The House Opposite

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  ‘In the langwidge o’ them psicho-wotchercallems,’ decided Ben, ‘I got a creak compress.’

  The creaks seemed rather worse going up the stairs than they had seemed coming down them. Somehow or other, the visit of that young man, his rather odd behaviour, and the sudden termination of the interview, had worried Ben more than he cared to admit. The shadows seemed deeper. The creaks louder. The subsequent silences uncannier.

  But he reached the second floor without accident, and he found his room just as he had left it. There were no corpses about, and no one had been at his cheese. If he’d had a cup of tea, he could have soon got back to his condition of lethargic, vegetable comfort. Well, he’d have to get back just on cheese.

  ‘P’r’aps I better ’ave a squint outer the winder fust,’ he thought. ‘’E may be comin’ back again.’

  He crossed to the window. There, immediately opposite, was No. 26, growing moist in the drizzle. Looking down, he saw his late visitor on the doorstep. This rather surprised him. He’d been on the doorstep some while. By now, surely, he ought to be either in or out?

  Ben stared. The front door was open—no, half-open—well, same thing—and a bit of an argument seemed to be going on. Couldn’t see the fellow inside the house, but the fellow outside appeared to be very determined. He was taking something from his pocket. He was handing it to the fellow inside. A bit of a pause now. Who was going to win?

  Then, all at once, Ben’s eyes were attracted by a movement closer to him. Not in his own room—thank Gawd fer that!—but it, gave him a start, like. In the room immediately opposite. The second-floor front of No. 26. An old man had backed to the window, as though to get a better perspective of something he was gazing at. And what he was gazing at was a figure on the floor!

  ‘That ain’t nice,’ thought Ben.

  An instant later, however, the figure got up. The old man shook his head, and pointed to another part of the floor. The figure lay down again. The old man nodded, and the figure got up again.

  ‘Well, I’m blowed!’ muttered the watcher.

  He stared down at the front door. It was now closed. The young man had got in. At least—had he? Ben hadn’t seen him go in. He might have left, of course, and be walking now towards the corner.

  Ben twisted his head and stared towards the corner. If the young man had gone to the corner he had now vanished, as the girl had vanished; and in their place, regarding No. 26 with contemplative eyes, his dark skin rising incongruously above his European collar, was an Indian.

  CHAPTER II

  CREAKS

  BEN returned to his cheese. He possessed, in addition, a piece of string, a box of matches, a cigarette, three candle ends, a pencil stump, and sevenpence. These alone stood between him and the drizzling evening and eternity.

  He sat with his back to the window. He had seen all he wanted until he had got a bit more cheese inside him. But though he could shut sights out from his eyes, he could not shut them out from his mind. Into the pattern of the peeling wallpaper were woven a young man, an old man, a figure leaping up and down on a floor, and an Indian.

  ‘Well—wot abart them?’ he demanded suddenly.

  Why, nothing about them! If you got guessing about all the people you saw, you’d never stop! The young man had called to look over the house, the old man and the figure on the floor had been doing a charade, and the Indian was just one of them students or cricketers. Nothing to it but that!

  ‘It’s not gettin’ yer meals reg’lar wot does it,’ decided Ben. ‘And this ’ere corf.’

  By the time he had finished his cheese he was in a better frame of mind. After he had lit his solitary cigarette—almost a whole one, and cork-tipped—he was even able to rise from his soap box, turn round, and walk to the window again. Wonderful what a cigarette could do for you, even if it had been begun by somebody else!

  The rain was falling faster now. A thin mist was curling through the gloaming. Never joyous at the best of times, Jowle Street looked at its worst just now, full of evil little glistenings as the damp night drew on. It was a forgotten road, and best forgotten. But the house opposite provided nothing especially sinister at the moment. The blind of the window of the second floor front was now drawn, presenting an expressionless face of opaque yellow. The doorstep was deserted. And there was no longer an Indian standing at the corner. The only movement visible in the street was that of a covered cart slowly jogging along through the slush.

