Blackground

by Joan Aiken

  Nonetheless, at last I did drift off to sleep.

  I had slithered into unconsciousness with a piece of paper in my hand, a scrap of wrapping material from those that had been scattered on the bed. (It’s a compulsive habit; I often do it; once I slept the whole night through clutching a paperback copy of John Gabriel Borkman, with my finger marking the page; I had awful dreams that night.)

  I must throw this untidy scrap into the wastepaper basket, I thought idly, lying in bed, rubbing it between my fingers when I woke, only, where is the wastepaper basket in this house? Have I seen one anywhere?

  Too lazy to get up and search, I studied the rough scrap between my fingers as, for lack of other reading, one studies the message on a match-pack, or milk-bottle. It was about the size of a match-pack, orange and black, the kind of thin, rough paper that firelighters and packets of candles come wrapped in. It must, I thought, be the torn end of a dye packet; the letters’s DYE were printed across it. Somebody’s Dye. A touch of orange powder came off on my finger when I rubbed the underside. Aha! Had not orange curtains hung at the windows of the house, Number 2, where I had lunched with the ladies? My own house had plain white cotton curtains; maybe the two ladies preferred a brighter colour, one that wouldn’t show dirt so easily, and had dyed theirs?

  Amused at my detective prowess I studied the scrap again and noticed that the s had been carefully scratched out with black ink, and three extra letters added. No, two letters and a number. A U, an R, and a 2. Some game of little Shuna’s? Or simply a counter code in the hardware shop where the dye had been bought?

  It’s time to get up, I thought lazily. Get up and do — what? What is there to do in this spare, bare little house? Not a scrap of writing paper does it contain, not a book, pencil, radio, picture, chalk, needle, thread, pot of paint, bottle of ink, tape, LP or compact disc. All I shall be able to do here is eat, sit, sleep, look at the sea. How restful! How very restful! And I continued to lie motionless on the hard flat bed, pleased that billows of heavy acrid smoke were not rolling over me, and aware, too, that I was more peacefully relaxed than I had been for many days, perhaps for many weeks.

  Possibly because my mind was so empty, the enigmatic little scrap of paper continued to buzz its tiny message there, like a fly in a bell-jar.

  DYE U R 2. U R 2 DYE.

  You are to die.

  Certainly. So are we all, I thought, nodding mental agreement; and then the significance of the message suddenly punched me, and I sat bolt upright, ignoring the squawks from my injured joints.

  The message was not a general statement to all mankind; it was addressed to me. Like a fortune cookie. You are to die.

  Well, I know that of course. Have been preparing for it these many years. But not for somebody else to tell me so. In such a deliberate and enigmatic way.

  Who could it have been?

  Somebody wants me to die? Intends me to die? And then, a corollary sneaking into my mind by the back door: did somebody plan that event last night? I don’t suppose I have ever been closer to death than I was then. It would have been easy for a person to lock the back door beforehand; then, after I had gone to bed, open the front door with the spare key — there may be several, Miss Morgan had one after all — tuck some slow-burning stuff into the couch, put the other key in a corner, where I would never find it once the fire was under way, where it would later look as if it had been accidentally knocked or kicked — then step quietly out again, re-locking the front door. I was dead asleep, full of champagne, the rain was rattling down, the fridge in the kitchen makes as much noise as an electrical generating plant. Chug, boom, boom, boom, boom, chug, chug; it was doing so now. When the noise did cut out it was quite a startling shock. And it soon began again. So much for my dream of lying in bed listening to the sigh of the sea . . .

  The refrigerator cut out. And I heard a footstep.

  This time I shot off the bed almost as fast as if I were in my normal state of health — wrenched my ankle — and let out a gasp of pain. My gasp was answered by somebody’s else’s, and I heard a pitter-patter of soft-shod feet on the kitchen tiles. Little Shuna? Lurching on my crutches, I reached the kitchen in time to see the old man, Odd Tom, retreat hastily through the open back door on to the terrace, preceded by his cat Arkwright who bounded ahead of him as if this were all a most enjoyable game.

  “Hey!” I called sharply. “Did you want something?”

