by John Wyndham
Dr Willers nodded emphatically several times.
‘That’s right. Perfect,’ he repeated, with another nod. ‘’Cept for golden eyes. Golden eyes are all right. Perfect.… Lambs, my dear, lambs may safely graze… safely graze.… Oh, God, I’m tired, Milly.…’
∗
A month later Gordon Zellaby found himself pacing the floor of the waiting-room in Trayne’s best nursing-home, and forced himself to stop it and sit down. It was a ridiculous way to behave at his age, he told himself. Very proper in a young man, no doubt, but the last few weeks had brought the fact that he was no longer a young man rather forcibly to his notice. He felt about twice the age he had a year ago. Nevertheless, when, ten minutes later, a nurse rustled starchily in, she found him pacing the room again.
‘It is a boy, Mr Zellaby,’ she said. ‘And I have Mrs Zellaby’s special instructions to tell you he has the Zellaby nose.’
CHAPTER 12
Harvest Home
ON a fine afternoon in the last week of July, Gordon Zellaby, emerging from the post office, encountered a small family-party coming from the church. It centred about a girl who carried a baby wrapped in a white woollen shawl. She looked very young to be the baby’s mother; scarcely more than a schoolgirl. Zellaby beamed benevolently upon the group and received their smiles in return, but when they had passed his eyes followed the child carrying her child, a little sadly.
As he approached the lych-gate, the Reverend Hubert Leebody came down the path.
‘Hullo, Vicar. Still signing up the recruits, I see,’ he said.
Mr Leebody greeted him, nodded, and fell into step beside him.
‘It’s easing off now, though,’ he said. ‘Only two or three more to come.’
‘Making it one hundred per cent?’
‘Very nearly. I must confess I had scarcely expected that, but I fancy they feel that though it can’t exactly regularize matters, it does go some way towards it. I’m glad they do.’ He paused reflectively. ‘This one,’ he went on, ‘young Mary Histon, she’s chosen the name Theodore. Chose it all on her own, I gather. And I must say I rather like that.’
Zellaby considered for a moment, and nodded.
‘So do I, Vicar. I like it very much. And, you know, that embodies no mean tribute to you.’
Mr Leebody looked pleased, but shook his head.
‘Not to me,’ he said. ‘That a child like Mary should want to call her baby “the gift of God” instead of being ashamed of it is a tribute to the whole village.’
‘But the village had to be shown how, in the name of humanity, it ought to behave.’
‘Teamwork,’ said the Vicar. ‘Teamwork, with a fine captain in Mrs Zellaby.’
They continued for a few paces in silence, then Zellaby said:
‘Nevertheless, the fact remains that, however the girl takes it, she has been robbed. She has been swept suddenly from childhood into womanhood. I find that saddening. No chance to stretch her wings. She has to miss the age of true poetry.’
‘One would like to agree – but, in point of fact, I doubt it,’ said Mr Leebody. ‘Not only are poets, active or passive, rather rare, but it suits more temperaments than our times like to pretend to go straight from dolls to babies.’
Zellaby shook his head regretfully.
‘I expect you’re right. All my life I have deplored the Teutonic view of women, and all my life ninety per cent of them have been showing me that they don’t mind it a bit.’
‘There are some who certainly have not been robbed of anything,’ Mr Leebody pointed out.
‘You’re right. I’ve just been looking in on Miss Ogle. She hasn’t. Still a bit bewildered, perhaps, but delighted too. You’d think it was all some kind of conjuring trick she had invented for herself, without knowing how.’
He paused, and then went on: ‘My wife tells me that Mrs Leebody will be home in a few days. We were most happy to hear that.’
‘Yes. The doctors are very pleased. She’s made a wonderful recovery.’
‘And the baby is doing well?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Leebody, a shade unhappily. ‘She adores the baby.’
He paused at a gate which gave entrance to the garden of a large cottage set well back from the road.
‘Ah, yes,’ Zellaby nodded. ‘And how is Miss Foresham?’
‘Very busy at the moment. A new litter. She still maintains that a baby is less interesting than puppies, but I think I notice a weakening of conviction.’
‘There are signs of that even in the most indignant,’ Zellaby agreed. ‘For my part, however, that is as a male, I must admit to finding things a bit flat and after-the-battle.’
‘It has been a battle,’ agreed Mr Leebody, ‘but battles, after all, are just the highlights of a campaign. There are more to come.’
Zellaby looked at him more attentively. Mr Leebody went on:
‘Who are these children? There’s something about the way they look at one with those curious eyes. They are – strangers, you know.’ He hesitated, and added: ‘I realize it is not a way of thinking that will commend itself to you, but I find myself continually returning to the idea that this must be some kind of test.’
‘But by whom, of whom?’ said Zellaby.
Mr Leebody shook his head.
‘Possibly we shall never know. Though it has already shown itself something of a test of us here. We could have rejected the situation that was thrust upon us, but we accepted it as our own concern.’
