by Gee, Maurice
‘Aw, Sir!’
‘That’s not fair, Sir,’ Noel said.
‘At least until the police do something about him.’
They went on down the road. The other boys had gone from sight, but girls ran from the path to Girlie’s Hole. Two ran in the direction of town, but the third, Melva Dyer, saw Hedges. She started towards him, dust puffing under her feet.
‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ Hedges yelled.
Melva came up panting, caught his arms. ‘Mrs Marwick’s drowning,’ she gasped.
Kitty and Irene had swum halfway to the rapids. They rested by the bank, holding on to knobs of rock, with their legs trailing in deep water.
‘Is she watching?’ But Mrs Bolton was busy with the non-swimmers, so they climbed on to the bank. Kitty went four or five feet up and got ready to dive. As Mrs Bolton looked, she launched herself and cut into the water with no splash.
‘Kitty!’
For a long time she did not come up. Irene began to worry, and on the shingle down-river, Mrs Bolton put her hand to her breast. Then Kitty surfaced in the deep part of the pool below the rapids.
‘Kitty! Kitty! I told you not to dive.’
Kitty was deafened by the noise of water. She put her finger to her ear. ‘I can’t hear, Mrs Bolton.’
Irene teetered and pretended to lose her balance. She flopped head first into the water and came straight up.
‘Irene!’
‘I slipped, Mrs Bolton.’ She dog-paddled back to the bank and caught hold. She grinned at Kitty. Then, by the rapids, where they tumbled in the narrow part of the chute, she saw Mrs Marwick come from the bush. Her face was turned to Kitty and had an expression of terrible fear.
‘Lucy!’ she shrieked. The cry came sharp through the noise of water. Kitty jerked her head round. She saw Mrs Marwick reach for her, saw her step blindly into the rapids. They knocked her over, pulled her down. She tumbled in white water – arm, shoe, wide-open eyes. Then she floated into the deep, with air ballooning in her dress. Her face kept slipping under, coming up. She looked about for Kitty, reaching out. Her grey hair trailed and filled her mouth.
Kitty swam towards her. She grabbed her as she sank and kept away from her gripping hands. Irene came up. ‘Lift her head. Keep it out of the water.’ They pulled Mrs Marwick down-river to the shingle bank. Other girls swam to help. When their feet touched bottom, they bobbed along, floating the old lady on her back. Irene held her head out of the water. They lifted Mrs Marwick and carried her over the shingle to the grass. Her sodden dress trailed on the ground.
‘Put her here,’ Mrs Bolton said.
Irene looked up. ‘I think she’s dead.’
‘Does anyone know artificial respiration?’
‘She’s breathing,’ Kitty said. ‘Only just.’
Mrs Bolton sent girls running for help. Then they stood in a ring round Mrs Marwick.
‘You girls in bathing suits get dressed. Oh, Mr Hedges, thank heavens! Go away Miller, go away Wix. There’s girls changing here.’
Hedges knelt beside Mrs Marwick. He hooked his finger in her mouth and brought her false teeth out. ‘Get her on her stomach.’ With Kitty and Irene he rolled her over. He put her head on one side, made sure her tongue was clear, and started artificial respiration. ‘Noel, Phil, ambulance.’
‘I sent some girls for that,’ Mrs Bolton said.
‘Good.’ He pressed on Mrs Marwick’s back, relaxed. ‘Go back to the house. Call Mr Marwick.’ The boys started off. ‘Don’t get close to him.’
Noel and Phil ran up the path. They ran along the road and over the bridge, then climbed a fence and cut across the paddock. Marwick was gone from in front of the croquet lawn. The house was silent.
‘What’ll we do?’
‘Biff a stone on the roof.’
But they called Marwick’s name, and called again; and the door sprang back and Marwick came out with a lump of firewood in his hand. He jumped down from the veranda and ran over the lawn.
‘Your mother’s drowning, Mr Marwick.’
‘She fell in Girlie’s Hole.’
Marwick stopped as though he had been punched in the face again. He staggered sideways. The lump of firewood fell from his hand. Then he started forward, opened the gate, came into the paddock. The boys moved ahead of him, keeping a ten-yard distance.
