Devils' Spawn

by Charles Birkin

  “Oh, Miss Carter,” Nora spoke quickly and breathlessly, “Mark and I thought . . . we wanted to tell you . . . I mean . . .” she trailed off in confusion.

  “Yes?” Margaret smiled at the girl.

  “We wanted to tell you we’re married,” Hastings broke in, his deep voice husky with happiness.

  Margaret, in spite of the shock, acted magnificently. She crossed over to Nora and kissed her.

  “My dear, I’m so glad. I know you’ll be very happy,” she turned to Mark. “And you’re a very lucky man—but I can see you know that already!”

  For a moment I was too stunned to say anything—but the thought crossed my mind . . . “Does Philippa know?” I wondered if Mark had told her. If so, God knows what her performance would be like that night.

  “And now,” Margaret said, “you must both go and get ready—or we’ll be late starting. We’ll have a celebration after the show.”

  “We wanted to tell you first,” Hastings said.

  “Yes—you’re the first to know,” Nora added.

  They turned away, Mark’s great shoulders almost filling the narrow doorway, his head bent as he smiled down at the girl beside him.

  When they had gone there was a short silence—then Margaret and I spoke simultaneously, and we both said the same thing.

  “We must tell Philippa—she mustn’t hear from Nora.”

  “Will you tell her?” I asked.

  “Yes—ask her to come here, will you?”

  On my way to my dressing-room I knocked on her door. She had just come to the theatre and hadn’t started to change. She didn’t appear until the middle of the second play, and therefore had three-quarters of an hour longer than Margaret or I. “Oh, Philippa,” I said, “Margaret wants you for a minute.”

  She looked rather surprised; and I hurried to my own room, wishing to God that it was all over, and feeling as sorry as hell for the poor woman. When I was ready I looked at my watch that was lying on the dressing-table. It pointed to twenty past seven. That left ten minutes before it was time for the show to begin. I decided to go and ask Margaret how Philippa had taken the news. As I walked down the passage I saw her going into her room. She was in her street clothes, and had evidently been out again since I had last seen her. I knocked on Margaret’s door. She was sitting at her dressing-table—smearing make-up on her face.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “I’ll tell you about it after the first play. I’m terribly late. It was awful, David. She seemed stunned—as if something in her had died. Go now—or I’ll never be ready.”

  I went on to the stage and peered through a hole in the curtain at the “House.” It was filling up rapidly; and a low buzz of conversation came from the auditorium.

  I thought how odd it was that the audience should sit there waiting to see our plays, and little knowing the real dramas that were going on back stage at this moment.

  “Programme . . . choc-o-lates,” the girl’s voice rose above the hum of talk as she walked up the centre gangway.

  The orchestra began its first number.

  “Mr. Lang!”

  I started as I heard Nora Cummings’ voice at my elbow; I stepped back, and knocked over a property rake that leant against the “farm-house” wall. It fell to the floor with a clatter. Nora was already dressed and made up, her blonde hair covered by a bandanna handkerchief.

  “Mr. Lang!” she repeated, “I don’t know what Miss Burton will say—do you?” she giggled anxiously.

  And now other people were coming on to the stage, and the big lights from the sides were switched on. I heard the call-boy shouting, “Beginners on to the stage, please.” Then—“Clear the stage!” The orchestra worked itself into a final frenzy; the lights in the auditorium dimmed—and the play began.

  I don’t think that either Margaret or myself excelled ourselves, and as soon as it was over I hurried to her room. She repeated what she had told me before, and then added, “I can’t believe that Mark could have done such a thing. Why, David, the man must be a fiend! Poor, poor Philippa!”

  But Philippa’s control was perfect. In her first play she gave a wonderful performance, and vanished directly afterwards into her dressing-room and locked the door. I didn’t see her again until just before the final play—Suspicion; when I stood beside her in the wings waiting for our entrance. She was very pale, and a little muscle at the corner of her mouth was twitching, but otherwise she gave no sign of the shock she had received.

  Now this last playlet was in two scenes—a private ward, and an operating theatre; and it was in the second scene that Philippa did her eye-picking act. She was alone on the stage with Hastings, and did her “stuff” with her back to the audience—Mark’s screams of agony being the final curtain.