  Ben watched the cart idly. ‘Well, I’d sooner be ’oo I am than that there ’orse,’ he reflected. It was a poor, bony creature, a dismal relic of a noble race. Funny how some horses stirred and stimulated you, while the very sight of others almost made you lose your belief in the beneficence of Creation! ‘Wot does ’orses do when they gits old?’ wondered Ben. ‘Sit dahn, like us?’

  But a moment later he ceased to dwell on the hard lot of horses. The cart had stopped outside No. 26.

  Well, why shouldn’t it stop outside No. 26? Every day, millions of carts stopped outside millions of houses! Almost indignantly, Ben attempted to deride his interest. The interest held him, though. He could not tear himself away. He’d have to watch until he saw the cart move on again.

  A man descended from the driver’s seat. He moved towards the house, but almost immediately the front door opened, and a servant came out. At least, Ben deduced he must be a servant. A few words passed between the servant and the driver. Then they both went to the back of the cart, and were busy for a while drawing something out. The hood of the cart hid the something from Ben’s view until the two men were actually carrying it towards the door. Then Ben saw it. It was a long object, covered with sacking.

  About six feet long. About three feet wide. About three feet high.

  Ben turned away. He didn’t like it. And as he turned away, the front door bell rang again.

  ‘’Ere, wot’s orl this abart?’ he demanded of the uncommunicative walls. ‘Wot’s ’appenin’?’

  As once before, he was faced with the alternative of the front door and the back window. This time he was even more tempted to choose the back window. He might have done so had not a sudden thought deterred him, a thought that abruptly changed the bell from a sinister to a welcome sound.

  ‘’Corse—it’s on’y that young chap come back agin,’ he cogitated, ‘and ’e was bahnd ter come back some time or other, wasn’t ’e? Blimy, if I don’t ask ’im in and tell ’im orl abart it!’

  Life is largely a matter of comparison. When first the young man had called he had been a nuisance. Now, contrasted with an old man’s back, a contortionist, an Indian, and a long, six-foot object, he became a thing of beauty! And even without the advantage of these comparisons, Ben recalled that his face had been pleasant enough, and his voice amiable.

  ‘Yes, that’s wot I’ll do!’ muttered Ben, on his way to the passage. ‘I’ll ’ave ’im in, and arsk ’im wot ’e thinks.’

  He slithered down the: stairs. As he neared the bottom, the bell rang again. ‘Orl right, orl right!’ he called. ‘I’m comin’, ain’t I?’

  He opened the door. The Indian stood on the doorstep.

  At some time or other your heart has probably missed a beat. Ben’s heart missed five. Meanwhile, the Indian regarded him without speaking, as though to give him time to recover. Then the Indian said, in surprisingly good English:

  ‘Yon live here?’

  He spoke slowly and quietly, but with a strangely dominating accent. But for the dominating accent, Ben might have been a little longer in finding his voice.

  ‘Yus,’ he gulped.

  ‘It is your house?’ continued the Indian.

  ‘No,’ answered Ben.

  He had tried to say another ‘yus’ but with the Indian’s eyes piercing him he was unable to.

  ‘You are, then, a tenant?’

  This time Ben managed a ‘yus.’

  ‘And to whom do you pay your rent?’ inquired the Indian.

  The inflexion was slightly acid. Ben
fought hard.

  ‘That’s my bizziness, ain’t it?’ he retorted.

  ‘If you pay rent, it is your business,’ agreed the Indian, with the faintest possible smile. ‘But—if you do not?’

  ‘Watcher mean?’

  ‘Then it would be—the police’s business?’

  Police, eh? Ben decided he was bungling it.

  ‘Look ’ere!’ he exclaimed. ‘When I said I was a tenant, like you arst, I didn’t know as ’ow you knew orl the words, see? Wot I meant was that I live ’ere, see?’

  ‘But you pay no rent?’

  ‘Corse I don’t. Don’t they ’ave no caretakers in your country? If you’ve come ter look over the ’ouse, say so, and I’ll fetch a candle, but if you ain’t, then I can’t do nothing for you.’

  The Indian considered the statement thoughtfully. Then he inquired:

  ‘And who engages you, may I ask, to take care of this beautiful house?’

