Compulsory Games

by Robert Aickman

  The other pupils at the art school were either complete babies, feeding from bottles containing cornflour; or, in certain cases, motionless skeletons, also fed with cornflour, though not from bottles, because they could not suck.

  It did not take long, by any standard, for the point to be reached where Celia’s ever smaller allowance was intersected by the ever larger cost of everything. Sometimes the watchful could see her white hair and white face at the edge of the rotting curtain as she looked out at the march past for social justice. Through hunting glasses and telescopes they could see plainly that her eyes were at once animated and frightened by the coarse thumping of the drums, the amateur screaming of the brass, the bellowing of the inebriated.

  She began cutting away the gangrene from her limbs, or what she assumed to be gangrene. She was too scared to use the sharpest knife she had, as no doubt she should have done. She preferred the small, elegant fruit knives, precisely because they were rather blunt; and because they were silver, though not hallmarked with a lion, as had been so many of the knives at home. A trained surgeon would have acted upon other values, though it is hard to see that they would have made much difference in the end.

  The times had become so harsh, and the people so indifferent, that the art school, after all those years, was in real danger of shutting.

  Celia reflected that one’s art is strictly one’s own, and that never should it mean more to her than it meant now, or shudderingly seldom.

  Faces she took to belong to Raphael, Luca Giordano, and Frederick Leighton now looked upon her, exaltedly and exhortingly, from within the beautiful looking glass. When she was not at art school, or trying to buy simple things with almost no money (a dressing jacket, a pair of gloves, a flask of flowery liqueur), Celia spent most of her time gazing, as she would hardly have been able to deny. Only in that way could she be true to herself. But never until now had she seen faces or forms to which she could attach names. Too often of late she had seen shapes for which no name was possible. On occasion, they had emerged, and had had to be driven back with implements she had found on sale second-hand at very low prices near Les Halles and presumably intended for the meat trade in one of its aspects. Sometimes she was horrified by the spectacle she was compelled to make of herself, and her father might have had an asthmatic attack, had he seen it.

  Celia knew perfectly well that if she was to stand any chance of making a permanent mark, as the faces expected of her, then she should practise much more, as ballerinas have to do, and ladies and gentlemen who master enormous pianofortes. She should be plucky, confident, and indefatigable, like Rosa Bonheur. She should probably look like Rosa Bonheur also, though she had enough difficulty already in hanging on to looks of any kind. Still, there it was. The demands of art are notoriously boundless; nor are they subject to appeal.

  “Oh, let me join you!” cried Celia, stretching out her arms to the real Celia within the beautiful mirror’s mysterious depths. The real Celia stretched voluptuously in a patterned dress on the chaise longue she had bought with such innocent ardour, and of which the beseeching Celia lay among the decayed wreckage, virtually upon the sloping floor, gazed upon by a hundred expectant eyes. The coloured figures at the top of the frame had entirely faded long ago.

  Celia thought that the real Celia slightly moved one pale hand and even opened her eyes a little wider. She could not remember whether the patterned dress was a silk dress for parties or a cotton dress for shopping. The pattern was known as Capet.

  In any case, there would be no actual harm done if she continued to supplicate, to beseech.

  Once, about this time, Celia actually heard from Mr. Burphy. It was the very first letter she had ever received from him, and Celia was quite glad that she had opened it, even though the address on the envelope had merely been type-written. Mr. Burphy said that he had often thought of their romantic trip to Paris together, that he fancied there might be no harm in his recalling it now, that her father unfortunately needed more trained nurses all the time, that there was almost no money left from which to pay for anything, and that he, Mr. Burphy, was about to retire after generations of service with the firm, and was writing to everyone he knew and could remember, for that reason. The rest of the staff had subscribed to buy him a small electric clock, which had taken him completely by surprise, and particularly when Mr. Daniel himself had found a few moments to participate in the presentation!

