Compulsory Games

by Robert Aickman

  Fillbrick sprang to take the wheel, and in less than no time we were bowling southwards on the almost flat ocean. The following breeze had neatly turned a near right angle.

  Naturally, we were looking at one another in a wild surmise, as the poet puts it; but I have never in all my life known a sweeter sail. Or, I suppose, a swifter.

  By that same evening, we had reached the big estuary, and through the glasses could make out Southend Pier. The following breeze backed appropriately.

  Fillbrick had resumed his heavy drinking some time before, and unfortunately was missing some of the best atmospheric effects as the sun began to sink. I cannot pretend that I didn’t see Fillbrick’s point, though on me the effect of it all was the opposite: I felt that I should never touch liquor of any kind again. But it seemed not to matter much whether the man at the wheel was drunk or sober.

  The whole experience could not have come to an end more suddenly or dramatically.

  As we were standing off the spot where the man, Raby, hoped to set about his work of happiness, there was a single pulverising crash, exactly as if it had still been wartime; and both Fillbrick and I found ourselves spinning through the air, like bomb splinters. There was also a single extremely bright and multicoloured flash, which quite filled the universe, as by now it was almost dark. And there was an utter reek of suffocating sulphur. Far worse than the school lab.

  Fillbrick and I fell into the much-contaminated Thames with big, respective splashes. We swam to the bank fairly easily. Fillbrick, I remembered at that point, had been in the School Eight for one term.

  Unfortunately, the Dorothea was in pieces, and completely beyond salvaging. That was one scarce Thames barge the less. So far, the lawyers I recommended to Fillbrick have been successful in saving him from the damages. In any case, the damages were in the event of late delivery, and we were not late.

  RESIDENTS ONLY

  The heart is not a clock, it will not wind again,

  The dead are but dead, there is no use for them,

  They neither care, nor care not, they are merely dead.

  —SACHEVERELL SITWELL, Agamemnon’s Tomb

  ORIGINALLY, it had been the Open Spaces and Cemeteries Committee, and very realistically so; but, as times changed, the name had begun to attract jocularity on the one hand, and, on the other, especially among the ladies, a feeling that it was lacking in compassion. By analogy, the name “Pesthouse Lane” had by general agreement been changed to “Burlington Gardens.”

  Moreover, there had been an element of misnomer, in that there had never been more than one cemetery in the borough since the days when burials in the churchyard were brought to an end by Order of the Court. The councillors of that time had felt that, in all the circumstances, it would make a better impression if a sizeable area were set aside. In fact, at the outset the cemetery had been distinguishable only in minor ways from any other open space. Furthermore, in those days, now fairly distant, it had been the councillors who decided things, or at least the more effective among the councillors; whereas later, as everyone knew (everyone among the few who cared), it had been mainly the officers, as the paid staff had come to be called.

  The borough had always rejoiced in a mixed population, so that the original Committee prescribed areas for the interment of Moslems, Hindus, Jews, Russians, and Roman Catholics. A benefactor paid for the erection, in the segment allotted to the last-named community, of a central shrine adorned with holy statuary specially carved in Italian marble on a large scale. As the structure dominated the greater part of the cemetery slope, there was much resentment; but the Committee had considered and approved, so that the future would have to be left to time. Into the Moslem and Hindu segments disappeared, at intervals, many, many strange figures. Never had there been different denominational sub-committees.

  The Open Spaces and Cemeteries Committee had at the outset picked their man, Mr. Yarwood; who remained Controller of the cemetery and all its doings for no fewer than fifty-eight years, and far past the customary municipal retiring age. The joke that he would be in The Lodge until he found himself in the grounds miscarried, none the less; for Mr. Yarwood proved to have specified in his will, first, that he be cremated, and, second, that the ashes be strewn over the waters of the River Adur in Sussex, where long years ago he had done his courting—so many years that few, if any, could now recall the late Mrs. Yarwood at all. The wishes of the deceased were scrupulously carried out, despite widespread questioning and criticism. Some of the young people said that he would have “come back,” had it been otherwise. It will be seen that Mr. Yarwood was not regarded as one with whom to trifle, if the inclination should arise; but between him and his committee, the relationship grew ever more intimate and more fiduciary.

