Robert, as usual, felt superfluous to proceedings and wondered to himself just how long it would be before anyone would notice were he to simply walk out through the gate and across the field of swaying barley beyond.
He drifted aimlessly towards the gloomy rear of the house, picking up a willow wand left by the gardener, and flicking it through the air with a whistle. As he walked to the back door he stopped, suddenly struck by a feeling that he was being watched. He peered into the shadows but could see nothing. He swished the willow wand again but nothing moved. With a shrug Robert opened the door and went in.
No sooner had the furniture been placed in the appropriate rooms than a procession of locals croc-odiled down the drive, holding baskets and parcels wrapped in muslin or old newspapers.
'Oh dear,.' sighed Robert's father. 'I suppose this is my flock.' He shook his head wearily and went to open the front door as the head of the crocodile reached the steps. Robert went to his bedroom window and looked down.
Hats and caps were snatched from heads and clasped to chests as his father opened the door.
Robert could hear muffled conversation through the thick window panes and saw his father self-consciously take possession of the various gifts being offered. Robert's mother appeared in the doorway and heads were bowed respectfully as she thanked them all for coming.
'God bless you all,.' Robert heard his father say and there was a succession of bows and nods and near-curtseys from the ladies and then hats were replaced and brims tugged in farewell before the delegation crunched its way back down the gravel drive and out of the gate.
'Merciful heavens!' Robert's father was saying as Robert came downstairs. He recoiled from a newspaper parcel that lay, half unwrapped, on the table in the hall. Robert went over to have a closer look as his father backed away. There was a dead rabbit in the newspaper. A note was pinned to the fur, saying:Well come to Whitcot. Fresh kild this morning.
'Oh my Lord,.' said Robert's father. 'I daren't open the others.'
'Don't be silly, Herbert,.' said his mother. 'I think it is very thoughtful of them. The rabbit will be delicious and look, here's a plum pie and there's some honey. You must be sure to thank them in your sermon. They do not have so very much, Herbert. This is very generous.'
'What on earth is all this?' said Robert's father, peeping suspiciously under a layer of muslin and into a wicker basket.
'I rather think they are offerings,.' said a voice behind them. Robert, along with his parents, turned at the sound of the voice to find a tall man in his forties standing in the doorway, hat in hand, dressed in a tweed suit, a wide grin shining out from under a thick black moustache that curved up to meet his sideburns.
The man introduced himself as Arthur Trewain, the local doctor.
'I live on the other side of the village. I was just passing and thought I ought to say hello.'
Robert's father stepped towards him and shook his hand.
'Reverend Sackville - Herbert Sackville. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Dr Trewain,.' he said. 'May I introduce my wife?'
'Mrs Sackville,.' said the doctor, taking her outstretched hand. 'It is a pleasure to meet you.' He turned and looked at Robert, whom his father clearly had no intention of introducing.
'And this must be your son,.' he said.
'Yes,.' said his mother. 'This is Robert.'
'How do you do, Robert,.' said Dr Trewain, holding out a hand, which Robert took and shook. 'I expect you shall find us a little dull. There are no suitable boys for you to play with, I'm afraid. Young David Linklater is about your age, but he is in London for the rest of the holidays.'
Robert said that he would be quite all right - there were only two weeks left of the holidays and then he would be back at school. Dr Trewain smiled, nodded and then retreated backwards out of the door, saying that he should really let them unpack. 'If you need anything,.' he said as he replaced his hat. 'Please do not hesitate to ask.'
'Perhaps you might like to come to dinner?' said Robert's father.
'I would like that very much,.' said the doctor.
'Of course, you must,.' said Robert's mother. 'And is there a Mrs Trewain, may I ask?'
'You may,.' said Dr Trewain. 'But there is not, sadly. I have never found anyone willing to take me on. The life of a doctor's wife is not to everyone's taste.'
'Nor the life of a vicar's,.' said Reverend Sackville with a smile and a sigh. 'I count myself very lucky indeed to have such a wife as Elizabeth.'
