Compulsory Games

by Robert Aickman

“Then what’s all this?” Nelly’s gesture would have comprehended the entire long guest wing at Sandringham.

  “This is something additional. That’s all.”

  Nelly looked hard at him. “That’s not possible, Robin. I tell you. It has to be one thing or the other.”

  Robin lowered his knees and intersected his legs in the supposedly Turkish manner. “I can’t go back now,” he said. He was trying hard to seem at once resolved, unmoved, and in control.

  “You certainly can’t come back with me,” said Nelly, as if he had been speaking literally. She had risen to her feet and was examining the state of her tights, first one leg and then the other. “I’ve got to go and help Mother, and Mother would only wonder if you arrived with me. No doubt I shall see you later. If you’re not interrupted first, that is. I’ve said what I have to say.”

  “It’s nothing like as desperate as that, Nelly,” said Robin, smiling again; which this time required an effort. “Of course you’ll see me. My stomach’s beginning to gnaw. How did you get here, anyway? Are you on your bike?”

  “Boulton gave me a lift from Trapingham. He’s waiting for me now.”

  “Where is he waiting?”

  “In the Peck of Peas. He’s another reason why you can’t travel with me, little brother.”

  Boulton Morganfield was from outside the region; basically from near Coventry. He looked unlike anyone else.

  “Are you gone on Boulton?”

  “Not in the least, Robin. Not one little bit. Not one tittle.”

  That time, Robin managed almost to laugh.

  “Take care of yourself, Robin. Do try.”

  But all that happened after this necessarily disturbing talk, was that Robin gave things another half hour by his official watch, and then bicycled slowly home. Though he was very hungry, it would be no good hurrying. The preparation of the evening meal always took his mother and Nelly a long time, because the task was always being interrupted by confidences. There had been no sight or sound of the returning Gradeys.

  •

  On the very next morning a letter fell at Robin’s feet as he tipped Miss Fearon’s flap. He unbuttoned his jacket or tunic before reading it. I can suffer no more. I throw myself upon you here and now, certain that you will treat me with respect. ROSETTA.

  •

  And there were two crosses; this time larger.

  All day Robin had difficulty in remembering the order of the different structures and shacks; in not wheeling leftwards at crossings where it behoved him first to wheel right. At about half-past eleven, he almost ran down a Mrs. Watto, who wrote books for older women, and who always wore a full smock, concealing who-knew-what.

  “You have quite broken my train of thought,” murmured Mrs. Watto, her eyes glinting, her lips parting.

  In the late afternoon, Robin bicycled over to Jimpingham. Naturally, it was at the earliest possible moment; though Rosetta had not been able to specify a very precise time. At some distance from the homestead, Robin perceived that the Gradeys were already out and about. There were manifestations which one had learned to interpret from quite far off.

  Robin locked his bicycle, and slowly went upstairs. He opened his door cautiously, as always; it being necessary structurally.

  The beautiful Rosetta was seated within. Like Nelly, she had found the one dependable chair.

  Rosetta rose upon her lovely legs. “Are you my postman?” she enquired in her musical voice, higher than Robin was used to, but rippling like a cascade in the sun. She held out her hands. She was holding her gloves in the other hand.

  “My name is Robin Breeze,” said Robin quietly. “I am only a provisional postman. I think I should say that right away. I shall be doing something else soon.”

  He would not have expressed himself so positively even three minutes ago. Rosetta’s voice had inspired him; her hand, so precisely right in warmth, texture, and grip, had already strengthened him.

  “So shall I!” said Rosetta, and laughed like tiny pieces of purest silver falling into a sunlit pool. She resumed her chair.

  “Do sit down,” said Rosetta; very much the hostess, receiving. Robin thought it wisest to sit on the bed. He had first shut the door, though it was close in the room.

  “Where is everybody?” asked Rosetta.

  “Out at work. It’s a family named Gradey. A mother and some children. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I shan’t be here for ever,” said Rosetta.

