‘—You’re really cutting yourself off, aren’t you . . . ?’
She paused and then gave a little nod. ‘I don’t really have any choice, do I?’
* * *
I lay awake again that night, and again I thought over and over about all the things that had happened, trying to put them into some sort of order that would make sense. I couldn’t do it, though.
The sudden wailing of the baby next door snatched me from the edge of sleep and as before I heard Catherine journey to the kitchen. After that came the silence while I imagined her giving the baby her milk. I was far from sleep now.
I got up, put on my dressing gown and went into the kitchen. There I made a cup of tea and sat at the table drinking, and smoking a cigarette. And of course all the thoughts came back—clamouring.
My mind went back once again to my brief visit to that clinic-like room at the house. This time I concentrated my thoughts on the file I had taken from the cabinet. That file, I was sure, somehow held the key to it all. But what was the key? What was there in my life that had caused them to single me out from other men . . . ?
I rose, poured myself a second cup of tea and carried it into the studio. There I pulled up the carver to my work table. Perhaps in this room I could think more clearly . . .
I sat staring ahead of me, unseeing, at the paintings that lined the walls, the still-lifes, landscapes, Ilona; Elizabeth as a young woman; the red-haired girl I had stayed with in Brighton all those years ago—Rosalind. Was it, I asked myself, something out of my past that was the vital factor in the reason for my being chosen?
In the end I turned away from the distraction of the paintings and pulled my sketch-pad towards me. I must try to be methodical . . .
I set myself then to try to write down all I could remember having seen in the file.
First of all I put down the names of my parents. Underneath that I listed the names of my siblings. When I had written the name of my youngest sister I added—as I had seen it in the file—the note on my marriage to Elizabeth. Below that I wrote the names of my children in the order of their birth, ending with Simeon.
I studied what I had written. It was not complete, though; there had also been those comments on my history and my character. Carefully I added what I could remember.
I looked at the page again. And it was still not complete. The names listed there should be numbered. I began to add numbers next to the names. When I got to Em, though, I stopped. Her name, I recalled, like that of my younger sister, had had no number next to it. I closed my eyes, trying to see in my mind the original list. Yes, I was right—only the male children had had numbers next to their names.
As far as the actual list went, it looked now to be about complete. But no—I remembered that my own name had been underlined. When I had done that I sat back and looked at what I’d written.
And it was totally meaningless.
It appeared to be nothing more than what it had seemed at that first glance—a record of births to my parents, and to Elizabeth and me—with special emphasis on my own being . . .
I pulled the sheet from the pad, took it into the bedroom and stuffed it into my jacket pocket. I’d look at it again later.
* * *
Catherine made her final arrangements on Sunday and rang her friends in Scotland to tell them which train she’d be taking. When that was done there was little to do but wait for the time to pass. I had discussed briefly with Em the idea of taking Catherine and the baby to the house in Lansbury Crescent for the day, but then decided against it. Simeon and Julia still knew nothing at all of the existence of Catherine and, to be on the safe side, I thought it would be as well to keep it that way.
So, Catherine and I stayed alone together. After lunch I asked her if she’d like to go out for a drive—just to get some air. I saw a hint of panic in her eyes at the suggestion. She’d rather not, she said, and I didn’t press her with the idea.
And so the day wore on, tediously and full of tension, to its close.
* * *
As soon as Simeon and Julia had gone to school on Monday morning Em came to the flat to give any last-minute help that might be required and to say goodbye to Catherine. When the time came for us to leave she walked with us to the car and watched while we drove away.
Catherine sat beside me as I drove. The baby lay in a newly acquired carry-cot on the back seat. Our journey was made in silence.
At King’s Cross I parked the car and, with the carry-cot in my right hand, led the way to the ticket booth. After that we moved to the platform and sat silently on a bench while other travellers moved back and forth and a few sparrows hopped, pecking about, over the concrete. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
I had bought Catherine a first-class ticket and when the train came in I saw her safely installed in a comfortable seat with the baby at her side. I sat down opposite her and the silence continued.
‘Will you come back—sometime?’ I asked suddenly into the quiet.
‘—I would like to.’
‘Then—Then do that. Come back—when this is all over.’
She was quiet for a moment, then she said—‘When will that be? When will it be all over? And if it is—shall we ever know?’
Perhaps we never would know, I said to myself. She could go on hiding away for years long after any danger was past, never knowing that it was safe to come out into the open . . .
‘It can’t go on forever,’ I said.
‘No, not forever.’ Then she added awkwardly, with an attempt at a smile, ‘—I wish I’d met you at a different time. Ever since I met you there’s always been something—happening.’
‘I know what you mean. But perhaps it won’t always be like that.’
‘No, perhaps not.’