'And so you should,.' said Mrs Sackville with a laugh. 'What do you say to coming over on Friday evening?'
'I would be honoured,.' said the doctor.
The next few days moved horribly slowly and Robert counted the hours until he was to return to school - to escape, to be himself. He longed for the company of other boys. He felt uncomfortable about the village and not just because he was a newcomer.
Being the vicar's son was a burden he had shouldered all his life, but it became no easier to bear for all its familiarity. It was as if, by being the son of a man of the cloth, he was expected to behave as if it were a family business he was about to inherit.
But Robert had no interest in following his father into the Church. He wanted to live his own life, to steer his own course. Besides, though he could never, never have brought himself to tell his father, the fact was he simply did not believe in the God his father had pledged his life to serve.
Dr Trewain certainly seemed to be right about the dullness of the village. There were no 'suitable' children to play with, and even the unsuitable ones seemed disinclined to visit the vicarage or its environs. So Robert moved listlessly about the garden, regressing into some of his old amusements: looking for nests among the shrubs and hunting for bugs among the terracotta pots and edging stones of the drive.
But he was always drawn back to the rear of the house - to its permanent and dreamy twilight. Perhaps the very fact that it was shunned by the adults, even the gardener, made it seem something he alone possessed.
Then, one afternoon, to his surprise he saw a boy - a well-dressed boy - sitting on the high wall that stood almost invisible among the shadows under the trees.
'Hello,.' said Robert.
The boy made no reply, but he leaned forward and his face widened into the broadest grin Robert had ever seen and Robert, feelingly instantly at ease, smiled back.
The following day - Friday - Dr Trewain duly arrived in the early evening, holding a small bunch of flowers in one hand and a rather fine bottle of port in the other.
'Not too bored, I hope, Robert,.' said Dr Trewain as they all sat in the parlour.
'Not at all, sir,.' said Robert. 'I have made a friend after all.'
'A friend?' said Dr Trewain, a little surprised.
'Really?'
He was about to ask the identity of the friend when they were interrupted by Jenny, the maid, calling them into dinner, and over the meal the subject of the villagers and their 'offerings' was raised.
'They are good people, sir,.' said Dr Trewain. 'And they are just deeply grateful to have a new vicar.'
'Was my predecessor so very unpopular, then?' asked Reverend Sackville cheerfully.
'No, not at all,.' said Dr Trewain. 'Reverend Benchley was much loved and greatly respected . . .' His voice trailed away.
'Yes?' said Robert's mother, sensing the doctor was not quite telling them everything.
Dr Trewain smiled sadly and told them that towards the end of his life, Reverend Benchley had changed somewhat and that his death was preceded by bouts of rather unpredictable behaviour.
'Poor man,.' said Mrs Sackville.
'Unpredictable in what way, may I ask?' said Robert's father.
Dr Trewain sat back in his chair.
'I am afraid that Reverend Benchley was subject to a kind of morbid obsession. He was a bachelor, as you know. I think perhaps he had spent too much time in his own company. I know a little of the way that can shape a man's thoughts.'
'You
said a "morbid obsession", Dr Trewain,.' said Mrs Sackville. 'An obsession with what exactly?'
'An obsession with a notorious previous occupant of this house,.' he replied.
'The house had a notorious occupant?.' said Mrs Sackville. 'I'm intrigued, Doctor.'
Dr Trewain apologised, saying that he had assumed that the bishop might have mentioned something of the vicarage's past history.
'Please, do go on,.' said Mrs Sackville. 'I promise I will not be shocked. Vicars' wives are a fairly unshockable lot.'
'Very well, then. I suppose there's no harm -'
There was a sharp knock at the door and Jenny the maid entered.
'Beg' pardon, sir, madam, but there's a lad come from a Mrs Hunter, whose been taken terrible bad and needs Dr Trewain urgent.'
