The Hours Before Dawn

by Celia Fremlin

  ‘My little Michael; he must never know of all this. And yet, in my heart I hope that when he is a grown man he will somehow read these words, and know how his mother outwitted the whole fumbling, insensate lot of them!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Slowly it dawned on Louise that these last paragraphs, at any rate, were not the recollections and deductions of her own brain. She had been reading them. Reading them, though the light through the slates had faded to almost nothing half an hour ago. Reading them with no trouble at all, clear and black on the white paper….

  How long, then, had the sharp yellow light been shining up through the hole in the plaster? Not, certainly, the whole time she had been here. When she had first reached for the diary, the hole had been a jagged blackness by her elbow. While she had been crouching here, absorbed – maybe half dreaming in the grip of that accursed drowsiness – someone had switched the light on in the room below. Someone had opened the cupboard door; had peered, perhaps, right up into Louise’s unconscious face; and had then silently crept away, leaving the cupboard door open, the light on.

  Or had she crept away? Could she still be there, silent as a beast of prey, somewhere in the blaze of light below?

  Louise lay very still. A few minutes ago she had been feeling such an ache of pity for this woman, it was odd that now she should be feeling such fear. Or was it odd? It’s something to do with her feeling she is so strong, thought Louise, with a confused sense of having hit upon some eternal truth; and then a little flutter of falling dust made her check all further thought; as if even the movements of her brain might make a sound that could be heard from the room below.

  For the room below was so quiet. Quiet as it would be if someone waited there, alone and purposeful. But quiet, too, as it would be if no one was there at all. As it would be if the occupant had simply gone away; gone downstairs to Michael’s room, and was even now wrapping him furtively in a blanket….

  But when Louise reached his room, panting and half-choked with dust, she found Michael still in his cot, asleep. Beautifully, arrogantly, asleep, an utter abandonment of trust displayed in every outspread limb.

  Dare she leave him, even for a moment, to go downstairs – to find Mark? But suppose Mark didn’t believe her – as he hadn’t believed her about the lost pram? Suppose he thought she had been dreaming again? Was overwrought – crazy? What a fool she had been not to have brought the diary with her as she clambered back over the rafters; but at the time there had been only one thought in her mind: to get to Michael.

  Footsteps. Voices. Vera Brandon and Mark walking upstairs together.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit late?’ Louise heard Mark say; and then Vera Brandon’s voice, too low for Louise to hear her words, though the mounting, barely suppressed excitement was unmistakable.

  Louise’s first impulse was to rush out on to the landing and pour out the whole story to Mark then and there, regardless of his companion. But even as she moved towards the door; she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Plaster in her hair. Black streaks of dust all over her white face and rumpled dress; her eyes wide with fear. She looked like a mad woman. Whatever doubts Miss Brandon was instilling into Mark’s mind about his wife’s sanity would be reinforced a thousandfold by such an apparition. She hesitated….

  They had reached the landing now.

  ‘Oh – well – just a few minutes, then.’ Mark’s voice came clearly to her. ‘Your coffee is something I can’t resist’; and a second later the footsteps had begun to mount the attic stairs. Miss Brandon’s door closed behind them.

  Well, it was too late now. Anyway, it was far better to wait for a chance to talk to Mark alone. It would be well-nigh impossible to make the story sound plausible, let alone convincing, in Miss Brandon’s hostile presence.

  Indeed, it was beginning to seem implausible even to Louise herself, now that the first shock was wearing off. Could she, somehow, have made some idiotic mistake about it all …?

  She caught sight of herself once again in the mirror. Clearly, the first thing to do was to make herself fit to be seen; to wash her face, take off these dusty, plastery clothes. In fact, she might as well get into her nightdress and wait for Mark in bed. Their bedroom was right underneath Miss Brandon’s, so she would hear at once when Mark came out of her room. She could straight away run out and call to him. They would fetch Michael and settle him in the safety of their own bed, and then, secure from Miss Brandon’s denials and explanations, they could decide what to do.

