“If you like, dear. That’s fine.”
Driving out of town to Gordon’s house in the Tulip, I went very slowly in the bleak, overcast light, over the sodden roads, and gripped the steering lever with both gloved hands as though my life depended on it. I peered through the rain, alert for the slightest problem or obstacle. I could not remember ever feeling more alert, or more nervous, while driving. In my mind, that horrible sensation of the Bentley’s wheels bumping over the elf’s body kept playing out. I felt certain I would run across another one. Every turn of the narrow road concealed imminent tragedy. Making these turns, and finding nothing but the odd fallen branch, was disturbing. I kept “seeing” wandering elves. The car’s brakes were suffering with my constant application; the journey was a stop-start misery. When I finally arrived at Gordon’s, it was late afternoon, the feeble sun low in the west behind thick cloud, and his small house looked as gloomy and tense as I felt. I brought the Tulip up to the front of the house.
Where were all the dogs? The place seemed deathly quiet. By now I should have been drowning in dogs.
At the door, bearing a basket of hastily constructed afternoon-tea treats, I did hear dogs barking, far in the background. Gordon opened up and let me in.
The stink of alcohol was all over him.
“Ruth!” he said, smiling, and closing the door. “What brings you here?”
The dogs sounded like they were going mad, locked out the back.
“I thought you might like some company.”
He unveiled an enormous smile, completely lacking his usual reserve. “What’s in the basket?” He lifted the lid. His eyebrows lifted. “Oooooh,” he said. “Please come in!” He led me through to his lounge room. I found two empty wine bottles on the floor next to his favourite chair, and another just opened on the table in front of the chair. He was using a jam jar for a glass. “Fancy a drink?”
“Why don’t I put some coffee on? I could use a strong one, and I think you could, too.” I squeezed past him into the kitchen, such as it was. One wall was dominated by towering stacks of old newspapers and scientific journals, bundled up with twine. The smell of cheap paper dominated the room. The din from the dogs was extraordinary, but I did not want to talk about it. I pretended everything was normal.
Moving a stack of dirty dishes from the sink, I filled the battered kettle and put it on the range. I did not feel up to attempting to operate the automatic coffee machine. The range was still going, which was a relief. Gordon stood in the doorway. He said, making a big show of it, “How do you like the name, ‘The Navigator’? It’s got a certain something about it, I think.”
“Gordon?” I said, glancing up at him as I searched for clean cups. If ever a house needed a woman’s touch, this was it. However, the woman whose touch was needed here was not myself, I was certain of that.
“I’m calling it ‘The Navigator’!” He said the name over and over, enjoying the sound of it in a way that was so unlike him I could hardly believe it. I kept busy, getting the percolator going. The smell of coffee was sharp and comforting in the musty room.
Then I realised what he was saying. “Oh, you mean the time machine!”
“Of course the time machine, you silly woman! What else? It’s only my life’s ambition to visit Ancient Greece, Ruth!”
Keeping my back to him as I busied about, I said, “‘The Navigator’ sounds reasonable. I thought you liked ‘Time Hopper’? What changed your mind?”
He didn’t answer, but I heard a strange flat sound coming from him. Turning, I said, “Gordon?”
He was asleep, standing up, leaning against the doorjamb.
I took Gordon back to my house. He managed to walk most of the way to the car on his own two feet. He slept most of the way. When he struggled to the surface of wakefulness, he jumped, startled, and swore. Then he saw me driving. “Ruth!” He sounded a little more sober.
“You need a decent meal, Gordon.” The late afternoon sun, to the extent that it could be seen for all the cloud, was muted. “I hope you don’t mind.”
He blinked several times, and saw that we were nearly at my house. He said, “The dogs!”
“I left them some food and a bucket of water.” A lot of food, and a lot of water.
Gordon discreetly burped into his hand. “I do beg your pardon, Ruth. Oh dear.”
“Something the matter?” I was keeping my eyes on the wet road, and driving much more slowly than ordinarily I would, even on gravel. I think I was making about ten miles per hour, and even that felt reckless.