  Celia thought for a long, long time about the elms, and urns, and tiny bubbling springs in her father’s park; and about the tenant farmer’s comely, contented cows, and occasional frisky bulls. She thought about the forty-seven catalogued likenesses of her ancestors and collaterals; many of them in large familial groups; one of them turned to the wall. She thought about the schoolroom with a dozen desks and only one occupant. She thought of the withered fans in the conservatory, the property of ladies who, for her, had been dead always. She listened in memory to the Mad Hunt at twilight, and saw it take form. She smelt the rotting grapes, with the German name; and the ullaged wine, with no name at all. She felt the wet camel-hair bristles on the back of her slender hand, as she painted the world and herself into a certain transcendence.

  •

  Celia had all along been required to pay the rent in advance, especially as she was a foreigner; and she became anxious if she did not meet all demands in cash, and with punctuality to say the least of it. Often her purse, however slim, was considerably more than punctual, and most of all with the rent.

  These rigours may have combined to reverse the effect intended, as so often in life; because somehow the payment due from Celia after that last payment she was able to make and had made more prematurely than ever, came to be overlooked altogether. It is not such an uncommon event in Paris as is generally supposed.

  Quite unfairly, there was a small scandal when Celia was certified to have been dead for something like four or five months before any part of her was actually found by a visitor from the outside world.

  After various alarums had been raised, some of them by observers on the other side of the street, the elderly married couple who lived far below Celia and looked after the place as best they could, sent their burly young nephew, Armand, to beat upon the door, and, if necessary, to beat it down. Armand admitted that he had not cared for the job from the first.

  Not much difficulty was encountered, or effort required. Even the noise was minimal, or at least the disturbance; largely because the elderly couple had prudently selected a time which was well after dark, but well before most people had taken to their beds—in fact, when most people were likely to be most preoccupied, with one distraction or another.

  In no time, Armand came hurtling all the way down again, nearly doing himself an injury in the feeble light. What he had to say was that he had quite clearly seen Madame lying there in the mirror, but no Madame in the room itself.

  However, this summary proved possibly erroneous on at least two counts. The figure seen in the mirror proved, upon Armand’s cross-examination by his adoring aunt and all the community, to be not Madame at all but Mademoiselle perhaps, and therefore beside the present point. And Madame was in the room herself, though as to what had happened to her, the pathologist ultimately declined to make a declaration. The press thought it might have been rats, and it was mainly that hypothesis which caused the scandal, such as it was.

  NO TIME IS PASSING

  Assises dans le sang du soleil moribond,

  Près des noirs cygnes nés de l’ombre des carènes,

  Plus d’une fois j’ai vu les divines Sirènes

  Et j’ai miré mon rêve en leur regard profond.

  —GABRIELE D’ANNUNZIO

  I

  TRUTH to tell, Delbert Catlow was at first scarcely even surprised that he had not previously noticed the wide river behind the thick hedge at the bottom of their garden; let alone startled.

  By no means was this because he had been long oppressed by cares. Perhaps, on the contrary, it was
because everything had been so seraphically right and perfect. One does not turn aside from angels in order to count dustbins.

  They occupied the ground floor and basement of the nineteenth-century house, solid and dependable as Angkor Wat, which it somewhat resembled; and, before that afternoon, Delbert had hardly entered the garden, first, because always he had so many other things to do, many of them pleasant things, and, second, because it had been crackly, cosy winter ever since they had moved in. One could hear and smell the holly burning everywhere.

  It was an evergreen hedge at the far end of the medium-sized lawn. Perhaps the occupants of the flats upstairs might have seen over it; but there had been no occupants of the flats upstairs, though one sometimes heard noises. The Catlows supposed the flats upstairs were too expensive for occupants, and smiled ruefully at one another, and at most others.

