The Day the Call Came

by Thomas Hinde

  It was a warning, that was all I could tell. There was something desperate about the far-off way it had come to me and the way it had been cut off.

  We had supper. The telephone was still worrying her, I could tell. I was irritated that she should be worried, giving me this new burden. It passed and I talked to the children.

  I had to do the talking. They were oddly silent. Usually it was easy to start their interests but that night they just ate, looking at their plates. They didn’t seem to have quarrelled.

  Dusk settled on the house and garden. They were undressing, then in bed. I stood in the veranda, looking out at the darkening lawns and bushes. I sat in the sitting-room, leaving the french windows open, and picked up a book. Molly was reading but noticing. It grew chilly and I shut the french windows.

  I had just sat down again when I saw him. It was like a relief. At the same moment that I caught my breath I wanted to sigh with the relief of it.

  He was in the bed of shrubs across the lawn. Because of the bright lights inside and the dusk outside he was hard to see. He stood upright and quite still. I found that complete stillness shocking. It told me he was an expert who knew that people see movements, not things. Even now when I had seen him his stillness made me doubtful.

  I knew at once that I must get out there. Sitting here, I was an animal in a cage. He could move where he wan­ted, do what he wanted and I would lose him. I couldn’t move to any place where he couldn’t see me and guess what I was doing. If I drew the curtains he’d be able to come closer with still less caution. Whatever room I went to, I’d know he might be looking in through the cracks.

  Already I was losing him. He might still be there, in the shadows beyond the peonies. Or was what I was now seeing the shape of a young birch? Had he already slipped down the bank, made a quick transit out of sight, and reached the bushes behind the back door where he could examine the drain-pipes and gutters leading to the upper windows?

  There were two problems: first, to give Molly a sen­sible reason for leaving the room when I’d just begun to read; second, to get out of the house without letting him see me and yet do nothing which Molly would hear and think odd, like climbing through the lavatory window. Yet I knew that none of our outside doors could be opened without a noise. I’d left them like that in case one day they gave me a vital second of warning.

  I stretched and stood.

  I went to the kitchen and stoked. I climbed swiftly to the attic and got my red night-adaptation goggles. In the kitchen again I rattled the stove door and scraped at the coke with the shovel as if I’d been there all the time. If Molly came out I’d slip the goggles into a pocket.

  I went to the lavatory and pulled the chain. Not a sound from the sitting-room. You can do a lot of sus­picious things under people’s noses. Even if they notice, their minds busily fit reasonable explanations to them. They’re on your side, most of the time, helping you cover up.

  Now came the moment when I’d have to trust that she’d ceased to listen. I went through the scullery and out through the inner back door. It led to a six-foot pas­sage with the larder on one side and steps to the coal store on the other. I went down these and crossed in pitch darkness to the hatch where the coal is delivered. Everything I touched felt black and sooty. A sooty sack brushed my face. It couldn’t be helped. It might be useful.

  Pushing above my shoulders I lifted the hatch and slid it sideways. From the piled coal I climbed through the opening into a small shed. I crouched and listened. It was dark here, too, but some faint light was coming through a cobweb-hung window. Using both hands I carefully lifted the door latch and stepped out.

  I took off the goggles. Full adaptation takes half an hour, and I was still short of that, but the rapid stage is over in two minutes. As soon as I had them off I could see well. I shut my eyes – not to help the adaptation but to listen.

  Below on the main road I heard three cars pass. On the common far away on the other side of the house an owl called. That was all.

  I had to get away from the house. I might blunder into him, of course, but I must risk that. Stepping quietly, though in a casual way, I went down the back path, joined the back drive and followed it to the New Lane. I didn’t see a thing.

  I stood close to the drive gate in the darkness below a Scots pine, looking down the New Lane as if at the after glow of the sunset which was still orange above the hills. It was quiet and beautiful. The stars were coming out.