  Louise felt suddenly at peace as she reached this decision; and it was only after she had got into bed to wait for Mark that it dawned on her to wonder what, exactly, Vera Brandon would do now.

  For she knew, now, that Louise had read the diary, there could be no doubt about that. Would she simply destroy the document, and then hope to convince Mark that Louise had made up or imagined the whole thing? That it was all part and parcel of her odd behaviour lately? But Mark surely would not simply take her word for it against Louise’s without at least some sort of investigation? Besides, how could she destroy the diary – a stout, sturdy little volume – either now, with Mark up in the room with her, or later in the night when, having heard the story, he would certainly be asking and searching for this vital proof?

  Well, what would she do, then?

  As Louise lay there, listening to the murmur of voices and the faint padding of footsteps above her head, she felt a curious stiffening of her muscles – a something less than a throbbing in her head, and she knew that she was afraid.

  But it was silly to be afraid. Soon Mark would know the whole story, and they could act together. Meantime, nothing could happen, not while he was himself upstairs with Vera Brandon. All the while she could hear voices through the ceiling, she was safe, and Michael was safe. There was nothing to worry about at all.

  And the talk from up above showed no signs of ceasing. On and on it went … rising … falling … jolting up and down … up and down … like a carriage on a stony road….

  Louise woke with a curious roaring in her ears, and her first thought was that there was a storm, and she was listening to the dying away of thunder. But no; it was only Mark, snoring beside her in the darkness. Snoring heavily – noisily – it was most unusual for him, and Louise lay listening stupidly, half-dreaming, and wholly forgetful of what had passed before she fell asleep. Forgetful and yet still somehow uneasy … what could be the matter?

  Michael crying, of course. Michael crying because it was two o’clock in the morning, and the long night’s ritual must begin.

  Dressing-gown. Stairs. Feed. Scullery. Louise had gone through the whole performance almost in her sleep before she began, slowly, to recall the events of the previous evening. Her feet propped on the mangle, the tap dripping behind her, she began gradually to realise not only the danger, but also the absurdity of her situation. Upstairs, her avowed and deliberate enemy was planning who knew what; and here was she blindly, mechanically putting herself to great trouble to ensure that enemy a good night’s sleep! For that was the original point of these kitchen vigils – not to disturb the new tenant!

  Ridiculous, then, to sit in this dank, tealeafy cold. She would take Michael upstairs at once, and soothe him in warmth and comfort….

  Louise’s head had fallen forward a little as she reached this decision. Her shoulder, leaning against the draining-board, twitched slightly as she fancied herself reaching out for the banisters with her free hand. Her foot on the mangle stirred as she dreamed she set it on the first step of the stair. The tap dripped; the dim square of the barred window outlined the mistier darkness of the night; and if there was a sound from beyond the kitchen door; if there was the faintest whisper of an indrawn breath, then Louise did not hear it; for by now she was deep in her dream, the dream from which it seemed there could be no waking.

  For the stairs went on and on. Flight after flight, winding up into a darkness that was not quite darkness, bringing her nearer and nearer to a nightma
re that was not quite a nightmare; for even in her dream, she knew that this time the nightmare would be real.

  The face would be there, its great teeth shown in tears or laughter; it could make no difference which, for the noise would be the same. A hissing noise, so faint, at first, that you might think it was your own weary breath as you plodded round the bends of the stairs. But soon you knew it was not so. It was another breath, and it was coming from above … hissing through the bared teeth with a hatred that went beyond human speech. Louder it came, and louder; it was coming in coils now, in spirals, winding, pulling, dragging at your arms, your shoulders, loosening your fingers on the banister and smothering you in the sickly smell that you knew, now, was the smell of death; death, which would be a crashing for ever back down those thunderous stairs….

  Louise gave a great cry as she woke, and jumped to her feet. But somehow it went wrong; for as she jumped the scullery floor swooped to meet her, and she heard the blow of stone against her skull.