  That day, Gregory Barfield, the most responsible partner at the office where Delbert worked, had departed at about midday for a friend’s wedding in the country; after which everything had run swiftly into the sand, until all concerned yawned and upped, especially as the weather was so absolutely ideal. No longer draughty, but not yet too hot. No longer blustery, but not too still. No longer overcast, but not too glary. A day such as one finds only in England; and unlikely to recur that year, or the year after.

  At that hour, Hesper was, of course, working still. She had been filling in at the Town Hall, of all places, until the birth of their child. She had reported that there was almost nothing to do and a crowd to do it; but that it was often difficult actually to leave the building. As for the child, Delbert was not quite sure what the position was. Probably it would work out in the end.

  There were no fewer than nine composition steps to the front door. Delbert sprang up them, lugged forth his bunch of keys, darted lightly through the house, and, for the first time, he thought, that year, unlocked the door on the other side. Quite possibly he was singing slightly; or, certainly, whistling. He saw the river at once. It was impossible not to see it.

  Eleven alternative steps in highly ornamental iron descended to the lawn. The grass was in need of its first seasonal haircut. Hesper used to work purposefully in the garden from time to time, even in winter; but to Delbert she seemed nearly a stranger when she was among trugs and slugs. Assuredly, she looked different. He might never have embraced her had she always looked like that, so impersonal, so committed, so like others, so undemonstrative.

  Delbert went down and on in order to investigate. The ancient rust on the steps abraded the feet, even through shoes. The grass tinkled as the feet passed. These were not frail stems, lucky to be alive. They were the hardy and exclusive survivors. Delbert rose upon his toes, as he had been trained to do, every day, again and again, in his echoing school gymnasium. He gazed across the top of the evergreen hedge. The long rainfall had turned the familiar dust on the thick leaves into something rather different. Delbert’s suit was in danger.

  It was a fairly bleak scene; though, on this quite perfect day, beautiful too, if one cared for things like that. On any other day, many people might look away. The water was unexpectedly low, especially as it was the end of a hard winter. No doubt the river was tidal, and, at the moment, the tide had turned again home. There was much mud, and not a seabird to scratch at it anywhere. Delbert, a male, was already becoming preoccupied with the working, practical details.

  All the same, there was nowadays very little open country east of Gunnersbury, and though the Thames figured considerably in the maps of the district, the Catlows did not dwell upon its brink. Delbert was certain of that. Of course he was. Nor was this river particularly like the Thames, as far as Delbert had inspected the Thames. There was no sign at all of what Eric de Maré used to call “the Thames vernacular.” There were few works of man to which a name could be put; that or any other. There was not even much litter; scarcely a transistor radio, living or dead.

  But there were steps; downwards: and at the bottom of them was a small blue boat with small green sculls.

  This time, the steps were of enduring Portland; not of precarious timber, or of make-believe. They led from a gate in his garden that Delbert had not previously noticed; in the very far corner.

  Delbert sank upon his full two feet. He had learned to feel little pain at those times. He wondered if the gate were locked. He had no wish that Hesper be suddenly confronted with cadging, lusting beach-combers, their feet and shins red and bare beneath tattered, rolled-up sea trousers.

  The gate was a delicate affair which would hardly have held back such characters in any case; and it opened widely at the first touch, so that Delbert was beyond it without having to make a decision. On this side, the evergreen hedge was smeared with mud up to its top; as if winter tides swept through it and six or seven feet over the Catlows’ lawn, which could hardly have been the case, and assuredly had not been for the last six months.

  Or could it sometimes have happened when they had both been out at work? Delbert looked back over the gate at the windows in the three upper floors of the house. Could there be more dependable observers? At least no one was close enough to the glass to be visible from where he stood. The gate was designed to close itself, as if the Fire Officer had intervened. No matter: it could be reopened very easily indeed. Delbert had just learned that for himself.

  He descended this further flight of steps, looking carefully where he trod. Not until he had reached the bottom did he properly reexamine the whole landscape. . . . Or seascape, perhaps. For Delbert now felt doubts whether this water was properly to be described as a river at all. It looked saline and sullen.