  He was such a forlorn, dishevelled little specimen that I could not feel at all apprehensive about him; my main thought was that perhaps he hoped to pick up some tidbits in the kitchen for himself or his pet. To which they were both quite welcome.

  But he threw me an anxious, harassed look, mumbling what seemed to be a denial, waving his hands about a great deal. If only I could understand him! It must be possible, for little Shuna seemed to find his speech perfectly comprehensible.

  “Come back!” I called. “I don’t mind your being here. You or Arkwright!” But he only mumbled some more, glancing agitatedly at my hand on the crutch; then took himself off at a quick shuffling pace, down the steps and out of sight.

  I stepped back inside the house — dusk was falling by now — shut the door and, this time, locked it, observing that the key was correctly in the lock, and turned in the regular way, quite easily. I had been holding the little scrap of orange paper when I went to the door; I laid it thoughtfully on the kitchen draining board, under the soap container. Next I hopped to my wheelchair, rolled through the house on it, and checked the front door, which was shut and locked.

  Then I settled soberly to asking myself if I had any enemies.

  Someone who had wanted the part of Rosy? But, if so, why not dispose of me much sooner, before most of her scenes had been shot?

  Someone who was jealous of my relation with Ty? But ditto, and why bother, now that seemed to be on the skids? At this moment it did occur to me to wonder, though, in a nervous and embarrassed way, what my financial standing would be if Ty himself were to perish untimely, in a helicopter crash, say; he was greatly addicted to flitting about in helicopters. As his widow, would I be in line for his huge fortune? If so I would immediately and automatically renounce it; I didn’t even have to think about that. Nobody knew that but me, though. Money had never been mentioned between Ty and me, beyond his automatically taking care of the bills and proposing to replace my flea-market jewellery.

  That scene in the jeweller’s shop. All those grey velvet hands wearing wrist-watches. Ty had almost fainted. And — why had this never occurred to me before? — it was just after that curious little episode that Ty had come down with the frightful migraine — from which he had only been reprieved by news of the Companions of Roland citation . . . ?

  There was a loud rat-tat at the front door. I almost jumped out of my skin. But presently opened to the homely and welcome countenance of Pat Limbourne, who bore a remarkable resemblance to the Lord Protector, warts and all. I wondered if anyone had ever told her so.

  “Hullo! I just came up to ask if you’d like to come down and take pot luck with us. Pot luck is what it will be,” said Pat briskly. “One of Elspeth’s watery stews.”

  “You are very kind,” I said, and meant it. “But you’ve had enough of me for the day. And I’ve lots of stores here; I can eat salad and pâté.”

  “I know that’s true,” said Pat, “so I won’t press you. I expect you’re still tired after all the excitement.”

  “Won’t you stop a moment and have a glass of sherry? I’m afraid it’s all I have —”

  “Love to,” she said promptly. “Can I get it?” Which she did without loss of time.

  “Cheers,” she said, filling, with businesslike briskness, the two glasses she had brought, passing me one, and raising hers. “Hope you’ll soon be out of those bandages. Glifonis isn’t the ideal refuge for a person in a wheelchair. But you’ll find the Greeks very obliging — the
y’ll wheel you anywhere you want. They’re a good lot of men.”

  “They seem very goodnatured. What about Odd Tom? Where does he fit in?”

  “Oh, he’s an inoffensive old body. Not an ounce of harm in him. Likes to wander about the place and make himself useful.”

  “You don’t think —” I took a gulp of my sherry — “you don’t think he could have started the fire here last night?”

  “Tom? Good heavens no! He’s a good old fellow — wouldn’t hurt a fly.” But she looked suddenly thoughtful. “What in the world gave you that idea?”

  I tried to explain my thoughts about the keys. Pat shook her head.

  “Doesn’t seem much, to base such a suspicion on? Besides — why should someone want to burn you to death?” Her smile showed a sceptical scorn for my foolish ideas. “Much more likely to have been faulty wiring.”

  “I know — it does sound paranoid — which I don’t think I am really. But I was thinking — suppose somebody assumed that my husband was here with me — I imagine he has picked up an enemy or two in the course of his career —” I did not mention Tom again. I guessed he was a protégé of the two ladies. Anyway, if Tom thought Ty was with me, others might too.