‘She isn’t dead,’ Phil said.
‘The ambulance is coming.’
Marwick started to run. His face looked as if he had already run many miles. Noel and Phil let him go past. He went without seeing. They fell in behind, and jogged along. When they crossed the bridge they saw an ambulance drawn up by the path to Girlie’s Hole. The back door was gaping and Irene and Kitty, wet-haired, in their clothes, stood beside it. Ambulance men brought Mrs Marwick from the path on a stretcher. Hedges and Mrs Bolton came behind.
‘No staring, girls. Come along now,’ Mrs Bolton said.
The ambulance men put the stretcher in. Then Marwick arrived, and Hedges said, ‘She’s all right, Mr Marwick. These girls got her out.’
Marwick took no notice. He tried to climb into the ambulance but tripped on the step and one of the men had to help him inside. He knelt by the stretcher and moaned. He pushed wet hair from his mother’s brow. ‘Ma?’
Hedges said quietly, ‘Mr Marwick.’ He held out Mrs Marwick’s teeth.
Marwick turned his head. His lips came back in a snarl. A red flicker showed in his eyes. ‘You did this. You and those kids.’ He turned away, and it was as if a flame had been blown out. ‘Ma? Please, look at me, Ma.’ He stroked her face.
Hedges gave the false teeth to one of the ambulance men. The other closed the door and the ambulance drove away.
Chapter Twelve
The White Lady
That should have been enough for one day. But to Phil it seemed a huge wheel was turning and would not stop. He seemed to hear the rumbling sound it made and a cracking of bones under its rim.
He sat with Noel on the Wixes’ front fence and watched Irene playing the piano. The music came through the open window. Kitty stood beside her, turning the pages.
‘You could have come tonight if it hadn’t been for Charmy-Barmy,’ Noel said.
‘Doesn’t matter. She really belts it out on that piano.’
‘She’s a skite.’
‘She helped pull that old dame Marwick out.’
‘Yeah. They’ll probably get a medal for saving her.’
‘Who wants medals? I wish I could box like Clippy.’
‘He’s getting spliced. To old Ma Stauffel.’
‘Kitty said.’ That too seemed part of the wheel turning. ‘Did you see Marwick’s eyes? I reckon he’ll have a go at Clippy.’
‘Burn his house?’
‘Or murder him. He could murder that Stauffel. He’ll do something tonight, that’s what I reckon. We should watch him.’
‘How?’
Irene stopped playing and the girls came into the garden.
‘Phil thinks Marwick will try to do something to Clippy tonight,’ Noel said.
‘We should watch his house.’
‘Too risky. He’d kill us if he found us.’
‘We could write another letter to the police,’ Irene said.
‘Sure, and sign it Miss Perez.’
‘Well, what can we do?’
‘Play him a lullaby. Put him to sleep.’
‘Quit it,’ Phil said. Their quarrelling seemed very childish to him. ‘We’ll watch his house. But we don’t have to do it from up close.’ Their eyes fastened on him. He felt he was on the stage again, playing New Zealand – but this time he was sure of himself. He made them lean close, and told his plan.
He went home, but did not stay. Already he seemed to have left the place behind. He had not been unhappy there, or happy either, but it had been his, and now he had to live with other people. The Wixes. Clippy Hedges probably. If he got spliced that meant the Frau, the piano teacher. At least she looked as if she knew how
to cook. But they’d better not try to teach him the piano. Learning about the stars was enough.
He took down the picture of Halley’s Comet and put it on the table so he wouldn’t forget it when he picked up his stuff tomorrow. Then he gave a last look round the place – his table, his chair, his stove – and left it and walked into town, chewing a bit of bread he’d grabbed from the shelf. For a while he hung about the station, watching recruits get on the train for Trentham Camp. They kissed their wives and girlfriends. Phil envied them – not the kissing, the going away.
He watched the red carriages roll out and fold off one by one round the bend. Then he ran to the cathedral and climbed the steps and saw the train cross the river bridge and go like a worm into the tunnel on the other side. Its smoke flattened out and was sucked in. Everything was still. The sky turned red, the estuary pink. At the rivermouth, men in dinghys were netting flounder. Jessop seemed strange, full of buildings he did not recognise. The cathedral tower leaned over him. Darkness spread like water through the town, showing caves and corners he did not know.
