This Is Midnight: Stories

by Bernard Taylor

  ‘Well, it’s been really kind of you,’ he said, ‘but I think I ought to be moving on,’ and took a step forward. Unfortunately his right leg had gone to sleep and he was only just able to prevent himself from falling headlong. Recovering, he stumbled to the door, as he did so giving a little laugh, rather forced, but hoping to show nonchalance, light-hearted acknowledgment of his uncoordinated gait.

  ‘Oh, nonsense!’ With her words, Cousin Beryl grabbed him in her strong arms, so suddenly that he was thrown once more off balance. With a muffled murmur of protest he fell against her huge bulk. ‘You can’t go yet,’ Beryl said. ‘We’re goin’ to have some more tea.’ She motioned to Bill. ‘Put the kettle back on, lovie.’

  Guy fought to regain his breath and his footing. ‘No, no, really. I must go,’ he protested. ‘It’s been really great and I hate to leave, but I must.’ He shrugged and gave his laugh again. ‘You know how it is. Ha ha.’

  ‘But I haven’t told you about Aunt Lavinia yet,’ Beryl said, reaching out for him again. ‘She was the one what went on the streets and – ’

  ‘Next time. Tell me all about it next time.’ Guy sounded almost incoherent in his desperation as he dodged the big red clutching hands. ‘It’ll have to be next time, I’m afraid.’ And then he was grabbing his pack, pulling it on and edging through the doorway. ‘Do excuse me, please.’ Backing out now and down the steps. ‘I’ll tell Mom I met you. She’ll be real thrilled, I know.’ There was the front gate, his bicycle . . . ‘I’ll call again soon. Real soon.’ And he was moving off, waving in the early evening light. ‘Goodbye . . .’

  As he disappeared around the bend in the road Beryl turned to Bill.

  ‘Well,’ she sniffed, miffed, ‘if that’s the way them Yanks go on then they can stay in America. Best place for ’em.’ She led the way back into the house and sat down, one eye fixed on her smiling husband, and the other on some unremarkable spot on the ceiling. ‘Some people just don’t know ’ow to behave, that’s their trouble.’ She sighed again, deeply. ‘Well, what can you expect? He’s from America. If you ask me it’s just as well we gave the place up.’

  Pedalling madly along the country lanes, Guy concentrated on putting the maximum distance between himself and Cousin Beryl. Just my luck, he thought, to land with somebody like that. Still, the others would be all right. After all, he said to himself, every tree must have a couple of unsound fruit. He would put Cousin Beryl from his mind, he decided, and think about the next one.

  The next one – of those living – turned out to be a very ancient, doddering grandmother – his maternal grandmother, a Lampton.

  At the door of her tiny house he towered above her, repeating, ‘I’m your grandson,’ in successively louder tones, trying to penetrate her deafness. The hearing-aid she wore seemed to have little effect. Until she switched it on.

  ‘So you’re my grandson!’ she said. ‘You don’t sound like you comes from round these parts . . .’

  ‘No,’ Guy said. ‘I’m Ellen’s son.’

  ‘Ellen? Ellen who?’

  ‘Ellen Lampton . . . Your Ellen . . .’ Then rather lamely he added, ‘Your daughter?’ Really, he thought, such elucidation shouldn’t be necessary. He was beginning to doubt his own knowledge.

  ‘Oh, that Ellen,’ said Grandma. ‘You mean the one that went off to America. Why didn’t you say so?’ She reached out a bony hand. ‘Well, come on in.’

  Minutes later, sitting in her little warm kitchen with the flies buzzing around his head, he watched her as she rocked back and forth in her old rocking chair. At her insistence he told her – in a loud voice – of his mother and father in New York. All the while she nodded away at him, her wet, near-toothless gums smacking in the most off-putting manner. It was worse than Beryl’s squint, he thought. But he persevered, in spite of her constant fidgeting, in spite of her interruption when she broke in to ask him – very sweetly:

  ‘Who did you say you are?’

  Gradually, though, she became more attentive, her rocking ceased and he began to feel that the afternoon wouldn’t be such a complete write-off after all. At last he rose to go, moved to her and leaned down close to her ear.

  ‘Well, goodbye, Grandma.’ He supposed he ought to at least kiss her before he left.