  The play had gone very well so far, and I stood watching the last moments, together with the other members of the cast, waiting to troup on to the stage for the applause and, as it was the Saturday night, Margaret’s speech of thanks.

  There was a short wait of a little more than a minute between the two scenes, and I was struck by Philippa’s appearance. She was leaning against a side pillar, her eyes closed, the long lashes thickly black against the pallor of her skin. Her face bore an expression of such sorrow as I have never seen before or since. Then she opened her eyes, and they blazed with an anger that I pray I may never see again. She caught my glance and smiled. I asked her if she was feeling all right, and she said, “Yes,” and turned away. I thought I’d speak to Margaret about her before she went on, but there wasn’t time, for the scene was ready and the curtain went up. I saw Margaret standing in the wings opposite, so I went behind the scenes to join her. On my way, I met Fieldon­, who talked to me about the plans for the following day, and by the time I eventually reached Margaret, Philippa was in the middle of her tirade of hate and revenge to the bound Hastings, in which she accused him of being faithless, and as she leant over him to smear the “blood” round his eyeballs I noticed that she had forgotten the bottle she usually held containing the necessary colourful liquid. I remember faintly regretting that the audience would be deprived of its final thrill.

  And now she was bending over Mark’s face and he was screaming. God, how he screamed! The audience sat spellbound while the hideous shrieks filled the theatre; terrible hoarse cries that made even the company shudder. And then Hastings did something that was not in the script. He broke the workmanlike “prop” straps that tied him to the table, and staggered towards Philippa, shouting, “My eyes . . . my eyes . . . God . . .” but he missed her and groped towards the footlights, screaming and mouthing at the audience; his hands clawing at the empty air. I glanced at Margaret beside me, and her face was set in a mask of horror. She made a sign to the man who worked the curtain, and it came down abruptly in the dead silence that can be the greatest tribute to acting.

  And then the rattle of applause came and the curtain went up again, and Hastings was still tearing at his eyes and screaming. He flung out his hands, took a step forward, and fell into the orchestra pit.

  Of course pandemonium broke loose in the audience.

  David stopped and felt in his pocket for his cigarette case. Nobody spoke.

  “Yes,” he finished, “you were right. Philippa gave too realistic a performance.”

  SPECIAL DIET

  “Of course I quite understand your feelings in this matter, Mrs. Willoughby, but I can’t help thinking that it would be better to send your mother to a private home, where she will have every possible care. There is no chance at all of her complete recovery, and in my opinion it would be far better to put the responsibility of such a case on those whose job it is to bear it.”

  Mrs. Willoughby looked at the doctor with troubled eyes. “But she’d hate that! However well such homes are run, there is always the feeling of being hemmed in . . . a prisoner. It would kill my mother . . . and when she’s not going through one of her phases, she’s as sane as you or I.”

  “Well, I leave the de
cision in your hands. If you think that keeping her here is the best course; as long as she gets no worse, then I have no more to say. You had better get a night nurse as well as Nurse Charteris; and above all, Mrs. Hinton must not be left alone day or night. I know of a very reliable woman I can get for you. I’ll send her round to see you this afternoon.”

  The young doctor pulled out his watch, glanced at it and continued: “If we find that such an arrangement is not satisfactory, then I am afraid that we will have to make other arrangements.” As he spoke he picked up his hat and gloves from an oak chest that stood in the hall.

  Mrs. Willoughby followed him down the steps to his car—a spruce Buick.

  “Very well, and thank you so much for all your trouble. I know that you will do all in your power to help me. But I can’t bear to think of my mother shut up in one of those places.” She held out her hand. The pale sunshine of the early spring morning fell pleasantly on her honey-coloured hair.

  Doctor Burleigh smiled at her with admiration. He felt sorry for this girl, still in her twenties, and left a widow the previous year, her husband having been killed in an aeroplane crash. And now this fresh trouble with her mother. He was afraid that she would have to be sent to an institution in the near future. However, as long as there was ample supervision there could be no harm in trying this other plan first.