  ‘No, yer mayn’t arsk!’

  ‘Pray oblige me. To whom do I write, to make an offer?’

  Ben was bunkered.

  ‘So we complete the circle,’ said the Indian impassively. ‘You live here, but you do not pay rent, and you fulfil no office. And it becomes, as I said, a matter of interest to the police. Do we understand each other, or must I speak more plainly?’

  ‘P’r’aps I could do a bit o’ pline speakin’!’ muttered Ben.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yus! P’r’aps I could arst yer ’oo yer are, and wot bizziness it is o’ yours, any’ow? People comin’ ’ere and torkin’ ter me as if I was dirt—’

  ‘People?’ interposed the Indian, his thin eyebrows suddenly rising. ‘Some one else, then, has been here—to inquire?’

  ‘Nobody’s bin ’ere,’ lied Ben. He did not know why he lied. Perhaps it was instinct, or perhaps he disliked telling the truth to one who was so bent on drawing it from him. ‘Nobody’s bin ’ere. I was speakin’—gen’ral, like.’ The Indian shrugged his shoulders, plainly unconvinced. ‘And now I’ll speak speshul, like. This ain’t my ’ouse—but is it your’n?’

  ‘It is not mine,’ answered the Indian.

  ‘Orl right, then! It’s goin’ ter be a nasty night, and I ain’t takin’ no horders from foreigners! See?’

  Whatever the Indian felt, his face did not show it. He merely regarded Ben a little more intensely, while Ben struggled to maintain his Dutch courage.

  The Indian did not speak for several seconds. Removing his eyes from Ben at last, he gazed at the hall and the staircase; then he brought his eyes back to Ben again.

  ‘It is going to be a very nasty night,’ he said, in an almost expressionless voice. ‘And you, my friend, will get out of it as quickly as you can. I speak for your good.’

  ‘Fer my good, eh?’ queried Ben, ‘Meanin’ yer love me, cocky?’

  Now something did enter the Indian’s expression. A sudden flash, like the glint of a knife. But it was gone in an instant.

  ‘You are nothing,’ said the Indian.

  ‘And so are you, with knobs on!’ barked Ben, and slammed the door.

  He had made a brave show, if not a wise one, but as soon as the door was closed he was seized with a fit of trembling. He backed to the stairs, and sat down on the bottom step. He wondered if the Indian was still standing outside, or whether he was walking away? He wondered whether he would really go for the police, and, if so, why? He wondered whether he had really shut him out? Indians were slippery customers, climbing up ropes that weren’t there and what not, and perhaps this one knew a trick or two, and could duck into a house when the door was slammed on him! He might be in the shadows, now. He might have sprung by Ben, and have got on to the stairs. He might be behind Ben, at this moment, bending over him with a knife poised to prick his neck!

  ‘Gawd!’ gasped Ben, and leapt to his feet.

  Nobody was on the staircase. Only shadows. It occurred to Ben that he had better go up himself, before his knees gave out. He went up, shakily. ‘’Ow I ’ate Injuns!’ he muttered. When he got back to his room, he sat down on the soap box, and thought.

  Of course, he had only been putting up a bluff. The wise thing to do would be to leave at once. Yes, even though the weather was getting worse and worse, and darkness was settling on the streets, choking out all their kindliness. Even though the wind was rising, still you didn’t know whether it was the wind or a dog, and the creaking ran up and down your spine.

  ‘Wot I can’t mike out,’ blinked Ben, ‘is wot I come up orl these stairs agin for at all!’

  Perhaps it was for his cap! Yes, one might as well keep one’s cap. He took it from under him. He had used it as a cushion. Then, dissatisfied with himself, and life, and the whole of God’s plan, he crept from the room and out into the passage.

  ‘If on’y it wasn’t fer that there creakin’!’ he muttered.

  Creak! Creak! The house seemed to have become populated with creaks! Perhaps he was making them himself? He paused, on the top stair. The creaks went on. Creak! Creak! Below him. And, once, a sort of slither. Like some one coming in through a window…A window! A back window! A back window that had been left open!