  She lay for a moment, wondering that she felt no pain. If you dream of falling, then you must wake before you hit the ground, or you will wake up dead! Which jovial uncle had it been who had stored her infant mind with this particular piece of lore? But he must have been right. That would explain why she felt no pain.

  No, but this wasn’t a dream. The dream was over, she was back in the scullery, the place of wakening. But if she was awake, then why was there still the hissing and the roaring; why still the sickening, deathly smell…?

  ‘I’m being gassed!’

  The suddenness of the realisation seemed to revive her, for she struggled to a sitting position; and in the same moment she knew that Michael was gone.

  If only this thundering in her head would stop, then she would know how to find him. She staggered into the kitchen, and began to look for the door. Yes, to look for the door, although the light was on bright and full. All this tangle of chairs was the trouble; this whirl of legged and cornered wooden objects, banging, jabbing, twining round her ankles as she tried to move.

  ‘Mark!’ she tried to cry; but her voice seemed hoarse and dream-like. ‘Mark!’ she cried again, louder; and this time a hand came over her mouth and she was pushed, light as a toy balloon, backwards into a chair.

  Vera Brandon’s face swayed before her like a face deep down beneath rippling water.

  ‘It’s no use calling Mark,’ – the words came to Louise’s ears with a curious lilting quality, as the ringing in her head rose and fell: ‘It’s no use calling, I’ve seen to it that he will sleep soundly tonight – Oh, very soundly. No one will be surprised. You’ve done some very odd things lately, they all know that.’

  ‘Mark!’ screamed Louise again; ‘Mark! Mark!’ – and her voice seemed to gain strength as she fought with the hands that restrained her: ‘MARK!’

  And then there came a tapping on the wall. Mrs Philips had been woken up again.

  ‘It will surprise no one,’ the relentless voice went on. ‘Drugging your husband, doing away with your baby, and then gassing yourself – it’s only what they’re all expecting!’

  ‘Doing away with my baby – what have you done?’ screamed Louise; and the tapping on the wall began again, more peremptorily. Vera Brandon laughed into her face.

  ‘Even while you’re being murdered, you’re still scared of annoying Mrs Philips!’ she mocked; and then: ‘He’s not your baby. He’s mine. You know that now.’

  ‘He isn’t! You’re crazy! Where have you got him? It’ll kill him – all this gas!’ Louise tried once more to get to her feet, but again the hard hand pushed her back.

  ‘Stay there, you poor little rat!’ hissed the voice above her. ‘I shall hold you here till you’re dead! It won’t take long to kill you, you poor, feeble thing. Gosh, it’s like drowning a kitten!’ …

  Afterwards, Louise learned that the explosion had been heard from many streets away. She herself heard no sound. She only saw the sheet of flame that leapt like a radiant blind across the window curtains, and then roared upwards and outwards into the night.

  And then she was out in the hall … she was up the stairs…. The other woman was behind her … in front of her … behind her again, and there was a shouting and a crying, and Mark, half stupefied as he was, was out of bed, bundling the little girls downstairs.

  Louise could not remember how she guessed that Michael would be in his cot. But he was there, rather white, and deeply sleeping.

  Round and round in a great blanket she rolled him; and it seemed to her that other arms were rolling another blanket, right beside her, helping in some queer way. And the weight was nothing … nothing! She could float, she could skim with him through the smoke and down the stairs; so wonderful a thing is fear.

  They were all out, all five of them; and the dressing-gowned neighbours were gathering like bees to listen to the crackling, to watch for the little spurts of flame.

  ‘Miss Brandon! Is she out? Has anyone seen her?’ cried Louise; and at the same moment they all saw her. Slowly, clumsily in the flickering light she was clambering over the sill of the attic landing window. In seconds, it seemed, a group of neighbours had a blanket outstretched.

  ‘Jump!’ they shouted. ‘Jump for it!’

  But Miss Brandon would not jump. She seemed to be wrestling with some burden … something that would not come easily through the window….

  ‘Jump!’ yelled the crowd again. ‘Jump! Jump!’