  “I’ve arranged for Mrs. Gradey to cook for you, if you would like that. Pretty simple, I’m afraid. Rather like we get at home.” Robin thought it well to make clear as soon as possible that he had no idea of himself moving in on Rosetta immediately; not even into another room in the cottage, supposing one to be free. Besides, the way he had spoken should lighten the tone of their conversation; make it perceptibly more familiar and intimate.

  “I’ve not been eating very much for some time,” said Rosetta, dimpling a little. “I’ve been through rather an ordeal, you know.”

  “So it seems,” said Robin, aiming at an air of mastery. To his delight, Rosetta could not be much more than ten years older than he was, even now that he could closely examine her, at about four feet distance, in sunlight, and newly relaxed. “How long have you lived in Lasting-ham?”

  “I was left the house by my uncle. In his will, you know. Mr. Abraham Mordle. Perhaps you have heard of him?”

  Robin shook his head. As it happened, he had indeed heard of Abraham Mordle. He was known to all the kids as the Spook King. It seemed best for Robin to shut up on the subject.

  “And you moved in?” he asked politely, though he had been slightly shaken.

  “There seemed nothing better to do,” said Rosetta. “I found plenty to occupy myself, though it is an easy house to run. You know it used to be called Niente.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Robin.

  “It is the Italian for Nothing. The name fell off and before I could arrange for it to be put back, Paul was there.”

  “Couldn’t he put it back?” Robin asked; facetiously no doubt, but more and more familiarly, which was the real point. Every second second, he was glancing at the subtle neckline of Rosetta’s dress; every intermediate second, at the perfectly placed hemline.

  “Paul could do nothing. Have you heard of H. H. Asquith?”

  “Just.”

  “Asquith’s wife—his second wife—said: ‘Herbert who couldn’t strike a match!’ It’s the one thing everyone remembers about Asquith. Paul was like that too.”

  “He didn’t look like that,” said Robin. “I saw him once, you know.”

  “Paul was very different from his looks. That was something I soon learned. One thing I learned.”

  “I had to deliver a parcel,” said Robin. “It was addressed to you. Did you ever get it?”

  “I expect so,” said Rosetta. “Parcels were always coming along.” Robin managed somehow to stop himself from saying “They were not.”

  “Paul did what he thought best with them. He was my husband, remember. Not that he was inconsiderate. I told you he was not.”

  “You told me things I couldn’t quite follow,” said Robin. “I suppose you didn’t feel like going into details. Perhaps you could tell me more now? I don’t want to ask, if you would rather not talk about it.”

  “There’s little to tell,” replied Rosetta, again dimpling, and this time completely. “One day I woke up and found myself married. Just like Lord Byron. I have never understood how it happened. It was like a dream, and yet not. You say you saw Paul for yourself. No one could just dream up Paul.”

  Robin nodded. He had no wish of his own to talk about Paul. “We had better think more about the future, hadn’t we?” he suggested.

  Rosetta laughed her sunlit pool laugh. “How practical you are!”

  “That’s best, isn’t it?” asked Robin, somewhat at sea.

  If he himself wished to be practical, it was, he thought ruefully, in a quite diff
erent way. He tried to take in the complete glorious totality of Rosetta, from cornfield hair and mignonette eyes to slender feet and figment shoes. Suddenly he wondered how ever she had made the journey. He could not see this vision gathering peat. There at least the old man had been mistaken.

  Rosetta spoke definitively. “I think I had better just remain here for several weeks at least. Incommunicado, you know. Except sometimes to the postman.”

  Robin caught her eye.

  “But only sometimes.”

  “We could plan what to do next,” Robin said, trying to turn her proposition to account, though feebly, he felt.

  “I shall use the time for resting, and then perhaps I shall go abroad. You must understand, Postman, that I have no money. Only what’s in my handbag. Paul was very stringent. It was one reason why I left. One among several. I had to leave. I had no choice.”

  Robin felt that he had turned paler with every sentence of this confusing narrative.

  “But—” he said; without entirely knowing what words he was proposing to use next.

