by John Wyndham
She could see Miss Lamb leaning forward with a handkerchief pressed to her eyes while kindly Mrs Brant beside her tried to comfort her. Nor was Miss Lamb by any means the only one finding relief in tears. Over those bent heads the sound of voices, incredulous, high-pitched with consternation and indignation, grew. Here and there, one or two were behaving a little hysterically, but there was nothing like the outburst she had feared. She wondered to what extent an inkling awareness had blunted the shock.
With a feeling of relief and rising confidence she went on observing them for several minutes. When she decided that the first impact had had long enough to register, she rapped the table. The murmurs died away, there were a few sniffs, and then rows of expectant faces turned towards her once more. Angela took a deep breath, and started in again.
‘Nobody,’ she said, ‘nobody but a child, or a child-minded person, expects life to be fair. It is not, and this is going to be harder on some of us than on others. Nevertheless, fair or unfair, whether we like it or not, we are all of us, married and single alike, in the same boat. There is no ground for, and consequently no place for, disparagement of some of us by others. All of us have been placed outside the conventions, and if any married woman here is tempted to consider herself more virtuous than her unmarried neighbour, she might do well to consider how, if she were challenged, she could prove that the child she now carries is her husband’s child.
‘This is a thing that has happened to all of us. We must make it bind us together for the good of all. There is no blame upon any of us, so there must be no differentiation between us, except –’ She paused, and then repeated: ‘Except that those who have not the love of a husband to help them will have more need of our sympathy and care.’
She continued to elaborate that for a while until she hoped it had made its mark. Then she turned to another aspect.
‘This,’ she told them forcefully, ‘is our affair – there could not well be any matter more personal to each of us. I am sure, and I think you will agree with me, that it should remain so. It is for us to handle, ourselves; without outside interference.
‘You must all know how the cheap papers seize upon anything to do with birth, particularly anything unusual. They make a peepshow of it, as if the people concerned were freaks in a fairground. The parents’ lives, their homes, their children, are no longer their own.
‘We have all read of one instance of a multiple birth where the papers took it up, then the medical profession backed by the government, with the result that the parents were virtually deprived of their own children quite soon after they were born.
‘Well I, for one, do not intend to lose my child that way, and I expect and hope that all of you will feel the same. Therefore, unless we want to have, first, a great deal of unpleasantness – for I warn you that if this should become generally known it will be argued in every club and pub, with a great many nasty insinuations – unless then, we want to be exposed to that, and then to the very real probability that our babies will be taken away from us on one excuse or another by doctors and scientists, we must, every one of us, resolve not to mention, or even hint outside the village, at the present state of affairs. It is in our power to see that it remains Midwich’s affair, to be managed, not as some newspaper, or Ministry, decides, but as the people of Midwich themselves wish it decided.
‘If people in Trayne, or elsewhere, are inquisitive, or strangers come here asking questions, we must, for our babies’ sakes, and our own, tell them nothing. But we must not simply be silent and secretive, as if we were concealing something. We must make it seem that there is nothing unusual in Midwich at all. If we all cooperate, and our men are made to understand that they must cooperate too, no interest will be aroused, and people will leave us alone – as they should do. It is not their business, it is ours. There is no one, no one at all who has a better right, or a higher duty, to protect our children from exploitation than we who are to be their mothers.’
She surveyed them steadily, almost individually once more, as she had at the start. Then she concluded:
‘I shall now ask the Vicar and Dr Willers to come back. If you will excuse me for a few minutes I will join them here later. I know there must be a great many questions you are wanting to ask.’
She slipped off into the little room at the side.
‘Excellent, Mrs Zellaby. Really excellent,’ said Mr Leebody.
Dr Willers took her hand, and pressed it.
‘I think you’ve done it, my dear,’ he told her, as he followed the vicar on to the platform.
Zellaby guided her to a chair. She sat down, and leant back with her eyes closed. Her face was pale, and she looked exhausted.
