WELCOME STRANGER

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘I’ve disturbed your cat,’ she said to Daphne on her return.

  ‘She spends hours in there. We’ve christened her Scatology – Scat, for short.’

  ‘Well, she’s not there now. She went off in a great huff.’

  ‘Drinks will be served shortly. You had better change.’

  Changing presented little problem. She had brought her one and only warm dress which was suitable for social occasions, a cherry wool with a close-fitting bodice and a skirt with the fullness gathered to one side. Alice thought it very feminine, but Louise, who had accompanied her when she bought it, had said, ‘All the interest in that dress is in the skirt and it won’t show when you sit down.’ Alice thought philosophically that this would not matter here, since they would probably not see one another very well top or bottom.

  She paused at the head of the stairs, looking down. Somewhere out of sight she could hear Irene and Daphne talking. Angus was standing by the chest on which the lamp was burning, gazing into the bowl as if he had gone into a trance. The wan light thumbed shadows which gave his face the sinister inscrutability of an oriental mask with blackness where the eyes should be. Ivor was tending a wood fire in the hearth, watched hopefully by a springer spaniel who, judging from his condition, had had an eventful outing in the fields and now asked for nothing more than an evening of rest and warmth. The front door opened and a surge of wind sent the lamp flickering wildly. Smoke gusted from the chimney and Ivor swore. Kelleher closed the door. ‘It’s raining again,’ he said. He crossed the room, holding out a bottle to the unseen Daphne. ‘This will do, I think.’

  Daphne said, without it seemed having had time to study the bottle, ‘No. This is a celebration. There’s no “will do” about it. And we shall need two bottles.’

  He came into sight again, looking down at the bottle in immense surprise, and made his way out into the night. The wind surged in even more fiercely and Ivor threw down the log he had in his hand. Angus said briskly, ‘My turn. I used to be quite good at this when I was a backwoodsman.’

  Fancy Angus ever being a backwoodsman! Alice thought as she made her entrance. Unfortunately, her slow descent of the stairs coincided with Kelleher’s return, and yet another gust of wind sent her skirt up around her waist. Ivor, the only one to notice, said, ‘Very fetching. Could we have that again?’

  Alice laughed. ‘I did buy it for the skirt.’

  He said with mock gallantry, ‘Surely because it matches the colour in your cheeks?’

  In the kitchen area, Daphne said, ‘That’s more like it.’

  Alice said to Ivor, ‘Any colour in my cheeks is going to disappear rapidly if that fire doesn’t get going.’

  ‘No, you have your own supply of warmth.’ He was not serious, yet he was not flirting – at least, not as Alice understood it. Later on, when they were all sitting in front of the fire drinking sherry, he was the one who kept the talk going. He talked fast, his mind darting from one subject to another, just as the flames now leapt from log to log as the fire established its hold. His was not the incessant barrage of words behind which others can take their ease; it demanded a response. It was apparent that other people interested him, less certain whether liking played any part in this curiosity. He was a restless, stabbing person, with hands that, never still, threw grotesque shadows on the wall which reminded Alice of Christmas party mimes. His eyes, as he looked from one to another, were bright and uninvolved as the flames licking the wood. Although he was probably much the same age as the other men, he looked older; his pale skin was chapped, and there was a gossamer web of lines beneath the eyes and a withered dryness to the mouth. Alice, who had by now realised that he had lost a leg, presumably in the war, wondered whether he had put too much energy into making a recovery. She was reminded briefly of Ben, who was also a casualty of war and frequently drew too heavily on his reserves of energy.

  The fire was roaring in the chimney – or was it the wind? Certainly the flames were throwing out a lot of heat and the dog was asleep, stretched on one side, front paws gently crossed. Alice said, ‘How blissful!’

  ‘No.’ Daphne shook her head. ‘It’s cats who know all about bliss.’

  Ivor said, ‘Really? A few short, sharp encounters and the rest of the day spent nose to tail – is that bliss ?’