  Rosetta spared him. “It is best for me to tell you this quite clearly, Postman. Of course I shall repay you every penny in the end. When I am strong enough, I shall go abroad. I can make my way there. Not in England. But for my uncle’s legacy, I might have starved for all my so-called friends and rotten family cared. There was a little money from Uncle Mordle, as well as the house. You have no idea what people are really like, Postman. At least I hope you haven’t. I shall let no one near me ever again. Paul was the last.”

  It was a speech with elements of bitterness, to say the least of it, but Rosetta spoke it gaily, like the middle-distance chiming of medieval bells.

  “I shall do everything I can,” said Robin; though by now he had no idea how he could do anything much. It was much as when, through inexperience, he had swallowed an entire lemon sorbet at one of his father’s professional banquets—the only one that either of them had attended. Like every worthwhile young man, he had supposed that romance would provide its own mysterious wherewithal. At least to the true believer; he who had faith. No young man who supposes otherwise deserves consideration.

  Rosetta was regarding him with a smile in her blue eyes. “I shall pay you interest as well,” she said. “Of course I shall. In the meantime, I throw myself upon you.” It had, of course, been the expression she had used in her last letter.

  But the Gradey family was back. Robin had been hearing their miscellaneous rattlings and crashes for some time, though hardly listening to them. Rosetta had of course made no remark. The dialogue between her and Robin had been of great intensity.

  There was a tap on the door.

  “Enter,” said Rosetta. It was the first time in Robin’s hearing that she had spoken as perhaps a foreigner speaks. At home, his father said “Come in” to each patient alike.

  Mrs. Gradey entered, still spotted with rust and dung. “How are you, my dear?” she enquired sympathetically.

  “Fairly well,” said Rosetta, remaining in her chair. “Tired after my ordeal.” She smiled; as it were, bravely.

  “I knew well you had arrived. It is a gift that I have. Robin will tell you that.”

  “You were quite right about it,” said Rosetta.

  “My children have the gift too,” said Mrs. Gradey.

  Rosetta nodded slowly and graciously.

  “Did Robin tell you about my children?”

  “Yes, of course. I am sure I shall make friends with all of them. Have they got bicycles? It’s so good round here.”

  “Bicycles they have, but some other things they have not.”

  “I must see what each of them most wants.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, my dear. They are quiet, good children. You’ll not hear one sound as far as they are concerned. You’ll sleep in peace. I promise you that.” In fact, there were still thuds and clankings outside, but Mrs. Gradey’s eyes were roving round the simply appointed room, comparing it with the simply elegant Rosetta. “If there’s anything you’d want me to buy for you, I’ll send the eldest into town for it.”

  “Thank you. I’ll make a list.”

  “It’s not a steak you’ll be wanting for your supper! What about a nice plump guinea fowl? And a bottle of fine French wine from the Peck of Peas? They’ve surely a splendiferous off-licence at the Peck.”

  “Thank you,” said Rosetta. “Between ourselves, Mrs. Gradey, I am quite hungry for the first time since I can remember.”

  “Call me Maureen,” said Mrs. Gradey, breaking out into a broad simper, albeit her face was still filthy from toil.

  Rosetta smiled back, though she did nothing more.

  “And will Robin be staying for everything?” asked Mrs. Gradey.

  “No,” put in Robin, “I can’t. I can’t possibly.”

  There was a long and curious pause among the three of them, as in tableaux vivants. It could not be said that there were little crosses in the air at the moment, though one could perhaps hope.

  “I have to go home,” said Robin. “I’m expected. I shall come round tomorrow evening at the same time or a little later.”

  How desperately and confusedly he wished that he could have added “with a thousand pounds in banknotes”—even if only to himself!

  •

  But, he reflected in his bedroom that night, it was not only money that was a problem and a question mark. Romance was singularly lacking in everything that had happened, and practicality all too intrusive. At the evening meal, Nelly had noticeably shown no further interest in him, and had applied herself entirely to organising the morrow’s tasks with their mother. Arrears had accumulated in quantity during Nelly’s absence. Their father had turned the pages of the evening paper back and forth, as he often did; spent by the day’s struggle with intangibles and intractables.