  He pressed the self-starter, turning to wave his hand as the car slid forward. Mrs. Willoughby walked slowly up the steps to the door. She was certain that she was doing the best thing. She glanced at the clock in the drawing-room. Eleven o’clock. It was time to do the marketing for the house. She wondered where Mary could be. Her school did not re-open until the following Monday, and she knew that the child enjoyed going with her to the shops. She crossed to the door that led into the garden.

  “Mary! Mar-y!”

  The door from the kitchen quarters opened, and the parlourmaid, carrying a tray laden with silver, paused to say: “I think Miss Mary is up with Nurse and Mrs. Hinton, madam.”

  Mrs. Willoughby thanked her, and ran up the staircase that led to her mother’s room. Softly she opened the door. The old lady was sitting on a sofa in the sun-flooded bay window, a half-­finished scarf of brilliant orange flowing from her lap. Her face was fat and of an unhealthy pallor. At her feet lay Mary, poring over a much tattered and dog-eared photograph album.

  “Oh, Granny—did you really wear clothes like that?” she asked incredulously, pointing a grubby finger at a photograph of a woman heavily protected against the terrors of motoring in the ’nineties.

  “Yes, dear child.”

  Mrs. Hinton looked up as her daughter came in. “You haven’t come to take Mary away from me already, have you, dear?”

  “It’s time to do the shopping. Is there anything you want, darling?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Unless you can think of anything, Nurse?” she added, turning to Nurse Charteris, who sat in a chair by her side, reading the paper.

  “No, Mrs. Hinton, I don’t think there’s anything you require this morning.”

  “Run and get your coat on, Mary,” Mrs. Willoughby said, “and meet me in the hall. I’ll be ready as soon as you are. And wash your hands,” she called, after the retreating figure of her eight-year-old daughter.

  Mrs. Hinton glanced up at her. Her eyes narrowed, and a cunning smile played at the corners of her mouth.

  “And what did that young doctor say to you to-day? That I’m worse, eh? A mad old woman, I suppose he called me. That young man wants to shut me up. Go on—tell me.”

  “Don’t be silly, Mother. Of course he doesn’t. Doctor Burleigh’s very fond of you. If you want to know, he said that you were getting on very nicely; but that you need rest and quiet and feeding up to get back your strength. He’s going to order you a special diet; and we’re going to have a night nurse so that Nurse Charteris will have more time to go out.”

  “So he’s afraid to leave me alone. Is that it?” Mrs. Hinton threw her knitting angrily on to the floor. “I won’t stand it, do you hear? I won’t stand it. Treating me as if I were a criminal or a maniac!”

  She was working herself up into a rage; her face became suffused with colour, and little flecks of foam escaped from her mouth and ran down her chin.

  “Now, Mrs. Hinton, there’s nothing to be excited about,” soothed Nurse Charteris, giving Mrs. Willoughby a look that said: “You’d better go. I can manage her better by myself.”

  “You want to put me away. You’re all in league against me. That’s what it is!”

  “No, Mother, we’re not. You mustn’t get ideas like that into your head. I must go now. Mary will be waiting for me.”

  “Mary’s the only one of you that loves me at all,” the old woman whimpered, rocking her heavy body backwards and forwards in an agony of self-pity. “So the doctor ordered me a special diet, eh? What’s it to be? But I suppose I’m not fit to be told?”

  “Of course you are, darling. He ordered you plenty of milk, soups, and very lightly cooked meat, as nearly raw as you can eat. And not too much strong tea,” she finished laughingly.

  “So I’m even to be deprived of my tea,” Mrs. Hinton grumbled. Her daughter took this opportunity to tiptoe quietly out of the room and downstairs to where Mary waited for her: her little face aglow with health under the jaunty red beret; her long thin legs coltishly graceful in their prosaic black woollen stockings.

  “Come on, Mummy. You have been a long time!”

  Together they walked down the street to the shopping district of the town. Joan Willoughby, youthful in her simple jersey and skirt; Mary laughing and chattering beside her.

