The Reaping

by Bernard Taylor

  There was no longer a sign of any path at all before me now and, turning to the left, I crossed the grass and began to move slowly, clockwise, around the outskirts of the bramble patch. The tower, its walls covered in parts by thick, clinging ivy, looked like some monstrous, supernatural growth. It reared up about seventy or eighty feet high, its long, narrow windows giving no hint of what lay within.

  A little further on I found that the bramble patch lay severed before me by a clean-cut narrow path leading to the tower’s base where, almost hidden by the ivy, was a door.

  I stood for some seconds debating whether or not I should give in further to my curiosity. But no, I said to myself, I’d already trespassed far enough. I turned and made my way back towards the thicket.

  I had just reached the cover of the trees when, glancing over my left shoulder, I saw movement. I stopped. Peering out from a screen of leaves and branches I saw two figures come into view.

  From the trees some forty yards distant Carl and Miss Stewart had emerged. They were moving in the direction of the tower. Miss Stewart came first, in a wheelchair, the German pushing the vehicle over the bumpy ground. The old woman’s face was completely hidden from my view by a wide-brimmed bobbing hat with a heavy veil. She sat hunched up in the chair, propped against the cushions and wrapped in her brocaded robe and brightly coloured scarves. One long silk scarf trailed on the ground at Carl’s feet, while the thick fringes of others bounced up and down with the chair’s uneven passage.

  I watched as Carl wheeled the chair up to the tower door, took a key from his pocket and unlocked it. Moments later the two had disappeared inside. I waited. After a while Carl re-emerged alone into the light, made his way back through the bramble patch and crossed the grass to disappear among the trees.

  Stepping out from behind my cover I looked cautiously about me for any further sign of him. There was none. Taking a last brief look around I ran silently across the grass.

  Before me the door stood closed and I turned away from it, moving to the right. There, stepping into the tangle of the bramble patch I made for one of the lower windows. The thorns snagged the cuffs of my trousers and tore at my legs, but at last I stood with the nearest window immediately above me, the sill just level with the top of my head. A moment later I had thrown my sketchbook aside and, by means of a notch in the ivy-covered stone, hoisted myself up.

  In case the old lady happened to be facing in the direction of the window I moved very cautiously. At last, though, I had raised my eyes above the level of the sill and peered in. By means of the little sunlight that managed to penetrate the narrow windows I saw before me the dim shape of a large, cavernous, circular chamber. Of Miss Stewart there was no sign at all.

  Lowering myself again I stepped down into the brambles, picked up my sketchbook and retraced my way to the door. One thing was leading to another and I’d gone too far now to just turn back.

  The door opened easily under my touch. I pushed it only a fraction at first, but then as my bravery grew I pushed it wider still and stepped inside.

  Now I stood with my back to the door. The air was cool, almost cold, and I became suddenly aware of the thinness of my cotton shirt. The air smelled damp, too, and when I reached out and touched the near wall my finger-tips came away with moisture on them. By the dim light that filtered through the ivy-choked windows I could see there was no furniture in the place. In the hollow emptiness my breathing sounded unnaturally loud and when I took a step forward on the stone-flagged floor the squeak of my heel echoed disconcertingly. I came to an immediate halt, listening.

  At the opposite end of the chamber a circular stone staircase rose up from some lower floor. In the centre of it were the ornate gates of a lift. Moving closer I saw that they were very old, their ironwork wrought with strange designs quite unlike anything I had ever seen before. Behind the gates the space was empty; the slight swaying of a hanging cable told me that Miss Stewart and her wheelchair must have taken the lift to an upper level. What could be up there . . . ?

  Moving right a couple of paces to where the stairs led upward I placed a tentative foot on the lower step. And then stopped. I could not, in all conscience, go on. I had already trespassed far enough . . .

  I stepped back, took a last look around the chamber and walked back to the door. Emerging into the sunlight again I quietly closed the door behind me and crossed the grass into the shelter of the thicket. When I looked back I saw that I had got out just in time; Carl was striding along the other path in the direction of the tower. Going to fetch Miss Stewart, I thought; whatever business she had inside the building it was finished with.