He fidgeted and tried to straighten up his clothing. “I’m … sorry you had to see me. Like this. I’m not … ”
“We are all having a bad time with it. Rutherford, too. It’s understandable.” Which was easy to say, but I was still completely surprised at Gordon’s response. I did not think he drank at all, much less that he could put away two bottles of red in an afternoon.
At home, I sat Gordon in the drawing room. Rutherford, doing his best to look his usual self, asked if there was anything he could do. I told him he could take the evening off. Later, at seven o’clock, I would be calling Rockingham Hospital to inquire after Julia. If we were going to visit, I would drive. This was partly because I felt vile at the thought of Rutherford’s guilt when what happened had been my fault. I did not like that he should feel so wretched on my account, even if that meant that I did my own driving for a while. Rutherford, however, looked shocked. “I will not hear of it, ma’am. If you require my services later to visit Miss Templesmith, do not hesitate to call on me.” He looked resolute, but I could also see the shock and sadness in his eyes.
“I take it you are insisting, Rutherford?”
“I am, ma’am.”
I looked at Gordon, then back at Rutherford. “It would appear I do not have a choice.”
“Quite so, ma’am.”
After a light dinner, and a considerable quantity of coffee, Gordon was looking better, though very rumpled indeed. I could see he also looked increasingly embarrassed, and it was difficult trying to tell him it was all right. He did not mention the incident with the elf; neither did I. We did not need to mention it. The whole terrible thing seemed almost to squeeze us out of the room, it was so big and so awful. We told ourselves that elves did not belong in this world. Over time the sheer grinding forces of entropy, the slow unwinding of the universe itself, were erasing them from the world. But not quite yet. I did not understand them, but I would not deliberately hurt them out of sheer ignorance. Accidentally killing one seemed to me a grievous sin. Their implacable response; the way they had stared; the complete lack of anything comprehensible in their faces; was difficult to bear — and impossible to forget. How did they feel about what had happened? Did they feel anything? It seemed to me they must have emotions of their own, but that their feelings must be of such an alien character that they and we would never reach any sort of understanding. They did resent us, I knew that, we who fit in to this world so well, while they did not. We knew that much, but that was all.
And, deep in the dark well of my brooding, I remembered my worry that elves might have plans to kill people in this town. The incident today had not helped. If they needed a reason to come after me, or more reason than perhaps they had had already, this would be it — if, that is, they believed in revenge.
Shortly after seven o’clock, I telephoned the hospital, to ask after Julia.
It took some time to find someone who could talk to me, but at last a Doctor Samuels came on the line. “I’m terribly sorry to report this, Mrs Black. I am afraid your aunt has slipped into a coma.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Dr Samuels repeated himself, and apologised for the bad news. “We have her on a round-the-clock watch. So far she’s stable, and breathing on her own.”
She was breathing on her own. In a coma.
“I … God …!” I felt weak; dizzy.
“Mrs Black, are you quite …?”
“I’m … �
� My legs gave out. I fell. I hit my head on the edge of the sideboard. The telephone’s earpiece dangled on its cord. I heard the doctor asking, in a tiny, crackling voice, if I was all right.
14
Gordon and Rutherford struggled to help me up, each trying to be more helpful than the other — it was almost comical. If only my head had not hurt quite so fiercely; if only this had not been such a profoundly bad day. Rutherford brought me a stiff drink. Gordon fussed.
With the help of June at the exchange, I was soon back in contact with Dr Samuels, and apologised. I still felt out of sorts. But that was the least of my troubles. I told him I would be there as soon as possible. He said, “There really is very little you can do, Mrs Black. She’s receiving the best care. Tomorrow, if there’s no improvement, we’ll be sending her up to Perth.”
“Yes, of course. A doctor there said that they … that you … right. But are you sure? It would be no trouble to come up … ”
Dr Samuels was firm and quiet. I think he knew more about how I felt than I did. He recommended that I should perhaps get some rest. I tried again, feeling like I ought to be there. The doctor insisted.
