Compulsory Games

by Robert Aickman

  I now saw that its two hands were involved with a system of wires and pulleys which went upwards into the dimness, but was rusty, broken and drooping. Here were indeed the customary “works.” I thought it might be an unusually complex scheme for manipulating the marionette that squatted before me; but it then seemed to me more as though it were the child, with its effortful posture, that was designed to do the manipulation. And the child was so shiny and glossy, where all else was so rotten. Quis custodiet custodem? I could not help asking myself.

  Beneath the shelf was a low door into the main room of the house, this time ajar. I kicked it open, bent myself double (which was not easy in my very heavy coat), and went through.

  The litter on the floor, not merely dusty and dirty, but damp and fungoid, proved to be mainly pages from a book or booklet on the collection of taxes. Against the back partition wall, to the right of the door as I looked back at it, was what appeared, after all, to be the ruin of a large, low piece of furniture. It was as dark, as black, as everything else, and I had not made it out when I peered in through the French windows at the front.

  I saw that to the inside of the dwarf-sized door a piece of paper had been pasted: the instructions, one could not help thinking, on how to get the best out of the device. I went back and peered. Instructions, after a kind, indeed they were; written out in ink and with no punctuation by a hand to me unknown. I read them; and after a considerable pause brought out my churches notebook from my jacket pocket, and copied them down. Here is what I wrote:

  When the man is sawing wood

  Wait and watch for falling blood

  Blood and sawdust are the same

  In Dame Nature’s little game

  When the woman’s blindly scraping

  Then’s the hour for blows and raping

  Within the earth without a sound

  That’s what makes the world go round

  Whatever else you need to know

  Set the man and woman so

  Let them prophesy for ever

  Curse them once and come back never

  Obediently, I gazed around me. I thought that, before departing, I might as well look more closely at the low piece of crumbling furniture set against the partition wall.

  There could be no doubt as to what was really there. The “piece of crumbling furniture” was a pair of old Mr. Pell’s “boxes”; set side by side and crumbling indeed. They had no lids—perhaps the lids had crumbled quite away; and inside were the remains, respectively, of the late Mr. and Mrs. Munn, in no ordinary state of decomposition, but half-merged, in fact much more than half, into the wood from which and to which I was beginning to think we all spring and return. Like a pair of Daphnes, the two of them, I thought; Daphne who was changed by Apollo into a tree. Not that the hideous amalgam in those boxes was imperishable. Far from that: it was already turning into a woody, crawling, wretchedness, damp and primeval-looking, flesh and pulp as one . . . Daphne? Of what, in that wooden house, did the name remind me? Then of course I remembered. Old Munn’s “daffies”. . . . I could only wonder.

  I made a bolt for it, not looking back, least of all at the little fellow on the shelf, but slamming the door as I ran, so that it jammed fast.

  Believe it or not, I had quite forgotten that my car was broken down. I gave one twirl on the starter, leapt in, and had roared on for at least a mile and a half before I recollected that by rights I should not be moving—or escaping—at all. The finger of fate once more I could not but feel.

  And perhaps the spell was, in fact, now broken; because, only a few weeks later, I read in the local weekly that there had been a bad fire one night on the heath, with many sheds and shanties burnt out, and several lives lost. In the way of local weeklies, the report concluded by saying that the funerals of the victims would be conducted by Mr. Pell.

  THE STRANGERS

  WHEN I dropped in to the Club some years ago, as I usually do when in London, I found that a man was about to read a paper called “The Strangers of Hilltop.” It was the usual “Talk and Discussion.” I wandered in and sat down discreetly in the back row.

  I could not help supposing that I had more reason to be there than most of the other thirty or forty men present. I had perhaps gleaned for myself how very far from sure one can ever be as to where particular people stand in that particular context. It is not something people talk about very much. Not even in Hilltop itself, I fancy; the centre of the disturbance, though, as I had seen for myself, the centre only.