‘I think you’d better come home,’ he told her.
She shook her head.
‘No, I’ll be all right in a few minutes. I must go back.’
‘They can manage. You’ve done your part, and very well, too.’
She shook her head again.
‘I know what those women must be feeling. This is absolutely crucial, Gordon. We’ve got to let them ask questions and talk – talk as long as they like. Then they’ll have got over the first shock by the time they go. They’ve got to get used to the idea. A feeling of mutual support is what they need. I know – I want it, too.’
She put a hand to her head, and pushed back her hair.
‘You know, it isn’t true, Gordon, what I said just now.’
‘Which part, my dear? You said a lot, you know.’
‘About my being glad and happy. Two days ago it was quite, quite true. I wanted the baby, yours and mine, so very much. Now I’m frightened about it – I’m frightened, Gordon.’
He tightened his arm round her shoulders. She rested her head against his, with a sigh.
‘My dear, my dear,’ he said, stroking her hair gently. ‘It’s going to be all right. We’ll look after you.’
‘Not to know,’ she exclaimed. ‘To know there’s something growing there – and not to be sure how, or what.… It’s so – so abasing, Gordon. It makes me feel like an animal.’
He kissed her cheek softly, and went on stroking her hair.
‘You’re not to worry,’ he told her. ‘I’m prepared to bet that when he or she comes you’ll take one look and say: “Oh dear, there’s that Zellaby nose.” But, if not, we face it together. You’re not alone, my dear, you must never feel that you are alone. I’m here, and Willers is here. We’re here to help you, always, all the time.’
She turned her head, and kissed him.
‘Gordon, darling,’ she said. Then she pulled away and sat up. ‘I must get back,’ she announced.
Zellaby gazed after her a moment. Then he moved a chair closer to the unclosed door, lit a cigarette, and settled himself to listen critically to the mood of the village as it showed in its questions.
CHAPTER 10
Midwich Comes to Terms
THE task for January was to cushion the shock and steer the reactions, and thus to establish an attitude. The initiation meeting could be considered a success. It let the air in, and a lot of anxiety out; and the audience, tackled while it was still in a semi-stunned condition, had for the most part accepted the suggestion of communal solidarity and responsibility.
It was only to be expected that a few individuals should hold aloof, but they were no more anxious than the rest to have their private lives invaded and exposed, and their roads jammed with motor-coaches while goggling loads of sightseers peered in at their windows. Moreover, it was not difficult for the two or three who hankered for limelight to perceive that the village was in a mood to subdue any active non-cooperator by boycott. And if Mr Wilfred Williams thought a little wistfully at times of the trade that might have come to The Scythe and Stone, he proved a staunch supporter – and sensitive to the requirements of longer-term goodwill.
Once the bewilderment of the first impact had been succeeded by the feeling that there were capable hands at the helm; when the pendulum-swing among the yo
ung unmarried women from frightened wretchedness to smug bumptiousness had settled down; and when an air of readiness to turn-to, not vastly dissimilar from that which preceded the annual fête and flower-show, began to be apparent, the self-appointed committee could feel that at least it had succeeded in getting things on to the right lines.
The original Committee of the Willers, the Leebodys, the Zellabys, and Nurse Daniels, had been augmented by ourselves, and also by Mr Arthur Crimm who had been co-opted to represent the interests of several indignant researchers at The Grange who now found themselves embroiled, willy-nilly, in the domestic life of Midwich.
But though the feeling at the committee meeting held some five days after the Village Hall meeting could be fairly summarized as ‘so far, so good’, members were well aware that the achievement could not be left to take care of itself. The attitude that had been successfully induced might, it was felt, slip back all too easily into normal conventional prejudices if it were not carefully tended. For some time, at least, it would have to be sustained and fortified.
‘What we need to produce,’ Angela summed up, ‘is something like the companionship of adversity, but without suggesting that it is an adversity – which, indeed, as far as we know, it is not.’
The sentiment gained the approval of everyone but Mrs Leebody, who looked doubtful.