  * * *

  Dinner that evening seemed a rather more special affair, I felt. The portrait was finished and there was an air of celebration around the table.

  When at last coffee had been served Mrs. Weldon got up from her seat, left the room and returned with an envelope which she placed beside my plate. I picked it up and saw inside it the thick wad of banknotes.

  ‘Count it,’ she said, ‘—it’s all there.’

  A thousand pounds. Someone had actually paid a thousand pounds for one of my paintings . . .

  I thanked her warmly and put the envelope into my pocket. On my left Dr. McIntosh congratulated me and said what a pleasure it had been to have my company at the house. On the far side of the table Catherine got up and said that she was tired and was going to bed. She would see me in the morning to say goodbye, she murmured, her eyes catching mine and giving the lie to the casualness of her tone.

  Fifteen minutes later I was up in my room and she was moving into my arms.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I took my time over dressing and packing the next morning. I had no need to hurry; until the business with my car was sorted out I wasn’t going anywhere.

  Just after ten o’clock I was in the dining room finishing my breakfast when Mrs. Weldon came in.

  ‘Well,’ she said brightly, ‘you’ll be off then.’

  ‘I wish I knew when,’ I said.

  ‘Hasn’t Carl told you—?’

  ‘Told me what?’

  ‘He’s found the keys to your car. Just a little while ago, apparently.’

  I sighed with relief. ‘Well at least that’s something. All we have to do now is get the thing moving.’

  She nodded. ‘He’s out there with it now.’

  ‘That was a stroke of luck finding the keys,’ I said. ‘Where were they?’

  ‘I really don’t know. Somewhere among Sam’s belongings, I believe.’

  ‘Have you had any word from him at all . . . ?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She shook her head. Then she asked, ‘Have you finished your packing?—all your paints and things, and all your personal belongings?’

  ‘Yes, everything. It’s all done.’

  She smiled at me. ‘We’re so grateful to you. And Miss Stewart especially.’ She paused. ‘Would you go and see her sometime before you leave? I know she’d like to thank you.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll go and see her now if that’s all right.’

  As we moved into the hall Carl came through the front door.

  ‘You will be glad to know that your car seems to be all right, sir,’ he added.

  ‘—What do you mean—it seems to be all right?’

  ‘Well—I don’t know much about cars, sir, and I don’t know what was supposed to be wrong with yours—but it seems to be going all right now. I’ve just tried it.’

  ‘And it’s okay . . .’

  ‘Yes. I drove it out of the garage and up to the gates and back. It seems to be perfect.’

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t even get it started before. Ah, well—’ I shrugged, ‘—I’ll just be glad that it’s all sorted out.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He nodded and started to turn away. ‘I’ll put some petrol in t
he tank and then start loading your things.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  As he went back outside I followed Mrs. Weldon along the corridor. Reaching Miss Stewart’s room she tapped on the door, opened it, loudly announced me and gestured for me to go in. I entered, closing the door behind me.

  At once I was met by that same smell of old age and decay. And the room was just as dark; only the one small lamp burning and only the merest strands of light finding their way through the curtains’ narrow cracks. As I stood there waiting for my eyes to become accustomed to the gloom there came from behind the screen the sound of Miss Stewart’s old, cracked voice.

  ‘I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Rigsby. Don’t just stand there—come in.’

  I moved across the carpet and stood before her. As on that first time she lay against the high cushions of the chaise, sunk deep into her scarves and her brocaded robe. As I looked at her she raised one claw-like hand and made a brief, impatient gesture for me to come closer. ‘You’re too far away,’ she said irritably, and I moved nearer to stand directly in her line of vision.

  ‘So you’ve finished your work,’ she croaked. Her hooded eyes were dull and flat-looking, sunken in the deep-shadowed sockets.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I couldn’t make out her expression. She moved her hand again, indicating that I should sit in the chair that faced her. When I had done so she gazed at me earnestly for a few seconds then said:

  ‘I’m well pleased with all you’ve done.’