  I know perfectly well, and knew then, that a solitary seat in the back row makes one at once invisible and conspicuous, but that was a trifle, all in the spirit of the evening. My real point was that I had no wish to exchange reminiscences and pleasantries on the subject before us with any other member.

  In any case, I had learned from experience that the regular Club meetings often provided little more than confused anecdotes and indisputable small talk. To me it often seemed unnecessary to have engaged a speaker at all. People in general do not attend meetings primarily in order to listen to the speaker.

  However, that particular meeting was not a case in point. The fellow on the dais asserted many wild things about the commercial cemeteries which sprawl across the high places, and which are now far gone in closure and decay, having been promoted, I have always supposed, upon the assumption that the world would end before the entire vast acreage could possibly be filled. What the promoters could not of course be expected to foresee was the increase of population during the last hundred years or so. It has thrown their entire time-scale out of joint.

  Our speaker had arrayed himself in black and white, and his face was very chalky indeed: made up like that, I am fairly sure. His hair was blacker than Malcolm Sargent’s, but thicker. It looked as if it had to be kept in position with really heavy oil. The words came out of his mouth like pink confectionary bubbles blown by children, only denser. He claimed to have participated personally in the most preposterous ceremonies with stakes, relics, and all that; all perfectly traditional in their way.

  I myself had difficulty in deciding what to think, but I could not but notice the total stillness and silence of the entire audience from first to last. I noticed this, first, because at the Club it was so unusual; but, second, because the talk brought so much back to me.

  At the Club that night, there was not a single question. I had never known such a thing. The members, pretty well every one of them, like to have their say on almost any topic, if given the least rope; and even to tie the speaker up in statements from his own lips. They make no secret of aiming to do that; though there are points given for tact and courtesy, as well as for drive and force. That evening there were no takers, apart from one youngish man I did not know, who leapt to his feet, bubbling almost as much as the lecturer, but then slowly subsided, suddenly speechless. The Deputy-Chairman of the Club, old Doddrell Rankin, ignoring the youngish man, said “No questions?”; allotted about a second-and-a-half to a possible response; and then moved the vote of thanks, prepared, as usual, in advance, and therefore always and inevitably a trifle off the mark from time to time. The Chairman of the Club had had to apologise for absence, owing to a crisis at his home.

  There had been no discussion. None at all. Possibly for the first time ever in the Club’s history. I was fairly certain that was the case. Afterwards, as I sat in the bar, no-one was speaking at all. I admit that only a few were present. So many men are no longer able to stay away from home in the evening, no matter what attractions the Club, or any other club, can contrive to dig out. The person who suffers most is the Club Secretary, as we all know. That evening, I myself was unable to cope with my usual couple of game sandwiches, splendid though they were. I live by myself; possibly for reasons not unconnected with what follows. So I can usually take my time and avoid too much in the way of fretting. But not that night.

  That night I verily believe that I ate nothing more before going to bed at my quiet hotel. Even in bed, I couldn’t slumb
er. I began to write almost like one of these automatists we hear about. There have been papers by and about them at the Club also. Naturally. Inevitably. However, I do not claim that some discarnate entity was writing through me. Almost certainly not. It was merely that I was at last writing what I had never cared or dared to write before, and certainly not to talk about. “The Case of Ronnie Cassell” I may call it; though I daresay it is properly my own case. I had a wad of sales sheets, and I wrote on the backs of them. My writing grew larger and larger.

  I wrote all night and all through the following day, living on cups of coffee brought up to my room and on corners of meat (mainly mutton) produced as I called for them. It was not a moment in one’s life for the ordinary set meals. Nor was the hotel the sort of place that fusses about an unmade bed. I should not have stayed there if it had been. I come to Town for a rest from demands of that kind. Nowadays a man with a business of his own needs to flake out completely at fairly regular intervals.