The time was going by. I looked at my watch. The train would soon be leaving. I got to my feet. ‘I must go,’ I said. She stood up and we faced each other. Our strange little interlude together was over. From now on we would make our own ways. I thought,—I shall never see you again . . . And the reality of the realization was almost like a blow.
I looked down at the baby and lightly touched the soft, smooth cheek. ‘Susanna . . .’ Her tiny hand reached up and grasped my finger. All those things I had said earlier—about not taking any responsibility for Catherine’s child; they were meaningless now. She was my child too. And through her Catherine and I would always be tied.
I put my arms around Catherine. She clung to me, and we took refuge in meaningless, well-tried words of parting: ‘I’ll write to you,’ I said, my voice strangely flat, and, ‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘—and I’ll let you know how I’m getting on . . .’
I pressed her to me for a moment longer, then released her and walked away. Outside on the platform I stood still while the train started up and moved off along the track. As it disappeared into the distance I thought of all the things I could have said . . . Now I would never have the chance. But in that case, I thought, perhaps silence had been the best thing . . .
As I left the station I suddenly thought of Ilona. And I knew now that it was all over between us. It was over. My time with Catherine had made me aware of that.
* * *
The shop wasn’t very busy; it never was on a Monday. When I had seen that everything was going all right I went up to the studio, made myself a cup of coffee and sat staring out of the window. I felt incomplete and as if I were in limbo; nothing had been resolved.
I thought back to the time when Catherine had been there with her baby. All that time they must have known where she was. Yet they had done nothing about it. At no time had I ever seen anyone watching the premises; at no time had there been the slightest cause for alarm—not, that was, since the telephone call to the hospital when those enquiries had been made concerning the baby’s birth. But why should that be? Had they given up? They ha
d gone to such lengths to have the child created—so why had they made no further move to take her? Unless they had something else in mind . . . It was all beyond me. In the end I got up, went from the flat and made my way downstairs again and out onto the street.
I didn’t go back into the shop. I felt too restless to settle there. After hovering aimlessly for a few seconds I started off along the pavement. I didn’t know where I was going; I just had to keep moving.
I bought a paper along the street and carried it into a pub. There I read the day’s news while I drank a glass of ale and ate sausages and mashed potatoes. All of it was simply a diversion.
I stayed there till almost two o’clock. Then I got up and made my way to the car and drove home. Em wasn’t in, and after I’d mooched around the sitting room for a further ten minutes I left the house and wandered away in the direction of the park.
The day was warm, the sun very bright. I sat on a bench while people ambled by with dogs or trailed small children. Reaching into my pocket for my cigarettes I found there the piece of paper from my sketch-pad. I took it out, opened it, smoothed it and laid it on my knee. I looked at what I had written.
The list was still not complete, I realized. I had thought it was, but it was not—not now. Simeon was not the last of my children—as he had appeared to be on the list held in the file. Of course he was not. There were others now—those children born to Catherine and the nuns—and if each of them had borne a child then there were five more altogether. What sex those babies were, though—apart from Catherine’s—I had no way of knowing.
I took a pen and underneath 6. Simeon Paul I wrote the numbers 7, 8, 9, 10, 11. One of those represented Susanna, Catherine’s daughter—though where she came in the list I had no idea. In the end I wrote beside each of the new numbers the words Boy or Girl. When that was done I studied the list again.
RIGBY, Thomas Stephen, married Marianne LUCAS
Issue:
1.John Clive
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
7.Boy or Girl
8.Boy or Girl
9.Boy or Girl
10.Boy or Girl
11.Boy or Girl
It was those last five of my children they wanted, I said to myself. But then there came again the question: ‘Why? And why so many? Why five? And how could they be sure that there would, indeed, be five? There could have been miscarriages or other incidents that would have prevented birth. As it was there had been six women originally . . .
So, I asked myself, was the number of babies not of the greatest importance? No; I reckoned it was not. Could it be, then, that those people did not want all of the six babies originally planned for? Did they, perhaps, only want one . . . ?
If so, then one of those children was in some way special—different. But in what way? What was it that singled him—or her—out from the rest? And then another thought came to me. Did the sex of the child matter? Was it at all important whether the child was a boy or a girl?
Back into my mind came the question that had vaguely touched me earlier: Why had no attempt been made to take Catherine’s daughter away from her?
Was it because she was just that—a daughter? I thought again of what the sister at the hospital had said to me—that she’d told the anonymous caller that both Catherine and her daughter had been getting on well. And after that specific reference to the girl baby there had been nothing more from them—no hint of any threatening presence, no hint of any danger; nothing at all . . .
In that case, I wondered, could it be that they had been looking for a male child—and only a male child? For that would certainly explain their apparent lack of interest in Catherine’s child. But why a male child, even so? And what was special about a male child fathered by me? I had already fathered six. What could be so different about another one . . . ?