'I'm terribly sorry,.' said Dr Trewain. 'I will have to go, I'm afraid. Mrs Hunter has been very ill of late.'
'Of course,.' said Reverend Sackville. 'We must go where and when our work takes us, Doctor. We are alike in that respect.'
Dr Trewain nodded, and thanking them for the meal and their company, he hurried away.
Saturday was overcast, and Robert had to concentrate just to see that his new friend was there at all in the gloom under the trees.
The boy had not asked, but Robert knew what it was he wanted and Robert surprised himself at how eager he was to do the boy's bidding. Robert had always been a leader rather than a follower, but he now felt different somehow.
Robert had seen a large plank of wood standing near the greenhouse that would be perfect for the job. The boy nodded and his smile lit up the darkness like a lamp.
Later that evening, Dr Trewain dropped by to apologise for having left in such a hurry the night before.
'How is the patient?' said Mrs Sackville.
'Not so good, I am sorry to say,.' he answered with a sigh. 'Mrs Hunter is a very sick woman.' Dr Trewain was disconcerted to see Robert grinning, and he frowned. Mrs Sackville followed his gaze.
'Robert?' she said crossly. 'I cannot see what there is to be so happy about.'
'Oh,.' said Robert. 'I'm sorry. I was thinking about something else.' Mrs Sackville stared at her son. There seemed something strange in his manner. Reverend Sackville interrupted the silence to ask Dr Trewain what he had been going to tell them about the house. Dr Trewain took on the look of a man who, having said a little too much, knew he would not be allowed to end it there.
'Fear not,.' he said. 'It is ancient history; in fact not even history - more hearsay and rumour and tall tale. I would not have mentioned it at all were it not for the fact that the villagers have long memories and it does have some bearing on the last days of old Reverend Benchley. But perhaps it may be a little disturbing for some ears.' He cast a meaningful glance at Robert, and Robert's mother nodded.
'Time you were off to bed, darling,.' she said.
'But, Mother,.' protested Robert.
'Come along now, my boy,.' said his father. 'Do as your mother says.'
Robert half closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
'Very well, Father,.' he said, getting to his feet.
'Good night.'
'Good night, darling,.' said his mother.
'Good night, Robert,.' said Dr Trewain.
'Good night, sir,.' said Robert with a little bow, before turning and leaving the room.
Robert climbed the stairs. He did not care about their silly secrets. The tedious history of this house was of no concern to him. He heard his mother apologising for him and he smiled to himself. What did he care what they thought about him. What did he care what they thought about anything?
On Sunday morning Reverend Sackville conducted his first sermon, which went well - Mrs Sackville noticed out of the corner of her eye that there were many appreciative nods and murmurs when the service came to an end. Dr Trewain shook the vicar warmly by the hand and congratulated him as they stood in the sunshine outside the church porch.
Robert stood nearby and stifled a yawn. He peered up at the wall above their heads at a row of lichen-encrusted gargoyles, each one more grotesque than the last. One of them, a strange grinning creature near the tower, seemed oddly familiar.
'Where have you been?' asked Robert's mother when he walked into the drawing room the following day.
'In the garden, Mother,.' he said. 'Do you know where there's a hammer?'
'A hammer?' said his mother with a laugh.
'Yes,.' said Robert matter-of-factly. 'And some nails.'
'No,.' she said with another laugh. 'I'm afraid I do not, darling. Why on earth do you ask?'
'I need them, Mother,.' said Robert, frowning.
'Well, perhaps Mr Fenner will know . . .'
But Robert was already walking out of the door.
Mrs Sackville sighed and returned to the book she was reading but realised she was no longer in the mood. She had a sudden craving for the excellent port Dr Trewain had brought, but was terrified that a servant might find her drinking alone at eleven o'clock in the morning.
She found the constraints of being a vicar's wife every bit as frustrating as Robert found those of being a vicar's son. She loved her husband dearly and he was very supportive of her views on female emancipation, but she hungered for more.