  Mr. Yarwood saw to it from the first that not one foot of space was ever wasted. There were the two very small chapels of once-yellow brick, which could be used by those who wanted, for ceremonies; there was the huge discoloured shrine (Mr. Yarwood, in his private capacity, was among those who would never have approved it); there was the potting shed, quite spacious, but hidden away in a corner, and long ago tarred all over, so that many of the children were frightened to use the pavement that went past it: but, when these things had been acknowledged, there was nothing else but graves. It was never stated how many graves, and no one really knew except Mr. Yarwood, whose office required him to keep a tally, and to include it in the confidential report he delivered each winter to his Committee. Mr. Yarwood wrote it all out in his minute, backward-sloping hand, and illustrated the different points with small, rough diagrams. The Committee was more and more adamant about the very best possible use having to be made of the area, for the simple and obvious reason that the borough could offer the dead no other area; and Mr. Yarwood proceeded with the utmost conscientiousness. Very little space indeed had ever been allotted to public flower beds or other concessions to the sentimentality of the living. Even the diggers were borrowed, as required, from the Highways Department; and Mr. Yarwood stood over them while they worked.

  Even so, the shadow of the future inevitably dominated the deliberations of the Committee for many of its later years. In any case, cemeteries were one of the many things that were becoming a national problem, as the basic and more or less balanced forces of nature were progressively superseded. Committee members who were more interested in the other open spaces, in horticulture, organised outdoor recreation, and general rate-supported display, ultimately contrived to split the Committee, and then the Council. Though it took years of argument and wire-pulling, a policy of partition, as it might be termed, was in the end reluctantly accepted by the Council as a whole, and a separate and independent Cemetery Committee saw the light of day, if that was a proper term. Councils by no means always demur at the emergence of new committees, but in this case some councillors could see for themselves that the writing was on the wall. The cemetery could not possibly continue to function for very much longer. Mr. Yarwood was by now very elderly, and the first question for any new committee must be whether it was worth while looking for a successor, and, if so, of what type, and for what function. To put it plainly: when in the extremely near future the cemetery would be full, why waste more money on it?

  Social progress could, however exceptionally, be expected to provide a solution; which took the form of ever-advancing residential depopulation. An enormously increased number now worked in the borough; an enormously diminished number now resided there: nor was the cemetery problem the only one to be eased by these changes, which showed no probability of going into reverse. As the chairman of the Cemetery Committee, Mr. Toller, pointed out at a quite early meeting, a policy of doing all possible to foster inhumations in other districts might end in a position where a higher-level decision would be taken, absolving the borough from all future concern with the matter. “In my view,” said Mr. Toller, “we have played our part, and the time has come for action by the County Council. We all know how much they have to say abo
ut matters which we are perfectly able to take care of for ourselves.” There was general agreement; as there usually was when Mr. Toller spoke so categorically.

  Some people thought that the circumstances attending Mr. Yarwood’s death were upsetting.

  It happened at Christmas. The public had never been encouraged to wander about the cemetery at times of public holiday, and for years the gate had been padlocked from midday on Christmas Eve until the usual hour on the morning of December the 28th. That year was one of the many when the chronology of Christmas led to difficulties for everyone. Christmas Day was on the Wednesday, and the consequence was that Mr. Yarwood took the initiative in announcing that the cemetery would not re-open until the morning of the 30th, the Monday following. He could not doubt that this was in the spirit of the modern world, and in accordance with his Committee’s general policy and attitude; though he did not actually approach the Committee about the details. He wrote out a little notice and affixed it with a drawing pin to the centre of the faded wooden board inside the cemetery gate: Mr. Yarwood would have disdained the use of chalk. The notice and the public would have to take their chance with the Christmas weather. At that moment, the sun shone starkly from a bleak sky; but there was a chilling wind, and Mr. Yarwood, his duty done, quickly went back inside. No one knew what Mr. Yarwood did with himself over Christmas.

