Collected Stories (4.1)

by R. Chetwynd-Hayes

  Her face was a mask of terror and she gave a terrible little cry of anguish. George’s former suspicion of insanity returned, but she was still appealing—still a flawless pearl on black velvet. He put his arm round the slim shoulders, and she hid her eyes against his coat. The muffled, tremulous whisper came to him.

  “Please take me home. Quickly.”

  He felt great joy in the fact that he was able to bring comfort.

  “There’s no sign of sunlight. Look, it was only a temporary break in the clouds.”

  Slowly the dark head was raised, and the eyes, so bright with unshed tears, again looked up at the western sky. Now, George was rewarded, for her lips parted, the skin round her eyes crinkled, and her entire face was transformed by a wonderful, glorious smile.

  “Oh, how beautiful! Lovely, lovely, lovely clouds. The wind is up there, you know. A big, fat wind-god, who blows out great bellows of mist, so that we may not be destroyed by demon-sun. And sometimes he shrieks his rage across the sky; at others he whispers soft comforting words and tells us to have faith. The bleak night of loneliness is not without end.”

  George was acutely embarrassed, not knowing what to make of this allegorical outburst. But the love and compassion he had so far extended to dogs was nowr enlarged and channelled towards the lovely, if strange, young girl by his side. “Come,” he said, “let me take you home.”

  ***

  George pulled open a trellis iron gate and allowed Carola to precede him up a crazy-paved path, which led to a house that gleamed with new paint and well-cleaned windows. Such a house could have been found in any one of a thousand streets in the London suburbs, and brashly proclaimed that here lived a woman who took pride in the crisp whiteness of her curtains, and a man who was no novice in the art of wielding a paint brush. They had barely entered the tiny porch, where the red tiles shone like a pool at sunset, when the door was flung open and a plump, grey-haired woman clasped Carola in her arms.

  “Ee, love, me and yer dad were that worried. We thought you’d got caught in a sun-storm.” Carola kissed her mother gently, on what George noted was another dead-white cheek, then turned and looked back at him with shining eyes.

  “Mummy, this...” She giggled and shook her head. “It’s silly, but I don’t know your name.”

  “George. George Hardcastle.”

  To say Carola’s mother looked alarmed is a gross understatement. For a moment she appeared to be terrified, and clutched her daughter as though they were confronted by a man-eating tiger. Then Carola laughed softly and whispered into her mother’s ear. George watched the elder woman’s expression change to one of incredulity and dawning pleasure.

  “You don’t say so, love? Where on earth did you find him?”

  “In the Palace,” Carola announced proudly. “He was sitting in the Queen’s Audience Room.” Mummy almost ran forward and, after clasping the startled George with both hands, kissed him soundly on either cheek. Then she stood back and examined him with obvious pleasure.

  “I ought to have known,” she said, nodding her head as though with sincere conviction. “Been out of touch for too long. But what will you think of me manners? Come in, love. Father will be that pleased. It’s not much of a death for him, with just us two women around.”

  Again George was aware of a strange slip of the tongue, which he could only assume was a family failing. So he beamed with the affability that is expected from a stranger who is the recipient of sudden hospitality, and allowed himself to be pulled into a newly decorated hall, and relieved of his coat. Then Mummy opened a door and ordered in a shouted whisper: “Father, put yer tie on, we’ve got company.” There was a startled snort, as though someone had been awakened from a fireside sleep, and Mummy turned a bright smile on George.

  “Would you like to go upstairs and wash yer hands, like? Make yourself comfy, if you get my meaning.”

  “No, thank you. Very kind, I’m sure.”

  “Well then, you’d best come into parlour.” The “parlour” had a very nice paper on the walls, bright pink lamps, a well stuffed sofa and matching armchairs, a large television set, a low, imitation walnut table, a record player, some awful coloured prints, and an artificial log electric fire. A stout man with thinning grey hair struggled up from the sofa, while he completed the adjustment of a tie that was more eye-catching than tasteful.