  There was more to relate than I had supposed, even though I had previously gained considerable experience writing brochures about aspects of my business. I may come back to that later. That second evening I had to dash home, even though by one of the last trains. I remember buying all the galantine that was left in the refreshment room.

  I am not sure when I finished writing. This was partly because I immediately put it all away for a spell. I daresay my readers will understand why I did that. I am sure they will.

  But the matter could not be allowed to rest, and one quiet weekend I unlocked the compartment at the back of my safe. I set about the task of making everything more accurate, more coherent.

  After all, the whole business goes far to explain the pattern of my life. Perhaps it may warn, or at least notify, others too. I hope so. We all need to believe there are reasons for what happens to us.

  Cassell and I at the time were juniors in a firm of chartered accountants. We were neither of us yet qualified, but we were both above the usual age for our situation. This brought us more together than might otherwise have happened. Cassell had been in much difficulty at home and at school, which had all ended in a very long nervous breakdown. The reasons why I had been late in starting my own professional studies are immaterial to the present narrative. I had wanted to look around first. The firm was called Bream and Ladywell. The office was outside the City boundary; well to the north of Old Street. None the less, most of the work was City work.

  Poor Ronnie was always in difficulties with girls; mainly the difficulty that he couldn’t find one, even when he needed one more desperately than most. I must state that I had no real trouble of that kind, and never have had. Perhaps it is partly a matter of not being too absurdly demanding. I do not know. At the time now in question, I had a girlfriend named Clarinda Bowman. She plays a part in what happened.

  She was still one among several, as you might expect, but I knew very well that she was already becoming special. She had pale hair, and looked generally fragile, but she knew how to make me chuckle, which is always the main thing with a woman.

  She was also a great-niece and ward of old Caius Julius Ladywell, who was then the head of the firm. Of course that was important too. In fact, I had actually first met Clarinda at a sort of Christmas party to the assistants and staff, which the partners gave every year, though they themselves were all observing Jews. Because they were Jews, and really cared about our enjoying ourselves, they invited other young people too, from outside, and every time the upshot was quite unlike the usual office gathering. Each year, I am sure that most of us actually looked forward to it. None the less, I deemed it a considerable plume in my bonnet that upon such an occasion I appeared to have involved the head of the firm’s great-niece and ward. I took it for confirmation that I really appealed, and that is something one can never have confirmed too often.

  Ronnie was always going to fantastic lengths in the hope of even meeting someone suitable: joining organisations, enrolling himself in mixed parties to all kinds of places, even studying those dismal advertisements. There are some people of both sexes who are good at finding companions, and some who are not. I realise that with many men there are special tastes that make a big difference, but I did not take that to be the problem with Ronnie. Ronnie simply was not good at making his mark, in the most general sense. It is a bad handicap in life for anyone.

  I should not write down these rather painful things about Ronnie (and all the more painful because they are so commonplace) were it not for what happened to him, and through him to me. I have to give an idea of the kind of man he seemed to me at the time to be; and I still think really was—at that time.

  The crucial aspect for present purposes was that Ronnie was always game for a certain kind of undertaking, where most men simply do not bother. They have no need to bother. The certain kind of undertaking was a pretty limited kind, seldom particularly appealing in itself, or as a prospect. People like Ronnie go in for such things mostly as the better alternative to being alone. We can all understand that. A far too large number of people find themselves placed as Ronnie was; and there is an immense wedge of activity and near-activity which would not go on at all, were it otherwise. I doubt whether much would be lost to the world as a whole if the things did not go on at all, but that is not the point.

  I admit that I liked Ronnie Cassell, and I always felt that he ought to do better for himself. I should sincerely have liked Ronnie to make good, and I frequently accompanied him to this or that happening which he thought might salvage him. In a year or two, I saw enough to set me up as a part-time sociologist: the futile public meetings; the despairing social and artistic occasions; the worthy causes, seldom prospering, and often just as well. Ronnie never cared to attend these occasions on his own, even though the underlying idea was for him to meet someone. After much experience of the occasions, I perfectly well understood this paradox.