‘One hopes,’ said Zellaby, ‘one hopes that we did right.’
Mr Leebody looked startled.
‘But what else – ?’
‘I don’t know. How is one to know with – strangers?’
Presently they parted; Mr Leebody to make his call, Zellaby to continue his stroll, with a thoughtful air. Not until he was approaching the Green did his attention turn outward, and then it was caught by Mrs Brinkman, still at some distance. One moment she was hurrying along towards him behind a new and shiny perambulator; the next, she had stopped dead, and was looking down into it in a helpless, troubled fashion. Then she picked the baby up and carried it the few yards to the War Memorial. There she sat down on the second step, unbuttoned her blouse, and held the baby to her.
Zellaby continued his stroll. As he drew near he raised his somewhat ramshackle hat. An expression of annoyance came over Mrs Brinkman’s face, and a suffusion of pink, but she did not move. Then, as if he had spoken, she said defensively:
‘Well, it’s natural enough, isn’t it?’
‘My dear lady, it’s classical. One of the great symbols.’ Zellaby assured her.
‘Then go away,’ she told him, and abruptly began to weep.
Zellaby hesitated. ‘Is there anything I can – ?’
‘Yes. Go away,’ she repeated. ‘You don’t think I want to make an exhibition of myself, do you?’ she added, tearfully.
Zellaby was still irresolute.
‘She’s hungry,’ Mrs Brinkman said. ‘You’d understand if yours was one of the Dayout babies. Now, will you please go away!’
It did not seem the moment to pursue the matter further. Zellaby lifted his hat once more, and did as he was required. He went on, with a puzzled frown on his brow as he realized that somewhere he had missed a trick; something had been kept from him.
Half-way up the drive to Kyle Manor the sound of a car behind made him draw in to the side for it to pass. It did not pass, however. It drew up beside him. Turning, he saw not the tradesman’s van he had assumed it to be, but a small black car with Ferrelyn at the wheel.
‘My dear,’ he said, ‘how nice to see you. I had no idea you were coming. I wish they wouldn’t forget to tell me things.’
But Ferrelyn did not give him smile for smile. Her face, a little pale, remained tired-looking.
‘Nobody had any idea I was coming – not even me. I didn’t intend to come.’ She looked down at the baby in the carry-cot on the passenger seat beside her. ‘He made me come,’ she said.<
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CHAPTER 13
Midwich Centrocline
ON the following day there returned to Midwich, first, Dr Margaret Haxby from Norwich, with baby. Miss Haxby was no longer on the staff of The Grange, having resigned two months before, nevertheless it was to The Grange she went, demanding accommodation. Two hours later came Miss Diana Dawson, from the neighbourhood of Gloucester, also with baby, also demanding accommodation. She presented slightly less of a problem than Miss Haxby since she was still a member of the staff, though not due to return from leave for some weeks yet. Third, came Miss Polly Rushton from London, with baby, in a state of distress and confused emotions, asking help and shelter of her uncle, the Reverend Hubert Leebody.
The day after that, two more ex-staff from The Grange arrived, with their babies, admitting their resignations from the Service, but at the same time making it perfectly clear that it was The Grange’s duty to find them a room of some kind in Midwich. In the afternoon, young Mrs Dorry, who had been staying in Devonport to be near her husband in his latest posting, arrived unexpectedly, with her baby, and opened up her cottage.
And on the next day there showed up from Durham, with baby, the remaining member of The Grange staff involved. She, too, was technically on leave, but insisted that a place must be found for her. Finally appeared Miss Latterly, with Miss Lamb’s baby, urgently returning from Eastbourne whither she had taken Miss Lamb for recuperation.
This influx was observed with varying emotions. Mr Leebody welcomed his niece warmly, as though she were putting it within his power to make some amends. Dr Willers was perplexed and disconcerted – as was Mrs Willers, who feared it might cause him to postpone the much-needed holiday she had arranged for him. Gordon Zellaby had the air of one regarding an interesting phenomenon with judicial reserve. The person upon whom the development pressed most immediately was, without doubt, Mr Crimm. He was beginning to wear a distraught look.
A number of urgent reports went in to Bernard. Janet’s and mine was to the effect that the first, and probably the worst, hurdle had been crossed, and the babies had arrived without nationwide obstetrical interest, BUT if he still wished to avoid publicity the new situation must be dealt with promptly. Plans for the care and support of the children would have to be established on a sound, official footing.
Mr Crimm urged that the irregularities appearing in his personnel records were now on a scale that had taken them beyond his control, and that unless there was swift intervention at a higher level, there was soon going to be an almighty rumpus.