I went back to the paper and read it through again. And yes, I was right; I was sure of it; it was only the male children in which there was interest. On the list my daughter and two female siblings had not been numbered. The names of the male children had. I looked at the entry of my own name; 7. Thomas Arthur; underlined.
And there it was. It had been there all the time. So obvious.
I was the seventh son.
And so would he be, I realized—the first of any sons of mine born to the women of Woolvercombe House. He would be a seventh son also. More than that: he would be the seventh son of a seventh son.
Frantically I racked my brains, seeking out those kernels of half-learned, long-forgotten, stored-away bits of information I had picked up over the years. A seventh son of a seventh son . . . What was it about such a phenomenon?
I got up from the seat, thrust the piece of paper into my pocket and hurried away over the grass.
Chapter Twenty-two
In the local library I asked to see some books dealing with the occult, witchcraft, old superstitions and anything allied to such subjects. Then I sat down at a large polished table and waited, with barely contained impatience, for the young librarian to bring me what she could find.
Less than five minutes later she approached carrying a pile of books of varying sizes. She placed them on the table in front of me.
‘You might find what you’re looking for here in one of these,’ she said. ‘If not, let me know and I’ll see what else is available.’
I thanked her and drew the first book towards me.
‘What is it you’re looking for?’ she asked, hovering at my shoulder. ‘Is it something in particular?’
‘Yes . . . information on—seventh sons.’
She nodded, picked up one of the books and opened it. I, meanwhile, read the title of the book before me: Witchcraft and Witches, then turned to the index. No mention of seventh sons there. I took up another book, and then a third; still nothing. I was reaching out for the last one when the girl’s voice came again:
‘Is this any use? There’s a reference to seventh sons here.’ She placed the open book in front of me, urged me again to ask should I need any further help and moved quietly away.
I was hardly aware of her departure. Immediately I had become immersed in reading what was written on the page before me. Under the heading, Seventh Sons, it said:
The number seven, it is well known, is one of the most mystic of all numbers, and among the most ancient beliefs known to man is that which concerns the seventh son of a seventh son (or seventh daughter of a seventh daughter). Such a one, it has been widely accepted from early times, owns powers denied to other humans, a power believed to be essentially magical. A seventh son of a seventh son (or daughter of daughter) possesses, it is believed, powers of healing. Some cultures have even insisted that such power—often unrealized by its bearer—is strong enough to bring the dead to life again.
That was all the book said on the subject. But it was enough.
I read it through several times, then closed the book and pushed it away. The fifth and last book was of no further help. It didn’t matter, though; I had the answer I had been looking for.
How incredibly slight, I said to myself, with the present trend for small families, was the chance of finding a seventh son of a seventh son. Almost an impossibility. Therefore it had been necessary for one to be created. And that was what the people from Woolvercombe House had done. Finding out tha
t I was a seventh son they had made arrangements for me to father a seventh in turn.
And the reason why my seed had been used to impregnate more than one woman? Simple: they couldn’t take the chance of failure. So, preparing for all contingencies, they had selected six young women, all of whom would be fertile at the same time. Six young, fertile women; and of those six it was fairly certain that at least one of them would bear a son.
I thought briefly of the girl who had run to me in the grounds of Woolvercombe House. She had been one of their failures. They had tolerated her rebelliousness while she had promised usefulness to them, but when she had failed to conceive her usefulness had run out. Then she had been only a nuisance, and a danger to their scheme. And so they had eliminated her.
And what of the other women, now that their functions had been fulfilled? What had become of them? Had they, too, been disposed of, or was such a fate reserved only for those who threatened the safety and the success of the plan? That, I told myself, I would never know; my part in the whole evil charade was over.
And Catherine’s too. Her part was finished as well.
I got up from the chair, thanked the pretty librarian and walked out onto the pavement. The May sun was shining brighter than ever. For a moment I just stood there while the men, women and children moved past me, going about their business. I felt I was one of them again.
Yes, I was one of them. I was no longer set apart by the mystery that had plagued me since last summer. As far as I was concerned it was over.
I set off along the street in the direction of the shop. This evening, I said to myself, I would phone Catherine and tell her that it was safe to return. They don’t want your baby, I would tell her. Your daughter—our daughter is safe.
* * *
The shop was crowded with customers when I got back and I knew that regardless of my feelings of elation I should set to and give a hand. Before that, though, I must call Em and tell her the news.
In the office I dialled home and then listened as the ringing tone went on and on. In the end I put down the receiver and got up. I’d see her soon anyway; it could wait till then. As I came out of the office Arthur looked up from wrapping a bundle of pencils and brushes and asked if I’d been trying to call Em.
The Reaping Page 17