  One day Ronnie showed me a circular announcing a gather for charity at the home of someone called Vera Z——. It was, I imagine, through the charity that Ronnie had become involved, but I cannot of course remember what charity it was. The particular attraction offered was slightly curious: something like “The Z—— Family Will Entertain,” though probably expressed in a less big-top idiom. The broadsheet itself was not home-printed in that squelchy manner we all know; nor had it been professionally printed by a good firm. Obviously, it had been run off as cheaply as possible by some jobbing printer, and it contained several errors, such as upper case letters back to front and lower case letters upside down. I already had an immediate eye for such things, even before I became responsible for the lists of my own firm. I am putting down the things that remain with me. Ronnie gave me my own copy of the circular with which to find my way, if it should prove necessary; but I parted company with it, as I shall describe.

  “Refreshments, I see.”

  “Yes, but don’t expect too much,” said Ronnie.

  “I don’t know. They’re a well-heeled lot in Hilltop.”

  “Yes, but it’s for charity.”

  We both knew how little that had to do with it, but it would have been unkind to go on; about the refreshments or about anything else. It was entirely a matter for me whether I went or not.

  “There’s supposed to be a younger brother who shows promise,” volunteered Ronnie. “But I don’t know.”

  “What kind of promise?”

  “At the piano, I understand.”

  Ronnie never actually pressed one to do anything. One could remain morally free.

  “Is there a sister performing?” I enquired. It was a natural question, and one that I should still ask.

  “Tricks,” said Ronnie. “Tricks?”

  “Some sort of conjuring.”

  “Surely it’s the boy who produces the rabbits and the girl who plays the pianoforte?”

  “No. I’m told it’s the other way round. That’s what Theresa Baldock says, anyway.”

  Mrs. Baldock had something to do with
almost all Ronnie’s extramural activities, much as C. A. Howell acted as universal middleman for the Pre-Raphaelites. When we trace the pedigrees of pictures for our Auction Rooms, we find Howell everywhere. Didn’t he murder one of his wives? I am quite sure that Theresa Baldock had done nothing like that.

  I well remember asking Ronnie whether or not there was a Mr. Z——.

  “I understand there is,” said Ronnie. “Any more questions? Do you wish to come or don’t you? I’ll gladly pay the entrance for both of us.”

  I had already noticed that it was a very small sum; an amount I could accept from him.

  “I should be delighted, Ronnie. Thank you very much. I look forward to it. I really do.”

  •

  I didn’t have to find my own way, guided only by the broadsheet.

  Ronnie and I went together, by the London Underground from Old Street Station, and then walked up the hill. Of course it is a long and steep hill, for the short distance from London, and it was a moderately muggy Autumn evening.

  In any case, the truth was that whereas Ronnie did not know Hilltop at all (his formative years had been spent beside the Thames, somewhere near Grays, I believe), I already knew it extremely well. This was for the simple reason that I had been sent to the Grammar School there, centuries old, and socially somewhat ambiguous and amidships, assuredly not Eton or Sedbergh, but very positively not A—— or L—— either. There had been a tramcar up the hill in those more civilised days, and all the boys knew it had special, unique brakes, working on a cast-iron roller.

  When, mopping our brows, we saw the Z—— abode on the other side of the noisy highway, I realised that I already knew that too.

  In my salad days, it had been the habitation of a swarthy medical man, about whom the myth among the boys was that he could always be relied upon for an effective abortion. I daresay it was merely a fable (as was possibly the cast-iron roller also, though one seemed to hear it grinding), but the belief played an affirmative and reassuring part in the half-acknowledged inner life of the older boys as they pursued the local girls in shops, picture houses, and laundries. I myself had kept out of all that. With another senior, I used to find love at H—— Island, off the South Coast, where my friend’s Papa had a hospitable villa. In those days, H—— Island was a gorgeous place.