‘But,’ she said hesitantly, ‘I think we ought to be honest, you know.’
The rest of us looked at her inquiringly. She went on:
‘Well, I mean, it is an adversity, isn’t it? After all, a thing like this wouldn’t happen to us for no reason, would it? There must be a reason; so isn’t it our duty to search for it?’
Angela regarded her with a small, puzzled frown.
‘I don’t think I quite understand.…’ she said.
‘Well,’ explained Mrs Leebody, ‘when things – unusual things like this – suddenly happen to a community there is a reason. I mean, look at the plagues of Egypt, and Sodom and Gomorrah, and that kind of thing.’
There was a pause. Zellaby felt impelled to relieve the awkwardness.
‘For my part,’ he observed, ‘I regard the plagues of Egypt as an unedifying example of celestial bullying; a technique now known as power-politics. As for Sodom –’ He broke off and subsided as he caught his wife’s eye.
‘Er –’ said the vicar, since something seemed to be expected of him. ‘Er –’
Angela came to his rescue.
‘I really don’t think you need worry about that, Mrs Leebody. Barrenness is, of course, a classical form of curse; but I really can’t remember any instance where retribution took the form of fruitfulness. After all, it scarcely seems reasonable, does it?’
‘That would depend on the fruit,’ Mrs Leebody said, darkly.
Another uneasy silence followed. Everybody, except Mr Leebody, regarded Mrs Leebody. Dr Willers’ eyes swivelled to catch those of Nurse Daniels, and then went back to Dora Leebody who showed no discomfort at being the centre of attention. She glanced round at all of us in an apologetic manner.
‘I am sorry, but I am afraid I am the cause of it all,’ she confided.
‘Mrs Leebody –’ the doctor began.
She raised her hand reprovingly.
‘You are kind,’ she said. ‘I know you want to spare me. But there is a time for confession. I am a sinner, you see. If I had had my child twelve years ago, none of this would have happened. Now I must pay for my sin by bearing a child that is not my husband’s. It is all quite clear. I am very sorry to have brought this down on the rest of you. But it is a judgement, you see. Just like the plagues.…’
The vicar, flushed and troubled, broke in before she could continue: ‘I think – er – perhaps if you will excuse us –’
There was a general pushing back of chairs. Nurse Daniels crossed quietly to Mrs Leebody’s side, and began a conversation with her. Dr Willers watched them for a moment until he became aware of Mr Leebody beside him, mutely inquiring. He laid a hand reassuringly on the vicar’s shoulder.
‘It has been a shock to her. Not surprising at all. I fully expected a number of cases before this. I’ll get Nurse Daniels to see her home and give her a sedative. Very likely a good sleep will make all the difference. I’ll look in tomorrow morning.’
A few minutes later we dispersed, in a subdued and thoughtful mood.
∗
The policy advocated by Angela Zellaby was carried out with considerable success. The latter part of January saw the introduction of such a programme of social activities and helpful neighbourliness as we felt would leave only the most determined non-cooperators with the isolation, or the time, to brood.
In late February I was able to report to Bernard that things were going, on the whole, smoothly – more smoothly, at any rate than we had dared to hope at first. There had been a few sags in the graph of local confidence, and would doubtless be others, but, so far, recoveries had been speedy. I gave him details of the happenings in the village since my last report, but information regarding the attitude and views prevailing at The Grange which he had asked for I could not supply. Either the researchers were of the opinion that the affair somehow came within the compass of their oaths of secrecy, or else they were of the opinion that it was safer to act as if it did.
Mr Crimm continued to be their only link with the village, and it seemed to me that to get any more information I must either have authority to reveal to him the official nature of my interest, or Bernard would have to tackle him himself. Bernard preferred the latter course, and a meeting was arranged for Mr Crimm’s next visit to London.
He called in on us on the way back, feeling at liberty to spill some of his troubles, which seemed to be largely concerned with his Establishments Section.