  To prove my point, there came another rap on the front door. It opened and a voice called, “Anyone in? Ty?—are you at home?”

  The head that came round was familiar to me — that of Vass, Rupert Vassiliaides, the architect.

  “Oh!” he said, disappointed, seeing me and Pat. “Ty not here? I’d heard he was in these parts. I wanted to tell him we’d got planning permission for the two-tier mole —”

  “Like Lyme Regis?” I said. “How splendid. No, Ty’s not here at present, but I’m sure he’ll be delighted. Come in, anyway, and have a glass of sherry.”

  He was very willing, and came, accompanied by a spruce young character with horn-rimmed glasses and a long neck and fair hair whom he introduced as “my assistant, Peter Hart-Crouch”. Vass was a tall black-haired man who, though Greek, looked and sounded English. He and Pat evidently knew each other well. She poured sherry and Vass commiserated with me on my injuries. “But I’m sure Peter here will be happy to push you round the village.” Not if I know it, said Peter’s expression, plain as print. I took an instant dislike to him. He had a languid voice, rolled his neck about a great deal, and frequently referred to “Corb” in his discussion of what he called “orkitecture.”

  “We’re tiring you, Lady Fortuneswell,” said Pat fairly soon. “We’d better leave you in peace.”

  And they went, calling amiable goodnights, and leaving the place full of cigarette smoke from the two men. Paranoid I was, in truth; I scoured the room for stubs after they had gone. But, fortunately, found none.

  Pat had kindly rinsed the glasses on her way out. “Don’t let Shuna be a nuisance to you,” she called from the kitchen.

  “I’m sure she won’t. She seems a most sensible little entity.”

  “I’ll think some more about what you said.”

  I would really like to see more of little Shuna, I thought, after the door had slammed behind Pat, and I had locked it. Shuna seemed an interesting child. And I had had so few dealings with children. So few dealings with Fitz when he was a child. That was a permanent gap in my life. Perhaps in his too.

  Papa, at the time when Andrei began visiting us, had been going through one of the more disagreeable phases of his retreat from reality. He felt the need to deal out blame; as if his inner discomforts, uncertainties, discords, could only be relieved by lamming into external groups — vegetarians, Christian Scientists, trade unionists, hunt protest groups, zoo keepers, the police, the Social Democratic party. Almost any “they” would do as a target. He could be comfortable, it seemed, only when casting aspersions on a safely distant, arbitrarily designated body of hypothetical other people who were in no position to defend themselves. He had to have a scape-group; their actual identity was of secondary importance, his own need to condemn, primary. If a real person had walked up to Papa and announced, “I am a vegetarian hunt-protestor”, I’m sure he would have been quite nonplussed. Retired to his study with a vague nod and a wave of the hand, most likely.

  His conversation by then consisted entirely of one-sided argument. He would pounce on any statement made, dispute it, enter into a whole campaign of rebuttal, but always, in the clinch, fall back on a general assertion of his own position.

  “Oh, well, of course, I never watch television. It’s total rubbish. Never travel by car. Anybody who does is a fool. Fiction? I don’t read it. Only second-class minds read fiction. I never leave the house on Saturdays. Too many hooligans about then. Giving presents? I never do. Gift-giving is a form of buying people’s favour, that’s all. I despise it. Christmas has become a disgusting commercial orgy. I prefer to ignore it.” (So he did, greatly disconcerting his parishioners.) “Dogs are filthy, verminous monsters — they should all be exterminated.”

  Papa loved to contradict, gently, courteously, whatever you had just said. Even if it were to agree with a statement he had just made, he would refute you.

  “No — no, I fear you haven’t taken my point. You have failed to understand me. In fact, it was just the other way round . . .”

  Masha bore with him kindly, tirelessly, never seeming to run out of patience or sympathy. She also bore with his continually recurring Doubts. These were not doubts of a religious nature, like Prendergast’s, but doubts as to whether he had chosen the right course in giving up his professional career.

  “Should I have left it all, Maria? Was it wrong of me? Was I abandoning my true duty?”