  ‘Grandma . . . ?’

  A loud, rasping snore greeted his gentle word. For Christ’s sake, he murmured as he let himself out, and there he’d thought she was hanging on every goddamn word. He nodded back at the sleeping woman. ‘I’ll tell Mom you send your love . . .’

  And so onward – or downward – through the list. Next was Uncle Maurice.

  Uncle Maurice Lampton – mother’s half-brother – promised to be quite different.

  Guy found his name in the telephone directory, dialled the number and was at once invited round for dinner that very evening.

  Uncle Maurice, it turned out, lived alone in a large, rambling, simply furnished house on the outskirts of the village of Marshleigh. He was, by all accounts, a most successful novelist. Guy had never actually read any of his works, and couldn’t recall seeing the name Maurice Lampton on any book cover – still, he promised himself, he would catch up on his uncle’s literary creations just as soon as he was able. For the moment it was enough that they would meet. It was exciting to have a famous novelist in the family, Guy thought; and, thank God, at last he might encounter a little civility, intelligence and polish.

  From the moment when he first saw Uncle Maurice, Guy knew he was going to like him. And his first impressions were never wrong. Standing well over six feet and correspondingly broad, Maurice looked tough, strong, and considerably younger than his fifty-two years. His handshake was firm, and the friendly slap on the back he gave Guy made him stagger.

  Wonder of wonders, in addition to everything else, Maurice turned out to be a marvellous cook. The variety of courses he served were a delight from start to finish. In short it was a wonderful meal, the conversation was bright and interesting, and flowed as generously as the wine. Now, at last, Guy told himself, he’d be able to write home something positive about one of his relatives. Praise the Lord.

  The evening was turning out to be such a success that when Guy was invited to stay overnight he readily accepted.

  ‘You’ll be much better off here,’ Uncle Maurice said, ‘than in that stuffy little hotel.’

  ‘I’m sure I will.’ Guy nodded in agreement, his head slightly muzzy from the wine. ‘But I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

  ‘It’s no trouble at all,’ Maurice assured him. ‘Think nothing of it.’

  Over coffee Guy asked Uncle Maurice about his writings.

  With a flourish, Maurice reached up and took from a shelf some books which, proudly, he displayed in a long, colourful line. He wrote, so it appeared going by the jacket designs, novels about beautiful young heroines who became trapped in desperate situations in remote, towering mansions on the edges of cliffs. Each of the covers Guy saw depicted a young heroine fleeing in terror from some desperate situation. Invariably she was shown running – usually through overgrown grass – with her hands clutching at the skirts of her long dress. In each background an enormous house rose up through the mist. Guy wondered why he had not come across any of these impressive-looking buildings; if Uncle Maurice’s books were anything to go by, such houses must be all over the place.

  In spite of a slight sense of disappointment over the nature of Uncle Maurice’s literary matter, Guy tried to make the right noises of approval. Even so, the name on each lurid jacket did give him some pause for thought.

  ‘It says here,’ he said, ‘by Louisa Clements.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Maurice. ‘That’s me.’

  Guy’s heart sank a little more, then, Oh, what the hell, he thought – hundreds of writers do it. So what was so odd about a little pseudonym?

  ‘Let me show you aroun
d,’ Uncle Maurice was saying. ‘That’s if you’d like to, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Guy, readily. ‘I’d love to.’ He rose from his chair.

  Carefully, lovingly, Uncle Maurice gathered up Louisa Clements’ masterpieces and replaced them reverently upon the shelf. He turned, smiling, and beckoned Guy to follow him.

  Walking behind his host up the wide staircase, Guy observed two large white cats that passed him on their way down, moving lithely from step to step. ‘Alice and Maureen,’ Uncle Maurice remarked.

  On the landing were three more cats: Crystal, Lottie and Theda. And in Uncle Maurice’s room two more: Margaret and Edgar.

  ‘Just one male among so many females,’ Guy said. ‘He must have a terrific time.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Maurice shook his head. ‘He’s been taken care of. We can’t have that sort of thing going on.’