‘They do so worship tidiness,’ he complained. ‘I just don’t know what we are going to do when my six problems start to raise matters of allowances and absences, and make an undisguisable mess of their nice tidy leave-rosters. And then, too, there’ll be the effect on our work schedule. I put it to Colonel Westcott that if his Department really is seriously concerned to keep the matter quiet, they’ll only be able to do it by stepping in officially, at a high level. Otherwise, we shall have to give explanations before long. I think he sees my point there. But, for the life of me, I can’t see why that particular aspect should be of such interest to M.I., can you?’
‘Now that is a pity,’ Janet told him. ‘One of our hopes when we heard that you were going to see him was that you might learn enough to enlighten us.’
∗
Life appeared to be going on smoothly enough in Midwich for the present, but it was only a little later that one of the undercurrents broke surface, and gave us a flutter of anxiety.
After the committee meeting which she had brought to a premature close, Mrs Leebody ceased, not altogether surprisingly, to play any further active part in the promotion of village harmony. When she did reappear after a few days’ rest, she seemed to have recovered her balance by a decision to regard the whole unfortunate situation as a distasteful subject.
On one of the early days in March, however, the Vicar of St Mary’s, in Trayne, accompanied by his wife, brought her home in their car. They had found her, he reported to Mr Leebody, with some embarrassment, preaching in Trayne market, from an upturned box.
‘Er – preaching?’ said Mr Leebody, a new uneasiness mingling with his concern. ‘I – er – can you tell me what about?’
‘Oh, well – well quite fantastical, I’m afraid,’ the Vicar of St Mary’s told him, evasively.
‘But I think I ought to know. The doctor will be sure to ask about it when he arrives.’
‘Well – er – it was in the nature of a call to repentance; on a note of – er – revivalist doom. The people of Trayne must repent and pray forgiveness for fear of wrath, retribution, and hellfire. Rather nonconformist, I’m afraid. Lurid, you know. And, it seems, they must particularly avoid having anything to do with the people of Midw
ich who are already suffering under divine disapproval. If the Trayne people do not take heed, and mend their ways, punishment will inevitably descend on them, too.’
‘Oh,’ said Mr Leebody, keeping his tone level. ‘She did not say what form our suffering here is taking?’
‘A visitation,’ the Vicar of St Mary’s told him. ‘Specifically, the infliction of a plague of – er – babies. That, of course, was causing some degree of ribaldry. A lamentable business altogether. Of course, once my wife had drawn my attention to Mrs Leebody’s – er – condition, the matter became more intelligible, though still more distressing. I – oh, here is Dr Willers, now.’ He broke off with relief.
∗
A week later, in the middle of the afternoon, Mrs Leebody took up a position on the lowest step of the War Memorial, and began to speak. She was dressed for the occasion in a garment of hessian, her feet were bare, and there was a smudge of ash on her forehead. Fortunately there were not many people about at the time, and she was persuaded home again by Mrs Brant before she had well begun. Word was all round the village in an hour, but her message, whatever it may have been, remained undelivered.
Midwich heard the quickly following news of Dr Willers’ recommendation to rest in a nursing-home with sympathy rather than surprise.
∗
About mid-March Alan and Ferrelyn made their first visit since their marriage. With Ferrelyn putting in the time until Alan’s release in a small Scottish town entirely among strangers, Angela had been against causing her worry by attempting to explain the Midwich state of affairs in a letter; so, now, it had to be laid before them.
Alan’s expression of concern deepened as the predicament was explained. Ferrelyn listened without interruption, but with a swift glance now and then at Alan’s face. It was she who broke the silence that followed.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘I had a sort of feeling all along that there was something funny. I mean, it oughtn’t –’ she broke off, struck apparently by an ancillary thought. ‘Oh, how dreadful! I kind of shot-gunned poor Alan. This probably makes it coercion, or undue influence, or something heinous. Could it be grounds for divorce? Oh, dear. Do you want a divorce, darling?’