  Looking back I saw the half moon above the dark shape of the house. Soon it would give me more light than the fading day. I dropped into the bushes. I’d prac­tised that. One moment I’d be there, the next gone, swallowed up, moving without a sound, already thirty feet away.

  I circled the house. I did it slowly and thoroughly.

  I kept among the shrubs and bushes all the way and this made it a long job. Only for three seconds was I in the open, going like a shadow across the front drive. To avoid the lawns I had to circle the tennis court. All the time as I went I could hear that owl, calling far below on the common.

  There were three lights in the house and they never changed. One was Molly’s, reading in the sitting-room. Directly above was Dan’s. He must be reading in bed. And one was the light I’d left burning in the hall at the foot of the stairs. Molly’s and Dan’s I could see only from the lawn side. The hall light I could see from several directions, sometimes the lit shade itself, sometimes a yellow glow through opaque glass, sometimes a faint greyness where it was shining through a doorway on to the wall of another room.

  I could find no one in the garden. I didn’t think anyone was there. Of course they might have been moving ahead of me, or have crouched still as I passed. I didn’t think so. The garden didn’t feel as if there was anyone in it. It felt as if they’d gone.

  I must have grown tired towards the end of that long circuit. My back and legs ached. I wanted to stretch them but didn’t dare. I began to stumble and make noises.

  It was dark now, except in the moonlight. Before I could rejoin the back drive there was a thick slope where this didn’t reach. There were brambles here and I wasn’t seeing them, and they were catching in my clothes and legs. Twice I ducked my head into branches I hadn’t seen and a twig went into my eye.

  I began to feel pursued. If there was anyone near, they could hardly fail to hear me, moving through the bushes like a blind animal. I wanted to keep still, then go silently so that they would lose me. I didn’t dare. I was more and more worried about the time I had taken. At last I was clear and stood at the foot of the back drive below the Scots pine, where I had stood almost an hour before.

  I thought there was someone in the New Lane. I thought I heard a snuffling noise. Every time I seemed to catch it for certain it stopped. I thought a shadow moved. At that moment a car came by and I ducked out of its headlights. If anyone was there they must have ducked, too, for the yellow cone of light which came up the lane between the black trees was empty.

  I went quietly up the back drive and tried the back door. It was locked. I’d forgotten that I’d done that.

  Or had Molly locked it? Had she made a circuit of the house doors, assuming I was in bed? Suddenly it was an awkward problem. If I knocked I would have to ex­plain what I’d been doing out here for so long. But if I came in through the coal hatch I might astonish her still more if by now she had realized that I was out and was waiting for my knock.

  I came in through the coal hatch, less because I knew the answer than because I didn’t yet want to face her.

  It made me uneasy to be inside again. I blinked in the hall light. The sitting-room door was shut and there was a bright line below it. There was no light upstairs. I climbed quietly to our bedroom. No one was there.

  I thought of going to the cellar to get my .38 with the silencer from the safe. I could put it between the lower and upper mattresses on my side of the bed. I’d feel safer – suddenly there was someone in the garden again.

  Perhaps I’d seen a mov
ement outside the bedroom window – I hadn’t turned on the light. Crouching against the wall I peered over the sill. The window was open on the warm summer night. Presently I could see them. I was almost sure.

  If only I’d had the gun. It wouldn’t have been easy to aim in the dark, with the front sight invisible. I laid my hand on the sill, aiming carefully along my finger. I could have done it.

  There’d have been no disturbing noise. Perhaps I should still fetch it. But it seemed too soon, and too uncertain. I’d been told to take care, but not to fire wildly about my garden at unknown people.

  I might fire a warning shot, to show that I wasn’t a blind fool. But a silent gun wouldn’t do that. Presently I saw that it would be a mistake anyway. Not to be a fool was one thing. To show you weren’t was another – and perhaps a foolish thing.

  For five minutes I crouched there. I could still see his shape. He kept quite still. Then I was less sure. I went quietly up to my attic, and came down loudly. I came down to the sitting-room.

  She was reading and didn’t look up. I locked the french windows and collected the pages of newspaper to carry out.