  On Christmas Day the snow began to fall, and it continued to fall, on and off, until the afternoon or evening of Friday the 28th. Emergency services had to emerge.

  On the Monday morning, there was a group of small boys standing round the cemetery gate, because inside was much the best place for snowballing; especially when it took the form of pitching snowballs through the railings at stray passers-by. When, a whole twelve minutes after the appointed moment, the gate remained locked, patience could not be expected to hold. Five or six boys were over the heavy, spiked railing in no time. Some of them knew the ropes already, because it was not uncommon practice, hardly even a dare, to enter the cemetery at night by twos and threes in order to look for ghosts. It was a matter taken very seriously by the young of the district, fewer though they nowadays were.

  On the present occasion it had already been observed by some amongst them that no smoke was rising from old Yarwood’s chimney; though he was known to have small, cast-iron, coal grates in most of the rooms, as well as the big, broken range in the kitchen, which could have been the snuggest room in The Lodge.

  “Who’s been here?” It was a boy named Len who spoke.

  In all directions, the snow on the paths had been reduced to muck, and not just down narrow strips. It was as if squads of booted dragoons had been marching up and down; pretty well everywhere in the cemetery; very likely since dawn.

  Things like that were always happening, but only the boys knew about them, and their parents neither credited, nor wanted to credit.

  “It’ll be the Yanks.” That was a boy named Bruce speaking; and with confidence. Bruce blamed all unfortunate surprises on the Yanks.

  “It might be grave-robbers,” said a boy named Alan. He had larger eyes than the others, and colder hands.

  “Belt up. It’s probably just the wind.” That was a slightly older boy they called Murch. He would be going in for science, and could therefore set an example. None of the others knew how or why he had come by his nickname, though it seemed to suit a scientist.

  But it was a boy named Nelson who provided the clinching hypothesis. He was called that because he had only one eye.

  “The I.R.A. have shot up old Yarwood,” said Nelson with conviction. “There’s no one else around at Christmas.”

  Plainly enough, the posse, upon entering, would normally have gone as far away from The Lodge as possible, but Nelson’s tone of certainty was compelling and, instead, they all slowly crept towards it.

  Mr. Yarwood proved to be looking out through the elaborate little window of his parlour, if so we may call the apartment. The boys were surprisingly frightened of Mr. Yarwood, in any case; though, for some of the time, fascination was there too. Now, however, there was something particularly unusual about Mr. Yarwood’s position and aspect, though, among the boys, only Bruce the Yank-seer actually cried out loud.

  To begin with, Mr. Yarwood’s face, always pallid, was now white as dough. Then, the face was far too low down for a fully grown man, even though Mr. Yarwood was noticeably on the short side. The face was looking forth only just above the level of the ornate, though grime-rotted, stone sill. It was much as if Mr. Yarwood were upon his knees. Finally, Mr. Yarwood’s face had an expression that none of the boys had ever seen on any face; not even in their dreams.

  Among many of the younger people it came to be taken for granted that Mr. Yarwood’s fatal spasm had followed his seeing something gory through his solitary yuletide casement. The only matter of dispute was what?

  •

  It may be convenient at this point to start seeing things and hearing things through the eyes and ears of Oswald Crickmay, who, as luck would have it, first joined the Cemetery Committee at exactly the time when it was being most disturbed by the question of Mr. Yarwood’s successor.

  Of course, Crickmay had joined the Council first; and, as a matter of fact, had had nothing more in mind. He had been elected to the Council by a majority of forty-six votes in the customary minuscule poll. By that time in the history of local government, it had become exceedingly difficult to find candidates for the position: more and more arduous, less and less in control of events, more and more subjected both to demands and to criticism, less and less garnished by occasions for status and income advancement. “Most of it is done by the officers,” said the man who had talked Crickmay into it. “You’ll be a public watchdog. Very important to keep wide awake, though.” When Crickmay had pointed out that no one among the electorate would have heard of him, the reply had been that no one knew much about the party’s other candidates either. “It’s the party tag that does it, when all’s said and done. We’re not looking for daredevils. You’re exactly the right type, Oswald.” Crickmay had been quite astonished that the man thought so, and even more astonished to find himself elected. He had hardly campaigned at all.

