Mrs Sackville stepped forward and slapped Robert hard round the side of the face, so hard that Robert had to take a step back to steady himself and Mrs Sackville was shocked to feel how much her own hand hurt. Robert rubbed his cheek and looked away to the wall.
'What are you talking about?' said Mrs Sackville, suppressing a sudden urge to vomit and following his gaze. 'You are trying to say you did all this to please a cat?'
'A cat?' said Robert, genuinely confused.
'Yes,.' said his mother. 'A . . .'
But she could see now that it was no cat, but something else - something not at all right. What she had taken for fur, she could see now was more like spines of some sort and this only partly covered its body, leaving patches of warty and raw-looking skin elsewhere. The head looked like something partially skinned and cooked.
Mrs Sackville's mind struggled to cope with what she was seeing as the creature leaned horribly towards her, its impossibly wide mouth opening and closing as if in silent speech. She lifted her hand to her chest to aid the flow of breath that was now coming so painfully slow. She clutched at the linen collar, at the cameo at her throat. The pin at its back pierced her thumb almost to the bone but she did not feel it. She dropped unconscious to the ground.
Robert was momentarily aware that he should have been upset to see his mother lying on the ground at his feet, her dying breath leaving her pale lips, her eyes still wide open, but he was not.
He looked up at his friend sitting on the wall and his friend's mouth broke into one of those remarkable, warm, generous smiles. And Robert, once more, smiled back.
A heavy silence followed the end of Uncle Montague's story, interrupted only by the ticking of the clock. I pulled my clammy hands apart and wiped them on my trouser legs as my uncle leaned forward out of the shadows, the rosy firelight warming his face.
'I trust I am still not frightening you, Edgar,.' he said, raising one eyebrow.
'No, Uncle,.' I said, my voice sounding surprisingly small. 'Of course not.'
Uncle Montague walked slowly to the window and pulled aside the curtain, the milky winter light throwing him into silhouette. I wandered over to the painting and peered into the murky depths behind the house. Was there something there? A boy? There did seem to be something, but what it was I could not have said for sure.
'It looks as though a fog is closing in, Edgar,.' he said.
'Really?' I said, going to join him by the window.
Sure enough, the wood and paddock had disappeared altogether and the garden was likewise being erased by lace-like swirls of fog, curling among the topiary and statues. It was strange to see the suddenness of its arrival, for there was not the least hint of such weather when I arrived. Then something seemed to move between the topiary bushes.
'What was that?' I said, pointing to the place I had seen it.
'What do you think it was?' said Uncle Montague.
'I could not say,.' I replied. 'It moved so quickly.'
'The fog is full of such phantasms,.' said my uncle as if that were an end to the matter. It was unclear whether he meant fog in general, or this fog in particular. Either way, I was not keen to venture out into it.
'I hope it clears before I go home,.' I said.
'Yes,.' said Uncle Montague. 'We would not want you getting lost.'
'That would never happen, Uncle,.' I said. I was sure I knew the journey blindfolded.
'Really?' he said, sounding surprised. 'There are many ways of getting lost, Edgar.' His face seemed suddenly touched with sadness and he patted me on the shoulder. 'Let us return to the fire. This damp air gets into my bones.'
I realised that I too felt a sudden chill gripping my body and I leaned forward and warmed my hands against the fire's welcome heat.
'Are you feeling cold, Edgar?' asked my uncle.
'Yes,.' I answered. 'A little.'
'The fog has crept in, I think,.' said Uncle Montague. 'And there is nothing like fog to chill the soul. I'll ring for Franz and he can bring us a fresh pot of tea. A hot drink should revive you.'
Franz was duly called and a new pot of tea was brought together with another plate of biscuits and a refilled sugar bowl. Uncle Montague put the tray on the table between us once more and poured us both a cup.
'This is no entertainment for a lively young fellow like yourself, Edgar. I'd warrant you would rather be climbing trees or playing rugby.'