  ‘It’s the way they move their limbs.’ She demonstrated, arms upstretched, wrists arching. She must surely have been aware that, in the black dress with its low, draped neckline, it would be the movement of her breasts which would command their attention, evoking desire rather than bliss. Kelleher looked almost stupefied with lust – a sight which seemed to afford Ivor mischievous delight. Irene fingered the brooch at her throat to see if the catch was still secure, and this did not escape his eyes. He is quite different from Ben, Alice thought; he has no morality. He is like something from a fairy story; one of those creatures neither good nor bad. A probe! She had scarcely noticed any of the others since they had gathered round the fire.

  Now, above the crackle of the fire and the roar in the chimney, they could hear the rain pounding on the roof, cascading into a water butt, coming down so fast that even the most thirsty land could surely not absorb it. ‘Can plants choke?’ Irene wondered.

  ‘It is overdoing things a bit,’ Daphne said. ‘The cat won’t like it.’ She went to the front door and called, ‘Scat, Scat . . .’ The wind sent her voice tearing back into the room. She closed the door with difficulty, ‘It’s a solid sheet of water. The poor little thing probably dare not move.’ She looked at the dog, who had raised his head. ‘If you were a gentleman, you would go and fetch her.’ The dog thumped his tail.

  ‘This will bring down the last of the snow from the roof,’ Kelleher said. ‘Let’s hope the tiles don’t come with it.’

  Daphne said, ‘I think we might as well eat now.’

  They moved into the kitchen area, where a big, blackened pot was bubbling on a range of some antiquity. Occasionally something unrecognisable, which might well have been a toad, broke surface. Daphne never did tell them the ingredients; it was sufficient that it tasted delicious. Angus praised the wine.

  The men dominated the conversation. They were all rather knowledgeable and talked about world affairs as if they were playing chess with political leaders as their pawns. There was scarcely a situation they could not have improved upon. Alice thought this merely boring until they got onto the subject of Empire. They talked about the recent ‘disturbances’ in India and Egypt with cool disapprobation. This was a subject on which Alice’s father would have had much to say. But how differently he would have expressed himself! While these men talked of errors and misjudgements in which they did not see themselves as involved, he would have grieved passionately over his country’s guilt. He would have prayed for forgiveness, not only for those in power, but for himself since this was his country and he was as much a part of its failures as its glories. To him, his country was his larger family – a notion these men would have laughed at. As she listened to their talk, so knowing yet so detached, she wondered at what altars such men worshipped. They seemed to her like travellers coming from the darkness to a strange house, staring in at some desperate scene framed in a lighted window, observing the pathetic contortions, the fumbling ineptitude of the participants, silent witnesses in no way involved.

  She thought of Gordon, who had found himself inadequate to deal with racial hatred in Alexandria and had been diminished and humiliated by the experience. ‘Don’t you feel ashamed?’ she asked. They looked at her, Peter surprised that she should interrupt male conversation, Ivor applauding not the sentiment but the audacity. Only Angus responded. ‘I feel ashamed so much of the time it has become the condition in which I live.’

  Daphne said, ‘Oh, don’t talk such nonsense, Angus! What have we got to be ashamed of? If the Hindus and the Moslems tear each other apart, it won’t be our fault.’

  ‘But we do seem anxious to get out quickly so that we won’t be involved,’ Irene said
.

  ‘Very wise of us.’

  Kelleher said, ‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ and poured more wine.

  After the meal they returned to the fire. Peter poured brandy which Alice recklessly accepted. Irene refused. The fire hissed and spat as if green wood had been put on it. The smell of wetness pervaded the room – not the good smell of grateful earth, but something much less pleasant. The brandy had undoubted healing properties. Alice thought what luxury it was to sit here by the fire, safe from the storm. Irene was curled neatly on the hearthrug, stroking the dog’s head. Angus was on a stool behind her, but she did not lean against him, nor did his hand rest on her shoulder. It pained Alice to see them wasting the firelight like this.