  “Father,” Mummy looked quickly round the room as though to seek reassurance that nothing was out of place, “this is George. A young man that Carola has brought home, like.” Then she added in an undertone, “He’s all right. No need to worry.”

  Father advanced with outstretched hand and announced in a loud, very hearty voice: “Ee, I’m pleased to meet ye, lad. I’ve always said it’s about time the lass found herself a young spark. But the reet sort is ’ard to come by, and that’s a fact.” Father’s hand was unpleasandv cold and flabby, but he radiated such an air of goodwill, George was inclined to overlook it.

  “Now, Father, you’re embarrassing our Carola,” Mummy said. And indeed the girl did appear to be somewhat disconcerted, only her cheeks instead of blushing, had assumed a greyish tinge. “Now, George, don’t stand around, lad. Sit yer-self down and make yerself at ’ome. We don’t stand on ceremony here.”

  George found himself on the sofa next to Father, who would insist on winking, whenever their glances met. In the meanwhile Mummy expressed solicitous anxiety regarding his well-being.

  “Have you supped lately? I know you young doggies don’t ’ave to watch yer diet like we do, so just say what you fancy. I’ve a nice piece of ’am in t’ fridge, and I can fry that with eggs, in no time at all.”

  George knew that somewhere in that kindly invitation there had been another slip of the tongue, but he resolutely did not think about it.

  “That’s very kind of you, but really...”

  “Let ’er do a bit of cooking, lad,” Father pleaded. “She don’t get much opportunity, if I can speak without dotting me i’s and crossing me t’s.”

  “If you are sure it will be no trouble.” Mummy made a strange neighing sound. “Trouble! ‘Ow you carry on. It’s time for us to have a glass of something rich, anyway.”

  Mother and daughter departed for the kitchen and George was left alone with Father, who was watching him with an embarrassing interest. “Been on ’olidays yet, lad?” he enquired. “No, it’s a-bit late now...”

  Father sighed with the satisfaction of a man who is recalling a pleasant memory. “We ’ad smashing time in Clacton. Ee, the weather was summat greet. Two weeks of thick fog—couldn’t see ’and in front of face.”

  George said, “Oh, dear,” then lapsed into silence while he digested this piece of information. Presently he was aware of an elbow nudging his ribs.

  “I know it’s delicate question, lad, so don’t answer if you’d rather not. But—’ow often do you change?”

  George thought it was a very delicate question, and could only think of a very indelicate reason why it had been asked. But his conception of politeness demanded he answer.

  “Well... every Friday actually. After I’ve had a bath.”

  Father gasped with astonishment. “As often as that! I’m surprised. The last lad I knew in your condition only changed when the moon was full.”

  George said, “Goodness gracious!” and then tried to ask a very pertinent question. “Why, do I...”

  Father nodded. “There’s a goodish pong. But don’t let it worry you. We can smell it, because we’ve the reet kind of noses.”

  An extremely miserable, not to say self-conscious, young man was presently led across the hall and into the dining-room, where one place was set with knife, fork, and spoon, and three with glass and drinking straw. He was too dejected to pay particular heed to this strange and unequal arrangement, and neither was he able to really enjoy the plate of fried eggs and ham that Mummy put down before him, with the remark: “Here you are, lad, get wrapped round that, and you’ll not starve.”

  T
he family shared the contents of a glass jug between them, and as this was thick and red, George could only suppose it to be tomato juice. They all sucked through straws; Carola, as was to be expected, daintily, Mummy with some anxiety, and Father greedily. When he had emptied his glass, he presented it for a refill and said: “You know, Mother, that’s as fine a jug of AB as you’ve ever served up.”

  Mummy sighed. “It’s not so bad. Mind you, youngsters don’t get what I call top-grade nourishment, these days. There’s nothing like getting yer teeth stuck into the real thing. This stuff ’as lost the natural goodness.”

  Father belched and made a disgusting noise with his straw.

  “We must be thankful, Mother. There’s many who ’asn’t a drop to wet their lips, and be pleased to sup from tin.”