  ‘You like the painting?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘—I’ve heard it’s an excellent likeness.’

  ‘Would you like to see it?’ I half rose from the chair. ‘I can fetch it . . .’

  ‘No, no, later,’ she said. ‘I’ll see it later.’ A little silence went by, then she said: ‘Thank you.’

  I realized that I’d been dismissed; the interview was over. I’d hardly had time to sit down. Getting up from the chair I hesitated for a second then turned and moved to the door. As I reached it her cracked old voice came to me:

  ‘Make sure you shut the door properly.’

  I got back to the hall to find Mrs. Weldon waiting for me. She had known my meeting with Miss Stewart wouldn’t take long.

  ‘I think Carl’s almost finished loading up your car,’ she said. ‘Are you about ready to leave?’

  ‘Almost,’ I said, and then: ‘Is Catherine anywhere around? I’d like to say goodbye . . .’

  She paused for a moment. ‘Wait in the drawing room. I’ll go and tell her.’

  When Catherine came to me a few minutes later her face looked strained and she didn’t meet my eyes. I stood and looked at her. Still she didn’t look up.

  ‘Catherine,’ I said, ‘—are you all right?’

  She nodded. ‘I’m just a little tired, that’s all. I’ll be okay in a while.’

  Silence fell between us. I said: ‘—Look—if you ever get to London come and see me . . .’

  ‘Yes, you never can tell.’ Her tone was offhand. I gazed at her for a moment then took my pen and scribbled a note of my home telephone number and address in my pocket notebook. I tore the page out and handed it to her. She looked at the scrap of paper and said, ‘Are you forgetting you’re a family man?’

  ‘—I’m just thinking it would be nice to see you.’ I paused. ‘What’s up? Something’s the matter. You’re so—distant—You’re different.’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing’s the matter. You’re imagining things.’ She held out her hand. ‘—Goodbye.’

  As I held her hand in mine Carl appeared in the doorway.

  ‘—Excuse me, sir, but your luggage is all packed.’

  I let go Catherine’s hand and turned to him. ‘Every­thing? My cases, my easel and all my painting things?’

  ‘Everything, sir.’

  I thanked him and he gave a brief nod and went away. I looked back at Catherine. ‘I don’t like to go like this—not when you’re like this.’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not—like anything. We met, and now we’re parting—as people do all the time. That’s all.’

  I nodded. I could hardly believe it. ‘That’s all . . .’ I stared at her for a second longer then turned and went from the room.

  In the hall I moved towards the stairs and started up; I’d just make sure that nothing had been left in my room . . .

  No . . . no sign of my stay could be seen in the place now. It had taken on that look common to so many hotel rooms when they seem to speak of nothing but their anonymity. I backed out and headed for the studio on the floor below.

  The furniture had all been put back. I stood for a moment in the doorway and then started to turn away. As I did so my eyes were arrested by something on the far side of the room. I moved across to get a closer look.

  Yes, it was the portrait. It had been dumped, wet face inwards, against an old bureau. I picked it up and looked at the picture on which I had worked with such concentration and devotion. The paint had been so badly smeared that part of the mouth and one eye were quite distorted. In addition the corner of the bureau had pushed the fabric of the canvas so out of shape that I doubted it could ever be righted again. It was ruined.

  For a few moments I stood there consumed with anger and hurt. Who had done such a thing? One thing I did know, though, and that was that I had no intention of staying to try and repair the damage. I never wanted to see the picture again now. I put it back where I had found it and left the room. I would just say goodbye to Mrs. Weldon, telephone with a message for Em to say I was on my way home and then get going . . .

  Reaching the ground floor I was in time to see Mrs. Weldon going round the corner to the corridor of the east wing. Moving after her I saw her go past Miss Stewart’s room to the door at the end. She unlocked it, went in and was just about to close it when she saw me approaching. ‘Ah, Mr. Rigby,’ she said, and stood waiting in the open doorway.