  Daphne had seated herself on the arm of Peter’s chair. Her dress fell away to reveal firm, rosy breasts whenever she leant forward, which she did rather often, as though about to pour herself over him like a libation. Her face was flushed by the flames. His hand was on the small of her back. They were intoxicated with each other.

  Irene and Angus began a conversation about Mozart. Alice could think of nothing to say; her senses were drowned in brandy and rain and some other element which made the blood heavy in her veins. She looked up and saw that Ivor’s eyes were on her. He laughed, as if he understood how she felt better than she did herself. And perhaps he did have special powers. He was a force, not a person. With the coming of this thought, he was beside her on the settee as if she had summoned him. ‘Why are they so frightened?’ he whispered, closer than was necessary since Irene and Angus certainly would not hear him. Irene was talking about Mozart’s mastery of tone colours. ‘And do they think Mozart, of all people, will drive out this particular demon?’

  ‘It is a bit overwhelming, isn’t it?’ Alice said.

  He looked at Daphne. ‘She’s a witch. A real, live witch.’

  ‘I had been thinking it was an evening for fairy stories.’

  ‘Oh? Why so?’

  ‘I . . .’ She was in confusion, what with the rain and the brandy and the firelight; and now, in spite of the warmth, she was shivering.

  He said, ‘I see.’ His fingers traced the little crease which circled her throat. The touch, very light, generated such agitation at her source that a rising corkscrew of pain and pleasure sent spasms throughout her body. She gasped and as her lips parted he bent over her, his tongue flicking out. The room was filled with a strange, greenish light. Irene and Angus had gone to the window, drawing back the curtains. The streaming windows threw a reflection on to the walls so that they, too, appeared to be running with water. The last of the snow came away as though it was taking a section of the roof with it. Alice felt something inside her shifting. One might imagine the whole house to be gradually dissolving.

  Ivor whispered urgently, ‘Come upstairs.’

  And then it was Peter who was saying come upstairs, and Ivor had turned away from her. ‘What is it?’

  Daphne said, ‘The cat is out.’

  ‘Never mind. Upstairs. We’ll get what food we can.’

  Alice found herself half way up the stairs, gripping the banisters. ‘I don’t understand,’ she gasped, and looking down she saw that one of the floorboards was coming up, and then another, and another. And still she did not understand.

  The men were splashing through water, handing up food, kettle, bottles. The dog pushed past her and padded up the stairs, complaining deep in his throat. Daphne was crying, actually crying about the cat! And there was the most awful smell.

  Kelleher thrust a loaded tray into Alice’s hands and said, ‘Take it into our room – the door is straight ahead.’

  Most of the available space was taken up by an enormous bed covered with a rug which Kelleher had been given by a Kurdistan tribesman. How could anyone who wanted to live in the open air so confine his movements in his own home? Alice felt a rising panic at the thought of being trapped in this cramped little house. She put the tray down on the bed and went to the window. It was black dark and the rain was a wall of water pressing against the panes, streaming through the leads. The sill was awash and water ran down the plaster. As a cleaner it was not effective, leaving streaks in the grime which it would be hard to remove. But that would be the least of the Kellehers’ problems. Irene and Daphne came in burdened with a ladder and soon the men followed, soaked to the waist. The dog put his head back and began a profound lament.

  ‘I expect he wants to go out,’ Daphne said. ‘What are we to do?’

  ‘We’ll designate Alice’s bedroom for that, if she doesn’t mind,’ Kelleher said. ‘Does everyone know the geography?’

  Irene, Angus and Ivor did not, and departed with him to investigate. Daphne called after them, ‘You had better put this in there’ and handed Irene a chamber pot.

  ‘What is the dog’s name?’ Alice asked Daphne.

  ‘Towser.’

  Alice put her arm round his neck. ‘Oh poor, poor Towser! He is so terrified.’ Towser, falling readily into his role of scapegoat, shook from nose to tail.

  ‘There’s nothing much we can do about this at present, so we might as well get some sleep,’ Kelleher said when he returned. ‘Angus and Ivor and I will mount watch in turns.’

  ‘I’m quite capable of doing a watch,’ Alice said.