  Ben had been standing on the top stair. Now he found himself sitting on it. His knees had given out.

  There was no mistake about it! Some one had got in through the back window! Those creaks were not the mere complaint of a dying house. They were not just the moaning of bricks or the cracking up of decayed wood. Life was causing those creaks—life forming contact with death—movement outraging the static! In the more simple language that shames metaphor, some one was coming up.

  ‘’Ere—wotcher doin’?’ gasped Ben to himself.

  He caught hold of the rotting banister and heaved himself up. The banister just held. Then he sped back into his room, and waited.

  He waited with his eyes on the door. The door was half-open, and he did not close it because, had he done so, he could only have followed the creaks in his imagination, and they could have ascended to the door without his knowing it. Now, at least, he could listen to them, in the hope that they would come no closer…

  They came closer. Now they were on the lower stairs. Now a slight change in their character indicated the passage on the first floor. Hallo! They had stopped! What did that mean? Hallo; they hadn’t stopped! Where were they? Something was wrong somewhere…

  Something sounded immediately below him. First floor front! That’s where they were! Gone in! To look for him!

  Should he make a dash for it? If he was nippy he might get down the stairs, and then make a bunk for the back window below! Yes, if he was nippy…

  He jerked himself towards the half-open door. Then he stopped. He was too late. The creaks had started again. They were now on the last staircase. Creak! Creak!

  ‘I know!’ thought Ben. ‘I’ll ’it ’im!’

  He stood, galvanised. The creaks reached the landing. They reached the door. The door began to open…

  CHAPTER III

  BEN ACCEPTS A JOB

  SHOCKS have an inconsiderate habit of getting you both ways. If you expect a parson and receive a cannibal, or if you expect an Indian and receive a beautiful girl, the world spins round, just the same. What you really need is a nice quiet life, with breakfast, dinner and tea, and ordinary things in between.

  The beautiful girl who provided Ben with his present shock, and made him go all weak like, seemed quite as surprised to see Ben as he was to see her. There was, at least, equality of emotion, and that was something. Moreover, as he stared at her with mouth wide open (Ben never did his mouth by halves) and an exhibition of teeth that could not hold their own beside those she herself displayed, he began to discover certain other compensations in the situation. Item, her eyes. They really were rather a knock-out. The kind of eyes that made you feel sort of…Item, her hair. You couldn’t see much of it because of the natty little helmet hat she was wearing, but what you could see was good. Item, her nose. Now there was a nose fit for anybo
dy! Item, her mouth, and the teeth that put Ben’s incomplete army in the shade…Yes, as he stared at her and she, framed in the doorway, stared back, he realised that the world could spin quite agreeably.

  Still, one couldn’t stand staring all one’s life! What was she doing here? But it was the girl who recovered first and opened the attack.

  ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

  Ben spent half his life telling inquisitive people who he was, and he had a large assortage of answers. He had confessed to being everybody under the sun, from Lloyd George to Tom Thumb. But he did not think in the present circumstances he could improve on the answer he had given to his two other callers, so he murmured: ‘Caretaker, miss.’ And hoped for the best.

  ‘What—are you the caretaker of this house?’ exclaimed the girl, with unflattering incredulity.

  ‘That’s right,’ blinked Ben. ‘No. 29 Jowle Street.’

  He would prove he knew the number, anyway.

  ‘I see—it’s to let,’ said the girl slowly.

  ‘Yus,’ nodded Ben solemnly. ‘But you better not tike it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Carn’t yer see? Comin’ ter bits. Look at that there plarster!’

  He pointed to the ceiling. The girl smiled. Yes, her teeth were winners, and no mistake! Like rows of little gravestones. Noo ones, o’ corse…

  ‘If you’re really the caretaker here,’ she observed, ‘you’re not doing your duty very well. You oughtn’t to run the place down.’

  ‘It don’t need me to,’ retorted Ben. ‘It does it itself.’

  ‘I—I suppose you really are the caretaker?’

  Ben looked uncomfortable. He hated having to repeat things.

  ‘Why not?’ he hedged. ‘Come ter that, miss, one might arsk ’oo you was, comin’ in like this?’