  But again the dark figure paused … struggled … and by now, by the flaring light from within, everyone could see with what she was struggling.

  It was a bundle of bedclothes. Cot blankets – eiderdown – pillow.

  ‘Baby’s here! He’s safe!’ yelled Louise; and the crowd took up the cry:

  ‘He’s here!’ ‘He’s safe!’ ‘It’s only blankets!’ ‘Leave it!’ ‘Drop it!’ ‘Jump!’

  Had Vera Brandon not heard? Or had she failed to understand the words? Or had she, in this last moment of her life, gone back to a time where speech has as yet no meaning; a time where the smell, the warmth of a baby’s sleeping place is the baby, for no words, no reason, have yet drawn lines this way and that across the material world?

  It was only for one more second that the hunched figure toppled and swayed upon the windowsill. Then it tipped backwards, and fell, like an overbalanced sack, into the blazing space behind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The same set of people, filling the suburban sitting-room with the same air of expectant curiosity, just as they had done that evening forty-eight hours before. Only this time it was Miss Larkins’ sitting-room; it was Miss Larkins who presided over the tea-trolley, apportioning milk and sugar; sorting out teaspoons; commiserating with those of her guests who could have been knocked down with a feather when they heard of the disaster; nodding her head sagely with those who had seen it coming all along.

  Miss Larkins was in her glory, and she deserved it; for it was she who had taken the Hendersons in on the night of the fire; it was she who had volunteered to accommodate them until they had decided what to do; and it was she, with the somewhat lethargic help of Edna, who had rearranged the house to make room for all five of them. And she was willing – indeed ‘willing’ hardly describes the extent of her overflowing eagerness – to keep open house for whichever of their friends were brought by concern or curiosity to her door. Edna was a little less enthusiastic about the arrangement, for it involved a lot of walking backwards and forwards; but even she was willing enough, this evening, to sit on the low stool by the window and listen to the whole, the complete story of The Fire.

  For the whole story was known now. Mrs Morgan, with a little trifling help from police and other experts, had pieced it all together and passed it over the wall in its entirety. Miss Brandon was a bad lot, of course; everybody had known that, except for the people who had thought her such a respectable woman, and couldn’t get over the shock of it all. But she was clever, too; there was no getting away from it. Her plan for ge
tting possession of the child had been most ingenious. A few days before Easter she had taken a job as housekeeper to a professional couple in an outer suburb; and from the point of view of her employers she had been residing there, with her baby, all the time. True, they had only actually seen the child twice – once on that evening when Louise had left him in charge of Edna (who had since admitted that she had not been to look at him at all, since he had seemed so quiet) – and once on Bank Holiday Friday, when Miss Brandon had boldly abducted him from the fair, confident that the episode would be glossed over by all parties because of Louise’s previous humiliating encounter with the police.

  But twice was enough for these preoccupied employers; why, indeed, should they expect to see the housekeeper’s baby very often when they went out early in the morning and only came back after he might be expected to be asleep? To have seen him occasionally; to find constant signs of his presence in the form of drying nappies on the line, a pram in the kitchen – all the nursery paraphernalia which Miss Brandon had been careful to make noticeable – all this was quite enough to make them certain that a baby was living there. Their only feeling was one of relief that the child seemed to be so little in evidence and made so little noise.

  Nor did they concern themselves about what their housekeeper did in her free time; they neither knew nor cared that in the evenings after her work was done she hurried straightway out of the house and back to her former home, returning to work very early the next morning. Thus, if she had finally succeeded in stealing the child, no possible suspicion could fall on this model housekeeper. If kidnapping was suspected at all, the suspect would be someone who had suddenly appeared in possession of a baby just after Michael’s disappearance, not someone who was positively known to have owned one before. And meantime the schoolteacher Miss Brandon would have officially left her job and ‘gone abroad’ (as she had stated earlier, in front of a roomful of witnesses, that she intended to do); and this official departure would, no doubt, have been arranged not to coincide too closely with the disappearance of the baby.