  When Robin reached Jimpingham the next evening, Mrs. Gradey was awaiting his arrival, in order to hand him a bill for thirty-nine pounds odd.

  “A few little extras to brighten up the room,” she said.

  Then she handed him a second bill, for forty-seven pounds exactly.

  “I don’t entirely know the nature of that,” she said, “but I think it’s all right.” She was standing expectantly; intercepting Robin on his way to the delights above. Robin was more than forty minutes later than on the previous occasion, in any case.

  He was in no state to assimilate or analyse the financial details. “You want the money now?” he asked. It was all he could ask.

  “Sure and I can’t give credit,” said Mrs. Gradey, with a new thread of militancy in her tone.

  How had the cash been found to pay the different shops and businesses and the fares for Laegaire or Emer to reach them, probably absenting themselves from school for the purpose? Doubtless from Mrs. Gradey’s strongbox buried deep beneath the praties and watched over by little people.

  “I’ll bring it tomorrow, Mrs. Gradey.”

  Fortunately, he had as much as a hundred and eighteen pounds invested—naturally, in the Post Office.

  “Or I’ll bring as much as I can. I have to give three days’ notice to get the rest.”

  Mrs. Gradey said nothing. Robin could hear the children playing Micks and Prods in the garden. At previous times they had made only noises connected with their business.

  “I think it’s three days.” Robin was finding it difficult to be certain about anything.

  “Sure, and she’s a charming lady,” said Mrs. Gradey enigmatically.

  “But don’t you go buying anything else for her,” said Robin. There was more of fear than of firmness in his voice. “I can’t afford it.” In the hope of a little understanding, even fellow-feeling, he did his best to smile at Mrs. Gradey.

  “Slim purse never bought fair lady, don’t they say? Up you go, Robin, while still you can.”

  Tapping at Rosetta’s door, Robin noticed how much his hand was once more shaking.

  “One moment.” That lovely voice was unlikely
to quell Robin’s tremor.

  He waited. Mrs. Gradey was taking up tiny tasks immediately below. All the time, she could see him standing there.

  “One moment,” said the lovely voice a second time.

  Right away, Robin would very probably have dissolved into nothingness for ever, had the opportunity been offered him.

  “You may enter now.”

  Rosetta was in a different lovely dress, as always when he saw her in Lastingham; but the odd thing was that he could see no change to the room at all, nothing added, nothing subtracted. Not even the air seemed to have changed.

  But there was a small dog trotting up and down the room on business of his own; a fluffy terrier, putty-coloured.

  “Where did he come from?” asked Robin; trying not to make his meaning too obvious.

  “I found him in the room when I woke up,” said Rosetta. “First Paul, and now a puppy.” She laughed. “I’m not much better with a pet than I was with a husband. I wonder if you could do something with him?”

  “I can’t take him home,” said Robin quickly. “My father won’t have a dog in the house. He’s a doctor.”

  “Then don’t take him home,” said Rosetta.

  Rosetta had not as yet suggested that Robin sat. They stood looking at one another with the terrier darting about between them and among their legs. Probably it was only because he was so young. Robin knew it was what people would say.

  “I don’t think I could take him to the vet either,” said Robin slowly.

  “Perhaps he’ll turn into a handsome prince,” suggested Rosetta

  . “I’m your handsome prince,” replied Robin; after only a few silent seconds had passed.

  He could only hope that this time he had chosen the right moment for the boat-burning that was at intervals essential.

  “I have a prince,” said Rosetta. “You never seem to realise that, though surely I made it clear in all my letters?”

  “No,” said Robin. “Actually you didn’t. Where is this prince?”

  “Abroad. I’m on my way to him. I told you.”

  Robin continued to gaze at the scrubby carpet; far too familiar after perhaps six sightings. The dog crossed and recrossed his field of vision.