Mrs Sackville had been surprised at how affected she had been by Dr Trewain's revelation about the history of the house. She had been expecting him to recount some ancient scandal or impropriety and had been completely unprepared for what was actually related.
She was a rational woman at heart and ordinarily the tale of the late Reverend Benchley's obsession with a previous, sixteenth-century vicar, who supposedly dabbled in sorcery, would have intrigued rather than disturbed her. She had often toyed with the notion of writing a study of English folk tales and this would have made an excellent subject. But disturbed her it had. There was something about this house that allowed the idea of someone conjuring up a demon - as this Reverend Rochester was supposed to have done - to seem horribly plausible. She understood, too, how in the weakened state of old age, the Reverend Benchley's mind could have become unnaturally fixated upon this tale; how he might have convinced himself that the demon still haunted the darker recesses of the house and grounds.
Even so, she smiled to herself. She refused to become that kind of silly woman who starts at every floorboard creak and sees hobgoblins in every shadowed corner. The repetitive beat of hammering came from outside and she walked through to the hallway at the back of the house and looked out of the window. Robert had evidently found a hammer. What on earth was he up to?
Mrs Sackville did not like the darkened patch of garden and she noticed that neither the maid nor the cook, nor indeed Mr Fenner the gardener, ever seemed to go there. Only Robert frequented that area; only Robert and the big old cat he seemed to have adopted as a playmate.
It was curious, the change that had come over Robert. He seemed to have retreated into himself since they moved here. He had always been something of a secretive child, content in his own company, but it was almost as if he had taken refuge in the kind of childish make-believe she had assumed he had long grown out of. But there was also something strange in his manner. The sooner he was back in school, the better.
Mrs Sackville watched her son. She felt a little guilty at so doing, for she had always believed him to have as much right to privacy as any adult. And yet, it was so fascinating to observe him going about his play with that earnest industriousness peculiar to children.
So taken was she by this idealistic notion that it was a few minutes before another impression began to register. Robert was wielding the hammer he had borrowed with a kind of fevered relish. What was he doing?
He seemed to be taking nails from his lips the way she had seen workmen do, and was struggling in his efforts to nail something - something that Mrs Sackville saw squirming in his hand as he struck.
Mrs Sackville felt a giddy feeling flutter in her stomach and she moved to the garden door. As she opene
d it, the sound of Robert's hammering could be heard more sharply.
'Robert?' she called, standing in the doorway.
He made no reply but took another nail from his mouth and hammered it home.
'Robert!' she called again, annoyed at how her voice cracked at this greater volume. 'Answer me this instant!'
Robert hesitated mid-blow, turned and faced her; then grinned and continued. This brazen insolence riled even the mild-mannered Mrs Sackville and she stepped through the open door and began to stride across the patchy back lawn towards her son.
'Robert!' she demanded as she approached.
'Robert! How dare you ignore me? What are you doing there?'
Robert got slowly to his feet and turned. She had not noticed before how tired he looked. There were dark stains under his red-rimmed eyes and his skin had a sickroom pallor to it. As she approached, Robert stood back from his handiwork, the better for his mother to see.
On a long plank of wood supported at either end by two upturned terracotta pots was the most extraordinary collection of creatures.
In the dreamlike clarity of that first glimpse, Mrs Sackville could see beetles, worms, a frog or toad - she could not tell which - crickets, flies, butterflies, a mouse and several birds, one of which was still twitching horribly. They were all pinned or nailed to the plank and, judging by the twitching bird, had been alive when Robert fixed them there.
'Good God, Robert,.' she said. 'What have you done? What monstrous thing have you done here?'
Robert smiled horribly and she noticed that his attention seemed to be distracted. She followed his sideways glance to the wall at the back of the garden. There was something there. The mangy old cat was trotting towards them along the top of the wall.
'He is my friend,.' said Robert, and then sensing that he had not given sufficient weight to this statement, he winked and said, 'my special friend. I have done all this for him.'
Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror Page 6