He walked down the main street and turned off at the square, went by the fire station, by the park, and passed up Dargie Street by the burned-out stables. That helped bring the real Jessop back. The bakehouse was dark, but he remembered Mr Wix’s pies and his mouth filled with saliva. He spat in the gutter and started to run. His bare feet made a drumming on the footbridge and the boards trembled. All the corners were full of shadows, but he rose above the dark as he climbed Settlers Hill. The air seemed thinner. The sky was like a washed blue basin. Stars came out as he stood and watched.
The observatory was silent on top of the hill. It was, Phil thought, like a buried skull, half out of the ground. He had never been frightened of the dark but felt nervous as he found the key. Inside, he closed the door softly. He took a box of matches from his pocket and struck one. The light did not travel far. He saw the telescope, up on its back legs like a praying mantis. An optic nerve, Clippy had said, but that seemed to make it less scientific, more spooky.
The match went out. He struck another. He opened the window and took the small telescope from the table. The second match went out but he did not need light any longer. He focused the telescope. It was hard in the dark. Only one light showed in Marwick’s farmhouse. It was square, like the page of a book. He saw a table in a room, with something red on it – a vase of flowers. Now and then a shadow crossed the table. Phil knew that was Edgar Marwick.
He sat a long time watching, changing now and then from eye to eye. Once he saw Marwick’s hands. They lay still on the wood. Later on they set down a plate and knife and fork.
A tapping came on the door. He felt his heart bounce like a ball.
‘Noel?’
‘Can I come in?’
‘Yeah. Close the door.’
Noel came in like a rat in the dark. He seemed to snuffle at the room. ‘It’s dark in here. I brought a candle.’
‘I’m not scared of the dark.’
‘The window’s away from town. No one’ll see.’
‘Marwick might.’
Noel struck a match and lit the candle. ‘I’ll keep it over here on the table. Have you seen him?’
‘In the kitchen. Getting his tea.’
‘I brought you a pie.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And a blanket.’
‘On the table. Watch while I eat this.’
Noel came to the window and took the telescope. He found the lighted window in the house. ‘Can’t see much. You should use the big one.’
‘I’d have to open the roof. Clippy wouldn’t like it, anyway.’ He wolfed the pie. ‘You better go. Even I’m not supposed to be here.’
Noel handed the telescope back. ‘Do you reckon he’ll do anything?’
‘Dunno.’ Marwick was sitting at the table again. His hands lay on either side of his empty plate. Phil did not like their stillness. Sooner or later they would do something.
‘I’ll leave my window open,’ Noel said.
‘OK.’
‘The girls are staying awake. Trying to.’
Phil said nothing. He could not connect Irene and Kitty, waiting for an adventure, with Edgar Marwick down in the house. It was nothing like that any more. It was dangerous and he was afraid. Noel crept out and closed the door behind him. Phil pulled the blanket over his shoulders and settled down to watch. The hours went by. Several times he dozed but the window was alight when he looked again, and Marwick was still sitting at the table. Once, though, food was on his plate. He did not eat; his hands lay on the wood. Phil realised he must have dozed for a fairly long time. He looked at the candle. It was burned down over half way.
Later, when it had guttered out, he strained his ears to hear the Post Office clock. A single chime came. He did not know whether it was alone or the end of a sequence. He guessed that it was after midnight though.
At last Marwick moved…
He did not know why he was sitting there. Nothing made any connection with the movements in his mind, which were a dance of flame and shadow. Table, chair, plate and food, knife, fork, the stove, the walls, the floor, had no substance until he touched them. They struck him then as a kind of insult, an attempt by someone to deny that what went on in his head had importance. Yet he came back and took the fork and moved a piece of meat on his plate. He speared it, lifted it to his mouth. It was cold. He chewed a while but could not swallow and spat the meat on to his plate. It seemed that if he took it into himself he would betray the flames that danced like figures in his head.