  George could not subdue a natural curiosity and the question slipped out before he had time to really think about it.

  “Excuse me, but don’t you ever eat anything?” The shocked silence which followed told him he had committed a well nigh unforgivable sin. Father dropped his glass and Carola said, “Oh, George,” in a very reproachful voice, while Mummy creased her brow into a very deep frown.

  “George, haven’t you ever been taught manners?”

  It was easy to see she spoke more in sorrow than anger, and although the exact nature of his transgression was not quite clear to George, he instantly apologised.

  “I am very sorry, but...”

  “I should think so, indeed.” Mummy continued to speak gently but firmly. “I never expected to hear a question like that at my table. After all, you wouldn’t- like it if I were to ask who or what you chewed up on one of your moonlight strolls. Well, I’ve said me piece, and now we’ll forget that certain words were ever said. Have some chocolate pudding.”

  Even while George smarted under this rebuke, he was aware that once again, not so much a slip of the tongue, as a sentence that demanded thought had been inserted between an admonishment and a pardon. There was also a growing feeling of resentment. It seemed that whatever he said to this remarkable family gave offence, and his supply of apologies was running low. He waited until Mummy had served him with a generous helping of chocolate pudding, and then replenished the three glasses from the jug, before he relieved his mind.

  “I don’t chew anyone.”

  Mummy gave Father an eloquent glance, and he cleared his throat.

  “Listen, lad, there are some things you don’t mention in front of ladies. What you do in change period is between you and black man. So let’s change subject.”

  Like all peace-loving people George sometimes reached a point where war, or to be more precise, attack seemed to be the only course of action. Father’s little tirade brought him to such a point. He flung down his knife and fork and voiced his complaints.

  “Look here, I’m fed up. If I mention the weather, I’m ticked off. If I ask why you never eat, I’m in trouble. I’ve been asked when I change, told that I stink. Now, after being accused of chewing people, I’m told I mustn’t mention it. Now, I’ll tell you something. I think you’re all round the bend.” Carola burst into tears and ran from the room. Father swore, or rather he said, “Satan’s necktie,” which was presumably the same thing, and Mummy looked very concerned.

  “Just a minute, son.” She raised a white, rather wrinkled forefinger. “You’re trying to tell us you don’t know the score?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” George retorted.

  Mummy and Father looked at each other for some little while, then as though prompted by a single thought, they both spoke in unison.

  “He’s a just bittener.”

  “Someone should tell ’im,” Mummy stated, after she had watched the, by now7, very frightened George for an entire minute. “It should come from a man.”

  “If’e ’ad gumption he were born with, ’e’d know,” Father said, his face becoming quite grey with embarrassment. “Hell’s bells, my dad didn’t ’ave to tell me I were vampire.”

  “Yes, but you can see he’s none too bright,” Mummy pointed out. “We can’t all ’ave your brains. No doubt the lad has ’eart, and I say ’eart is better than brains any day. Been bitten lately, lad?”

  George could only nod and look longingly at the door.

  “Big long thing, with a wet snout, I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s a werewolf you are, son. You can’t deceive the noses of we vamps: yer glands are beginning to play up—give out a bit of smell, see? I should think... What’s the state of the moon, Father?”

  “Seven eights.”

  Mummy nodded with grim relish. “I should think you’re due for a change round about Friday-night. Got any open space round your way?”

  “There’s...” George took a deep breath. “There’s Clapham Common.”

  “Well, I should go for a run round there. Make sure you cover your face up. Normal people go all funny like when they first lays eyes on a werewolf. Start yelling their ’eads off, mostly.”

  George was on his feet and edging his way towards the door. He was praying for the priceless gift of disbelief. Mummy was again displaying signs of annoyance.

  “Now there’s no need to carry on like that. You must ’ave known we were all vampires—what did you think we were drinking? Raspberry juice? And let me tell you this. We’re the best friends you’ve got. No one else will want to know you, once full moon is peeping over barn door. So don’t get all lawn tennis with us...”