  ‘I’ve just come to say goodbye,’ I said, ‘—and to thank you for all your kindness while I’ve been here . . .’ Beyond her head I saw white-painted walls, a metal trolley and two high couches. There was a desk too, with telephones on it.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr. Rigby!’ Smiling warmly she shook my hand. ‘And thank you so much for doing such a splendid job on the portrait. I’m sure it will be treasured.’

  As she finished speaking there came from behind her the shrill ring of one of the telephones. She hesitated for a moment: ‘—I must go, Mr. Rigby; do excuse me . . .’ and moved over to the desk. As she picked up the receiver I closed the door and started back towards the hall. I was just nearing the front door when I realized I hadn’t done anything about calling Em. I turned around and started back.

  I had almost reached the end of the corridor when, looking from the window, I saw Mrs. Weldon go stepping smartly away across the courtyard in the direction of the gardens. I came to a halt, wondering what to do. Not for long, though. After a moment I pushed open the door and crossed over to the desk. The other door, that leading onto the courtyard, had been left slightly open. Mrs. Weldon had obviously been in something of a hurry.

  Perching on the edge of the desk I took out my notebook and looked up the number Em had given me. It was that of the owner of the holiday-cottage, a Mrs. Calvert, who would, I had been assured, pass on any messages. One of the telephones before me was obviously on an internal circuit. I lifted the receiver of the other and dialled. Whilst the ringing tone sounded in my ear I glanced around me. The high couches looked to be of the kind used in doctors’ examining rooms, as too was the metal trolley on which various medical items were laid—kidney-shaped bowls, syringes, rubber surgical gloves. I saw also numerous glass bottles and test tubes, and there against the wall two steel sinks. Was the place some kind of laboratory or clinic . . . ?

  A young girl’s voice came suddenly at the other end of the line and I asked if I could sp
eak to Mrs. Calvert. She said she would get her for me and left me in silence again.

  On a table beside the desk stood a metal filing cabinet with two drawers. The lower one hadn’t been fully closed and some of the tabs that labelled the files were visible. On one of them I read the name Rigby.

  I stared at the tab for a moment, then pulled the drawer open wider, slid the file out and laid it on the desk. As I opened it I heard a woman’s voice in my ear. It was Mrs. Calvert. I told her who I was and asked if she’d be so kind as to let my sister know that I was leaving my temporary Somerset address and returning home.

  ‘You’re leaving today?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, in a few minutes. I’ll be back home by early afternoon. Would you tell her—’ I came to a halt, gazing down at the paper in the open file before me. After a moment the woman’s voice said, ‘Hello? Are you still there—?’ and I heard myself mutter distractedly, ‘—What? Yes—I’m sorry . . .’ My head was swimming. ‘Just tell her I hope everyone’s having a good time . . .’

  After I’d thanked her I mechanically put down the receiver and got to my feet. And all the time I was staring in bewilderment at the paper in the file. The names so neatly typed there were only too familiar. I read through the list again:

  RIGBY, Thomas Stephen, married Marianne LUCAS

  Issue:

  1.John Lucas

  2.Peter Arthur

  3.Stephen Paul

  Emma Marianne

  4.Robert Simeon

  5.Douglas James

  6.Mark Wesley

  7.Thomas Arthur

  Gabrielle Louise

  RIGBY, Thomas Arthur, married Elizabeth ARMITAGE

  Issue:

  1.Clive Thomas

  2.Harry John

  3.Robert David

  4.Michael James

  5.Christopher Brian

  Julia Elizabeth

  6.Simeon Paul

  There was a second page and on that I read again my own name, and with it my date of birth and a brief resume of my life. All the significant points had been noted—my art-school training, my marriage, the deaths of my first children, even my meeting with Ilona. It appeared to be some kind of case-history . . . I read comments on my character. Words and phrases leapt up at me from the page: Home-loving, I read; Overly paternal . . . Great sense of familial obligation . . . and there were even comments on my sexual career: What is known of early history shows no evidence of promiscuity . . .