He stood up and went to the stove and opened the firebox. The clock ticked on the mantelpiece. Suddenly it gave a single chime. In another room, another clock also chimed. He picked up the poker and stirred the cold ashes, trying to find a sign of life. The greyness inside the stove was another insult. Suddenly it was more than he could take. He stood up and looked around and saw the plate of congealed stew on the table. He took two strides at it and smashed the poker down on the plate. Food and broken china flew everywhere. He hit the vase of withered flowers, making it explode. Then he hurled the poker into the piles of plates and cups on the shelf. He grabbed a kerosene lamp, turned up the wick, and lit it with a match. Then he strode through the house to his mother’s room and pulled open drawers. He tore out clothes in handfuls until he found what he wanted – a red woollen scarf. He wrapped it round his head like a turban, knotted it, and went out to the yard. He put the lamp on the chopping block and started hurling lumps of firewood out of the lean-to shed. In a moment he came to what he wanted.
Phil could not make out what the red thing was on Marwick’s head. Not a balaclava, not a hat – but he had no doubt what it meant. The man had moved too far from the circle of light for him to see what he was doing, but lumps of wood came flying from the woodshed, and when Marwick came out with sack and can, he was not surprised. What surprised him was the speed with which things happened. Marwick pushed the can into the sack, already stuffed with rags Phil supposed, and shouldered it, and set off into the night. He simply vanished. The lamp burned on the chopping block.
Phil threw off his blanket. He closed the window and put the telescope on the table. Then he ran down the path from Settlers Hill, through the park, over the footbridge, and sped through the streets of Jessop until he came to Noel’s house. He vaulted the stone fence instead of going in by the gate. At the back of the house he found an open window, and pushed the stirring curtain aside and touched Noel’s face on the pillow. Noel gave a yelp.
‘Quiet,’ Phil whispered.
‘What? Phil?’
‘He’s coming. He’s got benzine and rags. And a red thing round his head.’
Noel got out of bed. He grabbed his clothes. ‘What time is it?’
‘One o’clock. He was smashing things with a poker.’
The door opened and Kitty came in.
‘Go back to bed,’ Noel whispered.
‘Is it Marwick?’
‘He�
��s coming. With his stuff,’ Phil said.
‘Wait for us.’ She was gone.
‘They’ve been taking turns to stay awake,’ Noel said.
‘We’ll need them to get the police. I’ll wait by Dargie’s.’ He went back up the path and across the lawn and over the fence and ran down the street to the empty section. He waited in the bakehouse alley. Noel and Kitty and Irene arrived, shivering. They had pulled on clothes and Irene was wearing slippers. Noel and Kitty had bare feet.
‘He’s got to come over the footbridge,’ Phil said. ‘So that’s where we’ll wait. Underneath. When he’s gone over we follow him.’
They ran to the bridge and scrambled down the bank and crawled underneath. ‘One of us should go for the police.’
‘Not till we know where he’s going. We’ve got to catch him in the act.’
Light from a gas lamp came through the planking and striped their faces. The sound of running water came from the river. A sour smell of urine filled the air. ‘Someone’s been using this as a dunny.’
‘Shut up.’ Phil was leaning out. ‘I hear his feet.’ He ducked back. They huddled close to the ground, deep in the angle where bridge and bank met. On the other side of the river feet crunched on gravel. Then the bridge began to drum. Marwick came across. He passed over them, his feet only inches from their heads. The strips of light flickered on their faces. Gravel crunched again and the sound moved off.
Phil leaned out. He crept up the bank and raised his head to the level of the road. Marwick had moved into the dark place between two lights, but he grew distinct for a moment, his head seemed to burn like an ember. Then he was gone, with a sudden turn left.
‘He’s gone up Leckie’s Lane.’
‘Where to?’
‘Not Frau Stauffel’s.’
‘It must be Hedges’.’
‘Come on. He’ll get away.’
They ran to the corner and peered up Leckie’s Lane. It ran between high wooden walls and was lit by a lamp at each end. The middle was black, and Marwick seemed to climb out of a pit. Again the ember-glow of his head, as though brought alive by someone blowing, then his black bent body, the hump of the sack on his back. He vanished again.