  ‘Good book?’

  ‘Ah ha.’ She went on reading, then looked at me, but she was still with the book. She smiled and stretched, coming out of it.

  ‘Wherever have you been?’

  I went on bundling the newspapers. I let one catch my attention. ‘What’s that?’ I said.

  ‘You’re black.’

  ‘Am I?’ I’d been mad to forget it. Then it was suddenly easy. ‘I was fetching some coke.’

  ‘You certainly were.’ She came close, her eyes laugh­ing. She didn’t try to brush it, as if there was too much.

  ‘And you’ve got heather in your hair.’

  ‘In my hair . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘There’s heather in your hair.’ Her eyes weren’t laughing.

  I shrugged my shoulders. ‘God knows.’ I carried the news­paper to the kitchen cupboard, as if irritated by the way she’d been examining me.

  Late that night I called them. The procedure was clear and simple. Any time of day or night in the past years I could have done it. Of course I hadn’t – except for the two-monthly checks, and they were routine. There’d been no need.

  Now that my danger was increasing I had to pass on what I knew. I couldn’t let it go with me. Perhaps they knew already, but I felt this less likely as the web of intrigue I was uncovering grew more complex.

  By explaining things I might get them clear in my own mind.

  I drew my attic curtains, leaving no cracks. I knelt on the floor and raised the three floorboards. I twisted the knobs and listened. I kept the volume down; the children’s bedrooms were below and though they were asleep I didn’t know what they might wake and hear and mention next morning. I would, of course, use a throat microphone, so that I could completely muffle my voice in a pad of cottonwool and still transmit my words. I strapped it on.

  I was getting the receiving signal. It seemed faint but that was because I had the volume low.

  I held the pad to my mouth and spoke. ‘H.1. reporting. Category urgent. No medium urgent.’ I took the pad from my mouth and carefully cleared my throat. I must be exact and short. Above all I must show none of the panic I was starting to feel. I tried to gather my thoughts, but they seemed to be hurrying here and there, unable to settle on a point to start. All the time I could hear the faint receiving signal.

  I spoke into the pad. ‘Unable identify watcher. Suspect many at work. Require instructions, view short time re­maining.’ I stopped. It wasn’t what I’d meant to say. I’d meant to tell them about Draycott and Quorum and Brightworth and how I was unable to decide which or how many of them were involved.

  Suddenly I was angry that they should tell me so little, angry and frightened in case they were to tell me no more. How could I operate usefully without informa­tion? I spoke into the pad. ‘Have gathered full details of local build-up. Await firm instructions action required.’

  I could hardly be more blunt. Now they could ask me if they wanted. I wasn’t going to make myself a fool by telling them things they already knew. I crouched and listened.

  The receiving signal went on tweeting faintly down there between the floor joists. It worried me. I’d expec­ted that if ever I had anything to pass there’d be a real reply.

  It had been a foolish idea. They’d received my message. That was all there was to say. They weren’t there to make small talk, nor was I here to expect it. I closed the floorboards, switched off the light, let myself out of the attic and locked it. I went down through the dark house.

  It was all dark except for squares of moonlight which were coming through the windows. Some fell on the stair walls. Through the open door of Peggy’s room I could see some on her bed. I heard the owl.

  It was louder than I’d ever heard it. I stood at the open landing window, looking out across the moonlit lawn to the pine from where I was sure it had come. I almost expected to see it but of course I couldn’t.

  It didn’t say ‘toowhit toowhoo’. I’d never heard one say that. It made a drawn-out hoot which was all one noise but a bit tremulous. Now that I was staring up towards it, it didn’t hoot any more, as if it could see me.

  It was like an all-clear. It wouldn’t have come there if there was anyone still in the garden.