'Not at all,.' I said. After Uncle Montague's story about the elm tree I rather thought I might never climb a tree again. As for rugby, it was a game I had always detested.
'Do you have no friends then among the local boys?' he asked. 'Would you not rather be getting up to mischief somewhere?'
'Mischief, Uncle?' I said. 'I am not very good at mischief, and besides, the local boys are rather childish. I would rather be here, sir.'
Uncle Montague smiled.
'Very well, then,.' he said.
'Were you mischievous, Uncle?' I asked, seeing a chance to glean some information about my enigmatic relative. 'When you were a boy?'
Uncle Montague raised an eyebrow. 'When I was a boy?' he asked. 'I should hope that I am not yet too old for mischief.' Uncle Montague leaned towards me, grinning.
'Come now,.' he said. 'Is your existence really so angelic, Edgar?' He placed such a disapproving emphasis on the word 'angelic' that I was tempted to invent some bad behaviour simply to please him. Uncle saw my struggles.
'Never mind, lad. There is no shame in being a good boy,.' he said with very little conviction.
'No, Uncle,.' I said, having never for one moment ever thought that there could be.
'Perhaps you would like to hear a cautionary tale about a boy whose behaviour was not quite so commendable as your own, Edgar,.' said Uncle Montague finally.
'Yes, Uncle. I would like that.'
'Excellent.' He flexed his long bony fingers, his face becoming a mask of seriousness once more. 'Excellent . . .'
It was a crisp, bright October morning. Yellow and brown leaves were slowly falling through the chill air. Frost shimmered in the shadows.
A boy called Simon Hawkins leaned on the cold damp wall, staring at the old woman in the garden beyond. Though Simon could see her, she could not see him, for Old Mother Tallow was blind.
The children in the village called Old Mother Tallow a witch and dared each other to knock on her door. None had even mustered the nerve to enter her garden. On Halloween they threw eggs at her house and ran away. Simon had wandered there in a moment of boredom to see if blind Old Mother Tallow was up to anything exciting. It seemed unlikely.
She wore a grey coat with a thick shawl over that. A heavy dress fell all the way to her feet, the edge of which was soaking up the dampness from the grass. She wore black boots and fingerless gloves. She had a woollen bonnet on her head and her face was red with the cold.
The old woman was examining one of four old apple trees in front of the house. Simon studied her with the same sort of fascination he would were she a bee or an ant going about its business.
She was running her sinewy fingers over the trunk and branches with one hand while opening and closing a pair of secateurs with the other. She reached a point at the end of one branch and raised the secateurs, closing the blades round a twig and cutting into it. As she snipped through it a flock of redwings took flight from a nearby holly tree.
'Who's there?' she said suddenly, making Simon jump. Her voice was low and whispered and yet it seemed to crack like a whip in the silence of the garden. Simon did not answer.
'Come,.' she said, without looking round. 'I may be blind, but I'm not deaf - or stupid. If you have come to frighten an old woman, then shame on you.'
'My name is . . . Martin,.' said Simon.
'Martin, is it?' said the old woman with what sounded to Simon like doubt in her voice. But how could it be doubt? How could she know any different? 'And what do you want, Martin?'
'What are you doing?' he said.
'Pruni
ng,.' said the old woman. 'I am pruning my apple trees. If I did not prune them they would not give me such delicious apples. They would waste all that energy growing new branches and leaves. They need to be tamed.' As she said the word 'tamed', the secateurs yawned open and quickly snapped shut.
'Now I ask you again: what do you want?'
'Nothing,.' he said defensively.
'Nothing, is it?' she said. 'I know you children and your greedy clutching little fingers.' Simon was a little taken aback by the sudden venom in the old woman's voice.
'I'm not doing anything,.' he said.
'Then go away.'
Simon did not move.
'Go away,.' she said again.
'Why should I?' said Simon. 'I'm not doing any harm. I'm not even in your garden. I'm not scared of you.' It was a brave boast that was not helped by the tremble in his voice.