  In Mrs. Hinton’s room Nurse Charteris was having difficulty in calming her patient, who was, in her private opinion, a nasty spiteful old woman, and one who would be far better in a Home. No one knew her sly cruel little ways like she did. Mrs. Willoughby was a lot too soft hearted. And it wasn’t right that the child should be allowed to run in and out of the old woman’s room. She’d speak to the doctor about it the next time that he called. Wicked it would be, if Mrs. Hinton had one of her spasms when Mary was there!

  Nurse Charteris looked with satisfaction at her well-developed body. She could take care of herself. But a child was different. She was glad that a night nurse was coming to help her. They should have had one long since.

  Nurse Charteris sniffed.

  “One more word from you, Mrs. Hinton,” she snapped, “and I won’t let you have an egg for your tea.”

  She often made use of the old woman’s greed for disciplinarian purposes. She had discovered at a very early stage that this was the easiest way to control her. Mrs. Hinton shot her a venomous look: a look of hatred. Then, bending down, she picked up her knitting; and soon the only sounds that disturbed the silence of the room were the occasional rustle of Nurse Charteris turning a page of her paper and the incessant clicking of Mrs. Hinton’s knitting needles.

  A week had gone by since the arrival of the night nurse, a big-boned cockney of Scotch extraction, who rejoiced in the name of Flora McBride. In appearance more masculine than feminine, when off duty she dressed herself incongruously in pale pinks and blues, and told endless stories in which her friends constantly addressed her as “Flossy” or “Flo”; and in which she narrowly avoided the persistent and perilous advances of “men.”

  After their first meeting Mrs. Hinton appeared to have accepted her presence and, apart from being rather more silent and morose than was usual, her progress appeared to suffer no serious setback. She seemed, however, very nervous concerning her own health, and ceaselessly bombarded both Joan and the two nurses with questions about the doctor’s report on her condition; and whether her new diet was proving adequate. For long periods, too, she would sit, her hands folded on her knees, staring in silence into the glowing heart of the fire, paying no attention when spoken to, but occasionally shaping words with her mouth as if she was whispering secrets to herself.

  Nurse Charteris had spoken
to Doctor Burleigh regarding Mary’s visits to her grandmother, and the doctor had agreed that the sooner they ceased the better it would be for the child. He had explained to Joan that it would upset the old lady if Mary stopped seeing her altogether. “But,” he added, “let a greater time elapse between each visit. As yet your daughter doesn’t realise that your mother is, shall we say, unhinged; and she is at a very impressionable age. It would be a terrible thing if she were frightened in any way.” He stood leaning against the mantelpiece, one hand thrust deep into his trousers pocket, the other playing idly with the long links of his watch-chain. “I must tell you,” he continued, “that this present arrangement cannot last more than a few months. I see no sign of improvement in your mother’s condition. I’m afraid that you will have to reconcile yourself to sending her away.”

  In the evening when Joan went to say good night to Mrs. Hinton, the old woman said: “I know what you’re going to tell me. ‘The doctor said he was very satisfied.’ Well! I don’t believe it. I want more feeding up—more meat. I’m not given enough to keep a canary alive!” She shivered. “My old bones can’t stand these March winds.”

  A few days after this Nurse Charteris came to Joan in a state of considerable excitement. “Mrs. Willoughby, I think the time has come when you must make some other arrangement for your mother. I don’t feel I can be responsible for her any longer. Why, I’d never have believed it of her! It makes me shudder even now, when I think of it!” She paused for breath.

  “But what is it, Nurse? What’s happened?”

  “When we came into breakfast this morning we saw that there was a mouse in the trap; and I thought that it could stay there until we’d finished, when I’d give it to Thompson to give to the cat. Well, would you believe it, after we’d finished I left the room for a moment to call him, and when I came back, there was Mrs. Hinton cutting the beast’s head off with a table-knife. I called to her to stop, and asked what she was doing, and what do you think she replied?” Nurse Charteris paused impressively. “She replied that she wanted to drink its blood to get back her own strength. ‘Disgusting,’ I said. Can you imagine it?” She wagged her head with meaning. “I must go back now, or goodness knows what she’ll be up to next.”