy who looked back at them unmoved.

  Miss Latterly turned helplessly, and began to walk away. The conductor’s temper shortened.

  ‘Well, if you’re not coming, we’re off. Got our times ∗∗∗ keep, you know.’

  None of the group made any move. He hit the bell decisively, and the bus moved on. The conductor gazed at them as they dwindled forlornly behind, and shook his head. As he ambled forward to exchange comments with the driver he muttered to himself the local adage:

  ‘In Oppley they’re smart, and in Stouch they’re smarmy, but Midwich folk are just plain barmy.’

  ∗

  Polly Rushton, her uncle’s invaluable right hand in the parish ever since she had fled across the unmended breach between the two families, was driving Mrs Leebody into Trayne to see the vicar. His injuries in the fracas, the hospital had telephoned reassuringly, were uncomfortable, but not serious, only a fracture of the left radius, a broken right clavicle, and a number of contusions, but he was in need of rest and quiet. He would be glad of a visit in order to make some arrangements to cover his absence.

  Two hundred yards out of Midwich, however, Polly braked abruptly, and started to turn the car about.

  ‘What have we forgotten?’ inquired Mrs Leebody, in surprise.

  ‘Nothing,’ Polly told her. ‘I just can’t go on, that’s all.’

  ‘Can’t?’ repeated Mrs Leebody.

  ‘Can’t,’ said Polly.

  ‘Well, really,’ said Mrs Leebody. ‘I should have thought that at a time like this….’

  ‘Aunt Dora, I said “can’t”, not “won’t”.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about,’ said Mrs Leebody.

  ‘All right,’ said Polly. She drove on a few yards, and turned the car again so that it faced away from the village once more. ‘Now change places, and you try,’ she told her.

  Unwillingly Mrs Leebody took the driving seat. She didn’t care for driving, but accepted the challenge. They moved forward again, and at precisely the spot where Polly had braked, Mrs Leebody braked. There came the sound of a horn behind them, and a tradesman’s van with a Trayne address on it squeezed by. They watched it vanish round the corner ahead. Mrs Leebody attempted to reach the accelerator-pedal, but her foot stopped short of it. She tried again. Her foot still could not get to it.

  Polly looked round and saw one of the Children sitting half-hidden in the hedge, watching them. She looked harder at the girl, making sure which one it was.

  ‘Judy,’ Polly said, with sudden misgiving. ‘Is it you doing this?’

  The girl’s nod was barely perceptible.

  ‘But you mustn’t,’ Polly protested. ‘We want to go to Trayne to see Uncle Hubert. He was hurt. He’s in hospital.’

  ‘You can’t go,’ the girl told her, with a faintly apologetic inflection.

  ‘But, Judy. He has to arrange lots of things with me for the time he’ll have to be away.’

  The girl simply shook her head, slowly. Polly felt her temper rising. She drew breath to speak again, but Mrs Leebody cut in, nervously:

  ‘Don’t annoy her, Polly. Wasn’t last night enough of a lesson for all of us?’

  Her advice went home. Polly said no more. She sat glaring at the Child in the hedge, with a muddle of frustrated emotion that brought tears of resentment to her eyes.

  Mrs Leebody succeeded in finding reverse, and moved the lever into it. She tentatively put her right foot forward and found that it now reached the accelerator without any difficulty. They backed a few yards, and changed seats again. Polly drove them back to the Vicarage, in silence.

  ∗

  At Kyle Manor we were still having difficulty with the Chief Constable.

  ‘But,’ he protested, from under corrugated brows, ‘our information supports your original statement that the villagers were marching
on The Grange to burn the place.’

  ‘So they were,’ agreed Zellaby.

  ‘But you also say, and Colonel Westcott agrees, that the children at The Grange were the real culprits – they provoked it.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Bernard agreed. ‘But I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about that.’

  ‘No evidence, you mean? Well, finding evidence is our job.’

  ‘I don’t mean no evidence. I mean no imputability under the law.’

  ‘Look,’ said the Chief Constable, with conscientious patience. ‘Four people have been killed – I repeat killed; thirteen are in hospital; a number more have been badly knocked about. It is not the sort of thing we can just say “what a pity” about, and leave it at that. We have to bring the whole thing into the open, decide where responsibility lies, and draw up charges. You must see that.’

  ‘These are very unusual Children –’ Bernard began.

  ‘I know. I know. Lot of wrong-side-of-the-blanket stuff in these parts. Old Bodger told me about that when I took over. Not quite firing on all cylinders, either – special school for them, and so on.’

  Bernard repressed a sigh.

  ‘Sir John, it’s not that they are backward. The special school was opened because they are different. They are morally responsible for last night’s trouble, but that isn’t the same as being legally responsible. There’s nothing you can charge them with.’

  ‘Minors can be charged – or somebody responsible for them can. You’re not going to tell me that a gang of nine-year-old children can somehow – though I’m blest if I can see how – promote a riot in which people get killed, and then just get away with it scot free! It’s fantastic!’

  ‘But I’ve pointed out several times that these Children are different. Their years have no relevance – except in so far as they are children, which may mean that they are crueller in their acts than in their intentions. The law cannot touch them – and my Department doesn’t want them publicized.’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ retorted the Chief Constable. ‘I’ve heard of those fancy schools. Children mustn’t be what-do-you-call it? – frustrated. Self-expression, co-education, wholemeal bread, and all the rest of it. Damned nonsense! More frustrated by being different about things than they would be if they were normal. But if some Departments think that because a school of that kind happens to be a government-run institution the children there are in a different position as regards the law, and can be – er – uninhibited as they like – well, they’ll soon learn differently.’