  PART SIX

  I had a bad dream that night. It wasn’t the rabbits I minded, but they were all going bad. They were every­where, of course, and I was trying to drive them off but as soon as I saw a healthy fluffy bunny rabbit and ran at it to try to drive it away it began to decay. It collapsed into a smelly decaying sticky rabbit so that I knew if I touched it it would come to pieces. And what would be left would stick to the ground. I brushed at these putrid messes but the broom only spread them; it began to stick in them. I tried to hold my breath for the foul smell which was rising. The broom was completely stuck and I strained and my heart pounded. I woke.

  I lay still with my eyes closed but as soon as I drifted towards sleep I began to hold my breath and brush and strain.

  Hubert came in the morning.

  I was sitting in the office. Half turning in my chair I saw him coming up our drive.

  It’s hard to describe how Hubert walked because he walked in several ways. He kept his eyes on the ground but sometimes he took long strides and sometimes short. Sometimes he swung one arm hard but not the other. Every now and again he would give his shoulders a violent shrug. Occasionally I found myself expecting him to give a skip but he always caught himself in time. You could tell his mind wasn’t on his walking, and when something stopped him he would look round as if with surprise at where he’d got to.

  ‘Hallo, Hubert,’ I called. Instinctively I wanted to help him come safely to port. Or just remind him where he was coming in case he forgot and began to go away again.

  He stopped completely. Perhaps he couldn’t see me, inside the office. Or perhaps even through his thick glasses I was beyond his range. Presently he changed direction and came across the lawn.

  We went into the sitting-room.

  ‘Have a drink,’ I said. ‘Isn’t this weather marvellous.’

  Hubert grunted. No one could make me feel so strongly the futility of the things I said, the insult to speech and thought they were. It never occurred to me to patronize the young. I genuinely believed they knew better. Their brains worked better and they had more intellectual courage. They could afford it. They noticed and felt more. They were more alive, proper people. I didn’t believe in maturity, except as an invention of the old to cover inferiority. Hubert made me feel about seventy and immaturing fast.

  Hubert never said anything to me that wasn’t in a veiled or open way offensive. And yet he would come to see me once or twice most holidays. I genuinely thought this a compliment. I didn’t remember him ever telling me why he’d come. Knowing Janie and Jim I could guess but I took care never to ask.

  That morning, a
s he stood there, grunting at his beer, insulting the things I said, I felt that he would have liked to explain why he’d come. Twice I caught him looking at me instead of the carpet. Oddly, I wanted to confide in him too, not a real confidence, but something to show him what I might have said had circumstances been different.

  He stood in the french windows, shoulders hunched, thin and black against the bright garden outside. He said, ‘There’s going to be a party.’ He couldn’t bring himself to be more exact. He would have had to mention his parents.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Are we invited?’

  ‘That’s it,’ he said, as if astonished that I hadn’t heard.

  ‘When is it?’

  But he was far away, probably didn’t hear.

  He said, ‘It’s finished.’ I wish I could convey the horror he got into those words. He watched me. It was so ter­rible that he gave a single high guffaw.

  ‘The swimming pool?’

  He went on watching me. I think he was still surprised at the noise he’d made. I wondered if I’d ever before heard Hubert laugh. He took a dirty envelope from his pocket, handed it to me and hurried away.

  It was the invitation. It was for eight on Wednesday.

  I spent most of the morning on that card and its envelope. I heated them, steamed them, ironed them and rubbed them. I examined them through a microscope and soaked them in all the usual and a few unusual chemicals. Nothing showed. I still couldn’t believe that Hubert had come just to deliver that party invitation. It wasn’t like him to show even this much appalled co-operation with his parents’ parties.

  On the afternoon of the Brightworths’ party I pruned Percy Goyle’s blackcurrant bushes. Molly told me he wanted an expert to do it. I thought it was one of the few uncomplicated things that had happened lately. I was glad to be doing it.

  I started from the farm office, where I’d gone to cross off yesterday on my calendar. I hadn’t done it in the morning and as soon as I’d got there I’d seen why. When yesterday had gone there were only two clear days be­fore the day which I’d marked with a heavy ink blot. I’d sat at my desk staring at those two blank days. One of them was today.