  But George was gone. Running across the hall, out of the front door, down the crazy-paving path, and finally along the pavement. People turned their heads as he shouted: “They’re mad... mad... mad...”

  ***

  There came to George—as the moon waxed full—a strange restlessness. It began with insomnia, which rocketed him out of a deep sleep into a strange, instant wakefulness. He became aware of an urge to go for long moonlit walks; and when he had surrendered to this temptation, an overwhelming need to run, leap, roll over and over down a grassy bank, anything that would enable him to break down the hated walls of human convention—and express. A great joy—greater than he had ever known—came to him when he leaped and danced on the common, and could only be released by a shrill, doglike howl that rose up from the sleeping suburbs and went out, swift as a beam of light, to the face of mother-moon.

  This joy had to be paid for. When the sun sent its first enquiring rays in through George’s window, sanity returned and demanded a reckoning. He examined his face and hands with fearful expectancy. So far as he was aware there had been no terrible change, as yet. But these were early days—or was it nights? Sometimes he would fling himself down on his bed and cry out his great desire for disbelief.

  “It can’t happen. Mad people are sending me mad.”

  The growing strangeness of his behaviour could not go undetected. He was becoming withdrawn, apt to start at every sound, and betrayed a certain distrust of strangers by an eerie widening of his eyes, and later, the baring of his teeth in a mirthless grin. His mother commented on these peculiarities in forcible language.

  “I think you’re going up the pole. Honest I do. The milkman told me yesterday, he saw you snarling at Mrs. Redfem’s dog.”

  “It jumped out at me,” George explained. “You might have done the same.”

  Mrs. Hardcastle shook her head. “No. I can honestly say I’ve never snarled at a dog in my life. You never inherited snarling from me.”

  “I’m all right.” George pleaded for reassurance. “I’m not turning into—anything.”

  “Well, you should know.” George could not help thinking that his mother was regarding him with academic interest; rather than concern. “Do you go out at nights after I’m asleep?”

  He found it impossible to lie convincingly, so he countered one question with another. “Why should I do that?”

  “Don’t ask me. But some nut has been seen prancing round the common at three o’clock in the morning. I just wondered.”

&nbs
p; The physical change came gradually. One night he woke with a severe pain in his right hand and lay still for a while, not daring to examine it. Then he switched on the bedside lamp with his left hand and, after further hesitation, brought its right counterpart out from the sheets. A thick down had spread over the entire palm and he found the fingers would not straighten. They had curved and the nails were thicker and longer than he remembered. After a while the fear—the loathing—went away, and it seemed most natural for him to have claws for fingers and hair-covered hands. Next morning his right hand was as normal as his left, and at that period he was still able to dismiss, even if with little conviction, the episode as a bad dream.

  But one night there was a dream—a nightmare of the blackest kind, where fantasy blended with fact and George was unable to distinguish one from the other. He was running over the common, bounding with long, graceful leaps, and there was a wonderful joy in his heart and a limitless freedom in his head. He was in a black-and-white world. Black grass, white-tinted trees, grey sky, white moon. But with all the joy, all the freedom, there was a subtle, ever-present knowledge, that this was an unnatural experience, that he should be utilising all his senses to dispel. Once his brain— that part which was still unoccupied territory— screamed: “Wake up,” but he was awake, for did not the black grass crunch beneath his feet, and the night breeze ruffle his fur? A large cat was running in front, trying to escape—up trees—across the roofs—round bushes—he finally trapped it in a hole. Shrieks—scratching claws—warm blood— tearing teeth... It was good. He was fulfilled.

  Next morning when he awoke in his own bed, it could have been dismissed as a mad dream, were it not for the scratches on his face and hands and the blood in his hair. He thought of psychiatrists, asylums, priests, religion, and at last came to the only possible conclusion. There was, so far as he knew, only one set of people on earth who could explain and understand.

  ***

  Mummy let George in. Father shook him firmly by the hand. Carola kissed him gently and put an arm round his shoulders when he started to cry.