  It was true that on his side of things were many of the familiar suburban landmarks. Or Delbert supposed they were familiar: he had really spent little of his time staring at them. He had always had something better to do. On the other side were dark green trees, flat-topped and rather low. There was a certain amount of couch grass. There were black hulks, where ships of different kinds had been wrecked, whether by tempests or by failure to pay their way. Some were sprawled on the wet mud. Some were crumbling much further inshore. Beyond doubt, the spot had its own melancholy appeal. On the far side, there was no sign of human life in the present tense. Perhaps, for the moment, that added to the appeal. The land over there rose gently. Possibly beyond the low ridge things were different.

  The boat at Delbert’s feet looked charming and tempting. Her short painter was tied to a ring in the bottom but one step. In his time, Delbert had come upon ferries that people were trusted to use with discretion and to look after on their own; though, in the nature of things, such accommodations must become rarer, as must, indeed, ferries of all kinds. Delbert peered at the name of the boat, painted upon the stern in slightly cramped letters. It appeared to be SEE FOR YOURSELF. Delbert almost guffawed and looked at his watch.

  Unfortunately, his watch had stopped, as that particular watch often did, when brought to unexpected places, or otherwise disturbed in its ways. Delbert looked at the sun instead. At camp on the Plain, he had been trained to assess time and place. He estimated that it would be an hour and a half before Hesper could be back. Even if he were not there, it would not matter, because Hesper could have little idea of what partner Gregory’s absence had brought about. At that very moment, partner Gregory could be drawing on the bridal Bollinger; perhaps even rehearsing a gloriously facetious toast, tapping his feet the while, like Jack Buchanan, whom he often imitated from films, quite unconsciously.

  Delbert loved all boats, as he loved so many things. With at least ninety minutes for pure play, he could not be expected to hold back. He knew well how to handle oars and sculls. At school he had risen to first reserve for the second eight. He and his associate had all but won a double-sculling plate. All the same, as he embarked this time, he distinctly heard a voice speaking for a moment, though not what the precise words were. In a general way, the silence was little less than heavenly; especially while so much else was heavenly.

 
Very soon, the only sound at all was the chatter of the water. It was delightful, but unusually rapid, like the voice he had heard. Delbert realised that the current was running faster than he had supposed. Nothing could be plainer than that he must not allow himself to go with it; not, if possible for a single yard. He must scull diligently against it, for as long as seemed worthwhile; or as directly as possible to the opposite shore. It was not, however, that the current was strong enough to cause the slightest actual alarm. Delbert had seen for himself, before setting out, that it was not. He could never have been as mistaken as that. For example, he was not concerned about any possibility of difficulty in returning to the steps and leaping ashore. Such trouble as there was related to his being unsuitably dressed for real exertion. If he were to land on the other shore, wellingtons would be desirable, possibly high waders. After all, the best thing might be simply to make a circuit of some kind, and then return sooner than he had originally planned.

  He set about pushing his way sturdily upstream—if that was the proper term of reference. The little shallop was pleasingly spick and span, a delectable miniature of the true boatbuilder’s craft, but Delbert began to wonder if the sculls might not split apart in his hands, or the whole construction suddenly disintegrate in the swirl. It had been driven into him that courage was always the very first thing in life, not least during periods of recreation, and of course he had found it true. One trouble was that there were so often others to think of: his mother and stepfather (who had long been a second father to him); Hesper; the elusive unborn child; the chaps who depended on him at work, many of them less well placed than he was. As Delbert reflected in this way, taking very short strokes, feathering industriously, pressing his City shoes against the tiny adjustable stretcher, a flat grey mist, like a soiled lace curtain, passed before the sun, though only for moments, and even then by no means blotting out the placid disc. Delbert, who, in the nature of sculling, was looking backward towards his home, saw that a uniformed lad stood behind the delicate gate waving a telegraphic envelope.