The old woman turned and began to walk towards him. Her eyes were as frosted as the grass on which she trod. There was something so horrible about the gaze of those clouded marble-like eyes that Simon found he could not bear it. He pushed himself off the wall and ran down the hill back to the village, laughing nervously to himself when he was well clear.
Simon was bored. He and his mother had recently moved to the village from the city and to the house that had been his mother's childhood home. Simon's grandfather - his mother's father - had died, leaving them the house and the hardware shop that went with it. Simon's own father had been killed fighting for his country in a far-off land when Simon was a baby and their life had not always been easy. His mother thought the move might give them both a new lease of life.
'Do you know anything about Old Mother Tallow?' said Simon as he and his mother ate lunch.
'Old Mother Tallow?' said Simon's mother with surprise.
'Yes,.' said Simon. 'The blind old bat up the hill.'
'Simon, really,.' said his mother. 'Up at the top of Friar's Lane, you mean? But she can't still be alive.
Why she must have been a hundred when I was a little girl. Mind you, she can't have been, because my mother could remember teasing her when she was a girl.' His mother stopped and stared into space. 'Wait a moment. That cannot be right, can it?'
'Well, there's an old lady there,.' said Simon. 'And she's blind and that's what everybody calls her.'
'Maybe it is a daughter,.' she said. 'How odd. They used to say she was a witch, you know.'
'They still do,.' said Simon with a grin.
'We were terrified of her,.' said his mother. 'We used to call her names and run off.' She shook her head at the memory of it and blushed a little. 'Poor woman. How horrible children can be.'
'Speak for yourself,.' said Simon, grabbing an apple from the bowl and taking a bite. 'Why were you so scared of her?'
'Because of her being a witch, of course,.' she said, laughing to herself. 'Honestly, the nonsense we used to come out with! They used to say she was immensely rich - though if she was, goodness knows why she was living alone in that tiny cottage - and that she captured children who came into her garden and ate them.'
'Ate them?' said Simon, chuckling.
'Yes,.' said his mother with a mock growl. 'Ate them or threw them down a well or something awful! We were terrified! You know, I can still see her standing in the front garden with those two creepy old apple trees beside her. They used to say that the apples were delicious, but how anyone knew I don't know, because they also said that once you took one step on to the lawn she flew at you like a crow and pecked out your heart.'
Simon laughed and his mother couldn't help but join in. 'I mean it,.' she said. 'I was very scared of her. The way she seemed to look through you with those awful eyes of hers.'
'But she's blind,.' said Simon.
'I know,.' said his mother with a shudder. 'It makes no sense, but there you are. I had nightmares about her.'
'There, there,.' said Simon. 'I'll protect you.'
'You won't go up there, will you?' she said.
'Scared I'm going to get pecked?'
'Of course not,.' she said, slapping him on the arm. 'But you won't, will you?'
'No, Mother,.' he said with a sigh. 'I won't. I promise.'
Simon was not quite the child his mother took him for, however, and this promise, like so many other promises he had made, meant little. Simon's ears had pricked up at the mention of the idea that the old lady might be rich. He was sick of stealing pennies from his mother's purse. He was tired of hearing how little money his father had left them.
The following day he walked up Friar's Lane once again. He raised himself up on to the wall and swung his legs over. He sat there looking at the cottage with its broken-backed roof and lichen-covered tiles, its tiny windows peeping out of climbing roses and honeysuckles, and the unkempt lawn with the gnarled, arthritic old apple trees, twisted and deformed by years of pruning.
Simon smiled when he thought of his mother and her nightmares about this twee old cottage and the crabby old crone who lived there. He stretched out a toe towards the lawn and rested his foot there. A blackbird suddenly fluttered past and he snatched his foot back.
Simon shook his head at his own childish jitters, took a deep breath and hopped down as silently as he could. As soon as his feet hit the grass, the old woman appeared at the garden door, like a spider reacting to a movement in her web.
'Who's there?' she said.