This went on for some minutes. Then Rutherford took the phone from me, thanked the doctor, and said, “Mrs Black will be in touch in the morning.” Turning to me he told me that he was sending me to bed, and that he would send Vicky or Ryan up with a hot toddy shortly. He also told me that he would run Mr Duncombe home to his cooped-up dogs. Gordon looked rather at a loose end, hearing all this. “I know when I’m beaten, Mr Rutherford.”
Once installed in the bedroom, I sat up in bed. The sheets were cold. The room, too, was chilly. I remembered the old house back home, which boasted a grand fireplace in each of the bedrooms. Those were the days. Sitting in front of the roaring fire with Antony, sipping mulled wine, talking long into the night. The way his eyes caught the firelight …
Someone was knocking on my door. “Just me, ma’am, Vicky, you know?”
I had hired Vicky only seven months ago, when Sally reported that she needed help in her duties. I suspected what Sally had really wanted was just some company, to help pass the time. It seemed a reasonable request. Vicky still needed some polishing. I let her in; she handed me the hot toddy; I thanked her. “Rarely have I needed something like this quite so much,” I said, smiling at her.
She hesitated, looking uncomfortable — which was normal — and tense — which was not. “Ma’am? Is it all right if I say something to you?” She rushed the words out, as if they were much too hot for her mouth.
“What’s on your mind, Vicky?” I was far too tired, and too worried, for a new crisis, but I couldn’t bring myself to be rude to her. I urged her to sit on the end of the bed.
Sitting uncomfortably as though her working-class bottom would somehow cheapen the antique bed, she looked at her fidgeting hands. “It’s just … I’m really sorry, ma’am, about what’s happened? About the elf and that?”
“Vicky … ” I had not been expecting a vote of sympathy. I smiled. “Thank you for saying so. It’s been a bad day in every respect.”
She nodded, “And I’m sorry, you know, about your auntie.”
I agreed. “She really needs our prayers now, Vicky.”
“Good night, then, ma’am. Sleep well.”
I watched her disappear behind the bedroom door as she eased it shut. How, I wondered, had I managed to hire such a sweet girl? After the endlessly miserable day I had been through, this brief moment of warmth was enough almost to push away the gloom and the anxiety. The hot toddy finished, I lay down, shuffling my cold legs to generate some friction heat from the sheets.
Things were not all bad.
No, that would be later.
Morning came all too soon. Rutherford appeared with a scalding hot cup of coffee. He opened the curtains, revealing the promise of a clear sunny day. He said that the time was twenty-five minutes to nine o’clock, and that Murray’s breakfast would be served promptly at nine o’clock, and that he had already begun running me a bath. A fresh suit of clothes had been pressed and laid out, awaiting my approval.
“Thank you, Rutherford. And how are you this … disturbingly sunny … morning?”
“I am in good health, ma’am. Thank you for asking.” This was what he always said. I had a feeling that he would say this even if he lost a leg.
Breakfast in the expansive and cold dining room had always been a solitary business. Rutherford took the food from Murray and laid it out on gleaming silver trays on the sideboard. Next to the food he left the latest newspapers, each freshly ironed and still warm and fragrant. There was the Daily News, from Perth, always two days late thanks to the trouble of getting it down here; and once a week there was the esteemed broadsheet, The Times of London. This latter was flown out from England and thus was always at least two months out of date, but that did not matter. What mattered was the remarkable sensation of being in some sort of contact with a piece of the mother country. One could smell it in the ink, which smelled different from the ink used in local newspapers. There was much that I had been very glad to leave behind in England, but there were also things I missed, and proper newspapers were one such.
I sat down and worked through my porridge, my ham and eggs, and a generous pot of black coffee, and, between bites, peeled back the tabloid-sized pages of the Daily News, reading about events in Perth and across the country. The large pages crackled and rattled as I turned them. The noise boomed in this too-large room. The tink of steel knife against ceramic plate sounded like it might crack the windows or disturb the chandelier.