  Guy gave the cat a brief look of condolence before following his uncle from the scarlet-draped bedroom. ‘I’ll show you your room before we go any further,’ Uncle said, and stopped outside a small door at the end of the landing. Opening the door, he gestured for Guy to enter. Guy stepped forward, then stopped in the open doorway, gazing into the room. At his side, Uncle Maurice gave him a slightly anxious smile. ‘You’ll be quite comfortable, I’m sure,’ he said. Then after a pause added, ‘It’s more comfortable than it looks, you know.’

  ‘I’m sure it is . . .’ Guy swallowed, at a loss for words. Around his feet the cats moved, silky, smooth, insinuating, rubbing against his legs. Guy sneezed. Then again. And again.

  ‘Oh, I hope you’re not catching a cold,’ said Uncle Maurice, patting Guy’s shoulder.

  ‘I forgot to mention,’ said Guy, sneezing again, ‘that I’m allergic to cats. I don’t think I shall be able to stay after all. What a shame.’

  It wasn’t only the cats, though. It wasn’t only the sight of the black-draped bed surrounded by the black candles. It wasn’t only Uncle Maurice’s strong, hairy hand resting intimately on his shoulder; no, most of all it was the formidable array of strange items that hung on the black walls: the whips, the ropes, the chains, the handcuffs, the thumb-screws, and the numerous other odd-looking gadgets whose uses Guy could only guess at. He forced another series of sneezes.

  ‘It’s no use,’ he gasped, trying desperately to make his eyes water. ‘I’ll have to go. It’ll just keep on all night otherwise.’

  ‘But you were all right when you came in,’ Uncle Maurice said. ‘It came on so suddenly. Perhaps if you wait a bit it’ll go away.’

  Guy shook his head. ‘I don’t think it will.’ He added a sad note to his voice, moved back out to the landing. ‘I don’t think it will at all . . .’

  His next meeting had been the briefest of all. This was with Cousin Joe Allenbury and his wife, Morffyd, a mean-looking, pinched-up little Welsh woman.

  Joe had opened the door to Guy and really appeared most pleased to see him. Everything, thought Guy, was going to be fine. That was until Morffyd came on the scene a minute later.

  ‘Who is it, Joe?’ Her thin, reedy voice came whining from somewhere in the rear.

  ‘It’s my cousin from America,’ answered Joe. ‘Our Auntie Ellen’s son.’ He smiled broadly at Guy and stepped back, as if about to invite him in. But before Guy could step over the threshold, Morffyd appeared. She came towards them and halted at Joe’s side, staring hard at Guy and sniffing suspiciously. Guy’s warm smile and friendly greeting were ignored. For a long moment she eyed Guy with obvious distaste, then turned to her husband.

  ‘What does he want here, then?’

  Joe shrugged. ‘Well, he says he’s come to see us,’ he said meekly.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’ve come to see you,’ Guy echoed, meeker still.

  ‘On the scrounge, are you boy?’ Morffyd asked. ‘You won’t get anything here.’

  ‘I – I haven’t come to – to ask for anything – ’ began Guy. ‘I just want to – ’ But quickly Morffyd cut in, saying, ‘You’re like all them foreigners. Think they can come over here and get something for nothing. Right, Joe?’

  Joe answered at once. ‘Right, Morffyd,’ he said.

  Morffyd was glaring at Guy. ‘D’you know what we do with people like you?’

  Guy continued to stand there, a wide, moronic, dying smile on his face. Whatever it was, he thought, it was certain to be something rather unpleasant. He was going to get no tea and crumpets here.

  ‘Shall we show him, Joe?’ With her words Morffyd turned and smiled at her husband, her smile showing two rows of the largest, whitest, most even false teeth that Guy had ever seen. The sight was terrifying.

  ‘Call Fido,’ she said.

  As Joe stepped past him into the yard, and moved away out of sight, Guy reflected that Fido couldn’t possibly be their son, not with such a name. Though not even that would surprise him now. Fighting to keep his sense of humour, and to bring a little lightness into the situation, he said lightly to the woman:

  ‘Well, I don’t want to wear my welcome out, as you British say . . . Ha ha.’

  ‘No chance of that, boyoh,’ Morffyd said. ‘Here’s our Fido coming.’

  She gestured off and Guy turned to see Joe coming back across the yard, holding a dog on a leash.

  ‘Shall we let him go, Joe?’ Morffyd called out. ‘What d’you reckon?’