Simon held his breath. Old Mother Tallow edged out of the door, cocking her head to one side with the effort of listening. Her eyes seemed to glow like cat's eyes.
Then it occurred to Simon that perhaps the old woman did this every time she left the house, merely as a precaution, and that it was a coincidence that he was there. She was an old blind woman living on her own. It made sense to check that everything was all right before she left the house.
After all, how could she have heard him from inside? In any case, she seemed satisfied there was no one there and began to busy herself at one of the apple trees. When she snipped through a twig, birds took flight once again - wood pigeons this time - noisily wheeling overhead.
The old woman had left the door open and Simon saw his chance. The grass was long and he found that he could move in silence. His route to the door took him horribly near the glass-eyed old woman, but she seemed oblivious to him as she squeezed the secateurs in her bony hands and cut through another twig. The blades flashed in the sunlight and slipped through the flesh of the wood with a loud SNIP and there was something hideous about the relish Old Mother Tallow seemed to take in this cutting. Simon turned away and walked on.
As he walked through the front door he was filled with relief at having eluded the old lady, but this feeling was immediately replaced by one of mounting unease.
He was now in a small house whose layout he did not know. What if the old woman came back inside? What if she tried to attack him? He thought of the secateurs and their flashing blades. What if she was as mad as everybody said?
Simon shocked himself with the matter-of-fact way he picked up the walking stick, but he reassured himself that hitting the old woman would be a last resort. A weapon made him feel more relaxed and he began to look around.
What Simon saw was a disappointment. If Old Mother Tallow was rich, she did not seem to spend her money. The furniture was old and threadbare. A layer of dust and cobwebs covered everything in sight.
The cottage may have looked like a fairy-tale witch's house from the outside, but inside it was mundanely shabby. There was a smell of damp and though a fire burnt in the lounge grate, it seemed colder inside than out. Simon could see his own breath and rubbed his hands together to get some warmth back to his fingers.
He looked around the tiny rooms downstairs with a growing sense that he was unlikely to find anything of value. He lifted cushions from chairs and looked in vases and under ornaments, but there was no sign of any cash or valuables. The kitchen was equally disappointing.
He crept upstairs. He had heard about old ladies stashing
money under their mattresses, but not Old Mother Tallow. A search under her sagging mattress unearthed nothing but a hairgrip and two dead woodlice.
Wardrobes, chests of drawers and linen baskets all failed to deliver any riches. Even a promising-looking jewellery box held only a tinny-looking old brooch. Simon caught sight of himself in the dressing-table mirror as he rooted through the old woman's things and a tiny pang of guilt troubled him for a second, but he shook it off with a smile.
Simon crept downstairs again and was about to leave when he noticed in the little hall by the door there was a strange wooden box on a low polished table. It startled him and made him look about and listen for Old Mother Tallow, because he was sure it had not been there before. But when he peeked through a window, the old lady was standing in the same patch in the garden, snipping away at the tree.
The box was made of a reddish wood and seemed to be the only thing in the house not covered in a layer of dust, as if the old woman polished it every time she walked past.
Simon picked it up. It was warm to the touch. There was a carving on the lid, a carving of the front of the house he was in with the lawn and the apple trees. He noticed that when the box was carved there had been five apple trees rather than the four outside. There was even a carving of Old Mother Tallow herself, pruning the trees just as she was doing in the garden outside.
It was a curious thing. The scene was at once crudely rendered and amazingly realistic. As he moved it in his hand, the light played across the polished surface and gave the strange sensation of movement, as if Old Mother Tallow's movements in the garden were being mirrored in the wooden box.
Simon opened it up and whistled silently to himself. The box was packed with crisp £1 notes. They looked brand new, as if they had never been touched. So it was true. The old witch really did have a secret hoard. Simon grinned wolfishly.
He took the money out and stuffed it into the inside pockets of his coat and zipped it up again. He replaced the box and began to leave. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw a movement in the carving on the box.
Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror Page 7