  He would have been too shy for that in any case. By vocation, he was a paleographer. Upon slowly discovering (and being constantly assured) that there was nowadays a surprisingly warm market for incunabula, he had some years before taken to dealing in them; from his own small flat, of course. Though he often wondered whether he had been wise in leaving his tiny, secure, ill-paid aedicule in the library, he had none the less managed so far to survive as a man of commerce, though rising costs threatened ever more shrilly. His name in Gothic letters, drawn out with slow care by his own hand, had become mildly well known within a specialised circle. He had neither parents, nor siblings, not even a fiancée; so that at least there was only one to pay for and provide for and worry about.

  The party leader, Mr. Cheale, was now leader of the Council also. “I’ll look for a niche on a suitable committee for you,” he had taken the opportunity of adding. “You have more time to give than some of us.”

  And thus a few days later, Maurice Cheale had said, “I’ve managed to find you a corner on the Cemetery Committee. It’s one of the newest committees and its area of responsibility is precisely defined. I feel it’s a good committee for a newcomer and will help you to higher things.” Cheale had spoken in the accents of Crickmay’s former headmaster when conferring a favour on a boy without incurring a charge of favouritism.

  Crickmay had been mildly surprised, as he had been by almost everything since Tony Leverett had persuaded him into candidature; but he reflected that what had been said was unanswerable, and that on so unobtrusive a committee, his inexperience would at least be shielded from public comment, for example in the press.

  A relatively new committee it might be, but there proved to be nothing juvenile among the membership except in his own case. The membership seemed also to be surprisingly numero
us, as there were several new faces at each of the first meetings that Crickmay attended. After that the continual change-about became more and more confusing, especially as so many of the faces were of very much the same aged type, except, once more, and as he presumed, his own. No doubt the Committee, despite its novelty, had been functioning long enough for a certain degree of natural selection to take effect. One would count upon a Cemetery Committee being dominated by esteemed elders. Assuredly, the electorate would expect it.

  Fortunately, Crickmay was usually more at his ease in the company of his seniors than in that of his contemporaries, let alone of his fanatical juniors. There was a problem, none the less. Even at school, he had experienced much difficulty in conclusively distinguishing some of his fellow pupils from some others. It was partly, of course, that he had been so myopic; but by no means entirely. People in general, and schoolboys especially, do fall into types; and schools, in particular, have no patience with those who do not discriminate effortlessly. For his own part, he often cared little whether the boy suddenly looming before him with a cricket stump or a carbine in his hand was Myerscough or Fletcher-Warren: it was the other who insisted upon a degree of familiarity where the matter could not be evaded.

  The Council was very much like school; and the Committee like one of the forms, or, rather, like a specialist group. Crickmay’s colleagues seemed perfectly sufficient unto their own collective. Even the man who noted down all they said was very much one of them, and very much looked it. Crickmay, of course, said little. One did not speak much during the first year.

  None the less, if all had had their rights, it was Crickmay who, more than anyone else, was responsible for resolving the situation imposed by the demise of Mr. Yarwood. For business reasons, he often had to read the newspapers and, in the nick of time, he came upon an item in a Personal column, going as follows: “Senior citizen, unmarried, seeks part-time employment in the open air. Experienced amateur gardener. Able to accept responsibility. Remuneration secondary to dedicated task. Room or residence welcome.” There was a box number, and thus it was that Mr. Yarwood was succeeded by Rogerson. But the trouble was that Crickmay had, on seeing the item, at once posted it to the secretary of the Committee; and thus never received credit for the appointment. It might be different if instead of credit, blame were to accrue.