  How many, many times have I heard her answer him: “Only you can be the judge of that, Edred.” For she, too, under that gentle manner, had a streak of ruthlessness. “Use your own intelligence. Decide for yourself,” she would tell me, time and again, when I asked, did she think it would rain, should I take a waterproof to school, would it be correct to go to the school party in flat heels and ankle socks?

  Papa’s Doubts were aggravated by the fact that he did not take at all kindly to our considerable poverty. He could never reconcile himself to thrifty habits, switching off lights, using only a small panful of hot water for washing, picking out the last bits of coal from the fire before going to bed. In grand absence of mind he forgot these measures, and being reminded about them always roused him to fury.

  “I would have remembered, Maria! Please give me credit for rudimentary sense. I am not quite a fool, I hope!”

  If she alluded to the fact that he had left the Rayburn cooker oven door open for two hours, rambling out into the garden to ruminate while the heat wasted itself, he would turn on her with haughty ferocity.

  “It was just an accident. A single occurrence! Anybody might have such a mishap.”

  Later, however, he would be discovered at his study desk with grey bowed head resting on his forearm, suffused with self-pity. “Oh, I am a hopeless hopeless impediment to you. I should have left you, I truly believe. Gone into the wilderness on my own.” Infinite intelligent, diplomatic sympathy, many cups of tea from Masha, would be required before he was restored to normal equilibrium.

  In my early teens it both puzzled and enraged me that Masha — calm, perceptive, shrewd Masha — should apply so much energy every time, such boundless patience and tact, to rebuild his ego. It did not, at that time, strike me that life, on the whole, was more comfortable when Papa’s ego was in good fettle. Not comfortable; but more so.

  I suppose my own intransigence was why, when it came to the crunch, Masha thought it best for me to go.

  Once or twice I too had tried sympathizing with Papa, following her line, thinking to accelerate the return to normality; but that proved a total mistake. Each time I did so he would turn on me with icy rage: “Catherine, please do not intrude yourself on what has nothing to do with you. God knows you are often careless and t
iresome enough, giving your poor mother a great deal of unnecessary trouble.”

  He would watch sharply with a jealous eye to make sure that she did not render me too many services. “Surely the girl can mend that herself? It would be useful practice for her.” He himself continually put Masha to extra trouble over what seemed trifles to me, despite the fact that she was on her feet and working all day long while he sat in his study.

  “My dear Maria, when you get rid of dead flowers from vases, could you kindly dispose of them a little farther from the house than that bramble patch beside the back entrance? Suppose one of our friends were to see them lying there? What kind of a slovenly impression would that make?”

  One of Masha’s pleasures was to have such garden flowers or wild flowers as were easily available in pots and jars about the house.

  “People come to the front door, Edred, not the back.”

  “Well, my susceptibilities are offended,” he said testily. “I do not care to see dank dead flowers flung among the brambles.”

  So she had to carry them all the way to the end of the garden.

  Papa had a habit of looking sideways, quickly, during a conversation, as if the sight of his interlocutor aroused in him more irritation than he could bear.

  Yet he was capable of performing kind acts; towards Masha at least; I can’t remember his ever doing anything for me. But I can recall an occasion when she was stuck indoors with a severe cold and passionately wished to listen to a performance of Handel’s L’Allegro ed Il Penseroso on the Third Programme. Masha had an irrational notion — most of her life was guided by such vehemently rational principles that it was charming and touching to find these pockets of unreason in her — that recorded music was apt to be stale, subject to decay, to have “gone off’ in some odd way; if possible she preferred to hear music, in which she took intense delight, played by live players, preferably in her presence. How seldom she was granted this luxury . . . On the occasion when she had her bad cold the radio battery had expired, so Papa most uncharacteristically volunteered to walk down to the village shop through pouring rain to buy a new battery. He returned with the battery all right, but with somebody else’s Times under his arm that he had picked up and read absently in the shop; his discovery of this fact, his consternation and agitation, his fruitless excursions back to the shop and then hither and thither about the village, occupied the entire period of the broadcast. And of course he had the batteries in his pocket.