  Guy didn’t wait for Joe’s answer, but turned and, at a smart pace, started off for the gate. From behind him he heard the snarling of the dog, and Morffyd’s voice.

  ‘That’s it – let him go, Joe. Let Fido go.’ Then, as Guy quickened his pace: ‘That’s right. Go on now, Fido! See him off! Go for his throat!’ Then to Guy as he dashed through the gate: ‘Bugger off! Piss off! Dirty foreign scrounger! Go for his throat, Fido, boyoh!’

  So here he was, sitting on the grass on the top of the hill, with Morffyd’s voice still ringing in his ears.

  Taking a ballpoint pen, Guy drew a quick line through the thirteenth name. There was just one name left. Aunt Mildred. That was if she was still living.

  Guy looked at her address. According to the map it wasn’t very far from here. And, supposing her to be alive, what kind of reception would he get there? He shrugged – well, maybe it wouldn’t take long to find out.

  Quickly he packed his flask, shouldered his pack, mounted his bicycle and rode away down the hill.

  Aunt Mildred’s dwelling was the prettiest that Guy had ever seen. For him it was the American idea of what a typical English country cottage should be. Beneath the thatched roof the white-washed walls were festooned with trailing ivy and climbing roses, while in the neat, green window-boxes blood-red geraniums nodded on their sturdy stems. Set in a half-acre of the most delightful garden imaginable, the little house looked like something dreamed up by an MGM movie set designer.

  Raising his hand to knock on the door, Guy paused, and then let his hand fall back to his side. Somehow it was all too good to be true.

  Supposing, he thought, supposing Aunt Mildred was as nutty as the rest of the bunch, what would he do . . . ? His silent question tailed off. He didn’t think he could stand any more nerve-wracking experiences. And the dreadful thing was, he realised, such experiences were beginning to appear as the norm and not the exception. Would Aunt Mildred be any different? His mind went back to recall what little he knew of her – nothing except that she was a maiden lady in her late sixties who lived quite alone, and had done so for many years. There had been some little talk of her having once had a fiancé who had deserted her to go to New Zealand with another woman, but nothing else of even the slightest interest.

  Still Guy paused. Oh, what the hell, he thought. Then aloud, said firmly:

  ‘Here goes nothing,’ and knocked the knocker.

  After a few moments the door was opened by a petite, silver-haired lady. Standing in the cottage doorway, looking up at him, sh
e wore a pale lilac dress and a neat white apron. The expression on her once-pretty face was gently quizzical. Just one look at her and Guy knew that this time it was going to be all right.

  ‘Hello, Aunt Mildred,’ he said, ‘I’m your nephew, Guy.’

  ‘Do have some more tea, Guy.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Guy said. ‘I’d love some.’

  Aunt Mildred took Guy’s cup and poured in milk from the fine bone china jug, then added tea from the delicate rose-­decorated teapot. ‘Now tell me all about New York. I’m afraid I couldn’t bear to live in a city that size. That threat of violence hanging over one all the time. I’m afraid I just close my eyes to those negative parts of our so-called civilization. I know my own existence is the epitome of parochialness, but it’s sufficient. I am content.’

  Between them the table was covered with a white cloth on which was spread a variety of foods: cheeses, ham, pickles, jams, home-made bread and cakes. Obviously Aunt Mildred took pride in the products of her kitchen. She smiled as Guy helped himself to more of the delicious home-made bread.

  ‘Have some pickles, too.’ Pots and jars were pushed across the table towards him. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘there are gherkins, some nice mustard pickles, onions . . .’

  Under her benevolent gaze Guy spooned out more pickles.

  A gentle lull descended. Aunt Mildred faced him across the table, gently smiling, while outside in the afternoon sunshine the bees buzzed among the hollyhock blossoms.

  ‘I think it was New York where Albert wanted to go first of all,’ she said, almost as if speaking to herself. ‘But then he decided that New Zealand offered the greater opportunities.’

  ‘Albert?’ said Guy.

  ‘Albert, yes. Albert Collier. My fiancé.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Guy nodded. Recalling the gossip, he was surprised that she could refer so easily to what must surely be a rather painful incident. Not knowing how to react he gave another half-nod, a half-smile, a half-shake-of-the-head, bit hard into a pickled onion and kept silent.