  ‘We shall need you refreshed and inventive by breakfast time.’ There was no point in arguing, she realised. No doubt years spent with primitive tribes had given him a mud-hut mentality.

  ‘I shall make myself comfortable before I sleep, then.’ There were advantages in being first. It was only when she stood on the landing, looking down, that she began to take in what had happened and she was still some way from full realisation. Water lapped beneath her, reeking from its passage across the fields and coated with the remnants of their dinner and less readily identifiable matter. The logs had floated to the surface together with the hearth brush and a biscuit barrel. None of the furniture was visible. Had the flood reached its highest point, or would the water continue to rise?

  She guessed the men were debating this when she returned. Kelleher was saying, ‘The next high tide will be about nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  By dawn they were all awake. The rain had stopped but there was no radiance, only a slow thinning of the darkness, revealing a world that looked like one huge, grey watery eye.

  Daphne said, ‘Breakfast? We had planned to give you a rather splendid breakfast. What a shame!’

  They had cheese sandwiches and orange squash with a dash of whisky for warmth. Ivor and Kelleher had made sketches during the night of constructions which would float; much favoured was a wicker-work and canvas contraption to be made from the one bedroom chair and the mattress cover. Irene said, ‘You may go in it, but I shall wait to be rescued by one of those splendid old fishermen one is always seeing sitting on the shingle mending nets,’ The idea of waiting did not appeal to either man and Kelleher explained that this was an adaptation of a very ancient type of boat. Irene said, ‘We have no statistics of how many people drowned in them, though.’ Alice felt confident that his enthusiasm was academic and that neither he nor Ivor would embark on a thoroughly foolhardy enterprise.

  Angus said, ‘I suppose we should investigate the roof – just in case.’ He was leaning out of the window looking upward. ‘Is there any way we can get there from inside?’

  ‘No,’ Kelleher answered. ‘I had a good look during the night.’

  ‘In that case, I think I might manage. . . .’ He swung himself out on to the sill. ‘If I could get up by the chimney, we could fix that ladder of yours by a rope, just in case . . .’

  He accomplished the climb without difficulty. It was the rope which presented the problem. After an exhaustive search, during which the cat was discovered asleep in a cupboard, they had to admit defeat. Eventually, Angus secured the ladder with strips torn from the canvas mattress cover which was to have formed part of the wicker boat. He tested the apparatus on his descent and it held him. The entire manoeuvre had been exec
uted quite elegantly and without any sign of fear.

  Daphne was sitting on the bed, rocking to and fro, holding the cat against her face. Kelleher watched her broodingly. ‘What it wants is milk,’ he said.

  ‘It wants love, poor little thing. She thought we had deserted her.’

  Kelleher poured rather more milk than he would normally have considered wise, granted their situation, and the wretched animal immediately wrenched free and drank its fill, pink tongue flicking over the rim of the saucer, greedy for the painted flowers. Kelleher watched it with satisfaction. ‘Unsentimental creatures, cats – motivated by an unusually high degree of self-preservation.’

  Irene said to Angus, ‘I was terrified you were going to fall.’

  ‘The brickwork provided plenty of holds,’ he said drily. ‘The only danger was it was so loose! I wonder how much they gave for this place?’

  Kelleher and Ivor were studying a map of the area. Alice appointed herself watchman. Now that it was fully light there was still very little to see save water. She thought that far in the distance she could make out what might be the upper storeys of another house, but there was nothing to give form or substance to the landscape. Nothing, indeed, to suggest it had ever been a landscape. She watched a barrel float by and wondered what it had contained. There followed a dustbin and an easy chair, lying on its back, revealing an underside of canvas webbing through which the stuffing was seeping. After a period when there was nothing much to be seen, she noticed a big, whalelike object moving slowly in the direction of the house, and as it got nearer she saw that it was a dead cow. She screamed and put her hands over her face, convinced it must smash into the house.

  Ivor came to her.

  ‘I can’t bear it if we are going to have lots of dead things in here!’