Not far away, I heard a chorus of muffled laughter from the kitchen.
I looked around. This dining room was intended for feasts, for grand events with a dozen guests, perhaps more. The tabletop was built from local karri wood, brought to a remarkable lustre by Sally and Vicky’s relentless polishing. Eleven other chairs stood empty.
All this had never bothered me before.
I missed Julia. She filled rooms all by herself, in a way that I never would. I would always be the quiet, watchful one who sat back, who didn’t want to dance, who observed from the corner, and who told herself she did not envy all those vivacious people.
I rang the bell for Rutherford to come and clear away breakfast. I was done.
After breakfast, I asked Rutherford to prepare the Bentley for the journey up to Rockingham Hospital. Whilst I waited, I finished dressing, pulling on a warming coat over my black suit. From outside, I heard the rumble as the car’s great motor came to life; I imagined the thick clouds of steam its exhaust would produce in the brisk morning air, the sound of those big wheels crunching over gravel as he brought the car to the main door —
And I realised, feeling suddenly more uneasy than before, that I was no longer hearing the engine, nor the crunch of gravel.
At the window, I looked down.
My breath caught.
Six elves stood in the driveway, blocking the way out.
Rutherford lay before them. He was spread across the gravel. I saw no blood. He did not move.
They all looked up at me.
“Rutherford!” Calling the staff out to assist, I raced downstairs and out the main doors.
By the time I reached Rutherford’s body, the elves had gone. It was disturbing, the way even their absence felt like a great presence.
I knelt next to Rutherford, checking him over. He felt clammy, and I could feel a pulse at his throat. “Vicky — call Dr Munz!” She ran back into the house.
Sally squatted next to me, examining Rutherford with me; Sally had previously worked as a nurse in Perth. She said, “Get him rolled over, so the silly bugger doesn’t swallow his bloody tongue.”
We took care of this. “Ryan?”
“Yes, ma’am?” He shuffled his feet about, unable to stand still in a crisis.
“Put the kettle on. We may need boiling water.”
Murray, arriving late, took Ryan under her wing. “Failing
that, a cuppa’d be very welcome, eh? Come on.”
“Right you are, ma’am!” They scooted inside. Ryan had the purposeful stride of a scared young man given something to do to ease his nerves. Murray followed behind at her own pace. She said, “Give us a shout if you need anything else!”
Sally and I were examining as much of Rutherford as we could without disturbing his immaculate clothing. We could find no marks, scrapes, cuts or bruises. There was no indication that the elves had hit him.
“That doesn’t mean they didn’t do nothing, though, ma’am,” Sally said, glancing at me significantly.
By the time Dr Munz arrived in his rickety car, Rutherford had regained something resembling consciousness. He was sitting up, with his back leaning against the side of the Bentley. The doctor nodded good morning and said, not pleased to be here, “Ah, Mrs Black. Your girl says your butler — ” He made a point of emphasising the word, to let me know he didn’t approve of such genteel affectations as having one’s own butler. Kneeling down on knees that made audible clicking and popping noises, he winced and gasped and said, “Mr Rutherford, good morning. I hear you’ve had a bit of a run-in with our fey friends.”
Rutherford looked embarrassed and held his head as if willing either it or the world to stop spinning, which was something to see. Rutherford never looked embarrassed or disturbed by anything.
Gritting his teeth against his knee pain, Dr Munz checked him over. Rutherford provided an account of what had happened. He said everything had been perfectly normal. He’d come out to the garage to get the car started. With the motor running, he noted that it sounded like it would need a tune in the next two or three weeks. He then went to reverse the car from the garage. He eased her back, executed a three-point turn and eased the vehicle up to the house’s main door.
Which was when he saw a group of six scruffy elves standing in front of the car.
He had not seen them arrive, had not seen them walk up the driveway from the gate, had not seen them in the course of manoeuvring the car around to the main door. They had simply appeared before him, looking as if they had been there all along.
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