Dr Willers felt it necessary to turn in three reports. The first was in medical language, for the record. The second expressed his opinions in more colloquial terms, for the lay. Among the points he made were these:
‘The survival rate of one hundred per cent – resulting in 31 males and 30 females of this special type – means that only superficial study has been possible, but of the characteristics observed, the following are common to them all:
‘Most striking are the eyes. These appear to be quite normal in structure; the iris, however, is, to the best of my knowledge, unique in its colouring, being of a bright, almost fluorescent-looking gold, and is the same shade of gold in all.
‘The hair, noticeably soft and fine, is, as well as I can describe it, of a slightly darkened blond shade. In section, under the microscope, it is almost flat on one side, while the other is an arc; the shape being close to that of a narrow D. Specimens taken from eight of the babies are precisely similar. I can find no record of such a hair-type being observed hitherto. The finger and toe nails are a trifle narrower than is usual, but there is no suggestion of claw formation – indeed, one would judge them to be slightly flatter than the average. The shape of the occiput may be a little unusual, but it is too early to be definite about that.
‘In a former report it was surmised that the origin might be attributable to some process of xenogenesis. The very remarkable similarity of the children; the fact that they are certainly not hybrids of any known species, as well as all the circumstances attending gestation, tend, in my view to support this opinion. Additional evidence may accrue when the blood-groups can be determined – that is to say, when the blood circulating ceases to be that of the mother’s group, and becomes that of the individual.
‘I have been unable to find any record of a case of human xenogenesis, but I know of no reason why it should not be possible. This explanation has naturally occurred to those involved. The more educated women entirely accept the thesis that they are host-mothers, rather than true mothers; the less educated find in it an element of humiliation, and so tend to ignore it.
‘In general: the babies all appear to be perfectly healthy although they do not show the degree of “chubbiness” one expects at their age: the size of the head in relation to the body is that normally found in a somewhat older child: a curious, but slight, silvery sheen on the skin has given concern to some of the mothers, but is common to all, and would appear to be normal to the type.’
After reading through the rest of his report, Janet took him up on it severely.
‘Look here,’ she said. ‘What about the return of all the mothers and babies – all this compulsion business? You can’t just skip that altogether.’
‘A form of hysteria giving rise to collective hallucination – probably quite temporary,’ said Willers.
‘But all the mothers, educated or not, agree that the babies can, and do, exert a form of compulsion. Those who were away didn’t want to come back here; they came because they had to. I’ve talked to all of them, and what they all say is that they suddenly became aware of a feeling of distress – a sense of need which they somehow knew could only be relieved by coming back here. Their attempts to describe it vary because it seems to have affected them in different ways – one felt stifled, another said it was like hunger or thirst, and another, that it was like having a great noise battering at one. Ferrelyn says she simply suffered from intolerable jitters. But, whichever way it took them, they felt it was associated with the babies, and that the only way to relieve it was to bring them back here.
‘And that even goes for Miss Lamb, too. She felt just the same, but she was ill in bed at the time, and couldn’t possibly come. So what happened? The compulsion switched on to Miss Latterly, and she was unable to rest until she had acted as Miss Lamb’s proxy and brought the baby back here. Once she had parked it here with Mrs Brant she felt free of the compulsion, and was able to return to Miss Lamb, in Eastbourne.’
‘If,’ said Doctor Willers, heavily, ‘if we take all old wives’ – or young wives’ – tales at face value; if we remember that the majority of feminine tasks are deadly dull, and leave the mind so empty that the most trifling seed that falls there can grow into a riotous tangle, we shall not be surprised by an outlook on life which has the disproportion and the illogical inconsequence of a nightmare, where values are symbolic rather than literal.
‘Now, what do we have here? A number of women who are the victims of an improbable, and as yet unexplained, phenomenon: and a number of resultant babies which are not quite like other babies. By a dichotomy familiar to us all, a woman requires her own baby to be perfectly normal, and at the same time superior to all other babies. Well, when any of these women concerned is isolated from the rest with her own baby, it is bound to become more strongly borne in upon her that her golden-eyed baby is not, in relation to the other babies she sees, quite normal. Her sub-conscious becomes defensive, and keeps it up until a point is reached where the facts must either be admitted, or somehow sublimated. The easiest way to sublimate the situation is to transfer the irregularity into an environment where it no longer appears irregular – if there is such a place. In this case there is one, and one only – Midwich. So they pick up their babies, and back they come, and everything is comfortably rationalized for the time being.’
‘It seems to me that there is certainly some rationalizing going on,’ Janet said. ‘What about Mrs Welt?’
; On the occasion she was referring to, Mrs Brant had gone into Mrs Welt’s shop one morning to find her engaged in jabbing a pin into herself again and again, and weeping as she did it. This had not seemed good to Mrs Brant, so she had dragged her off to see Willers. He gave Mrs Welt some kind of sedative, and when she felt better she had explained that in changing the baby’s napkin she had pricked him with a pin. Whereupon, by her account, the baby had just looked steadily at her with its golden eyes, and made her start jabbing the pin into herself.
‘Well, really!’ objected Willers. ‘If you can cite me a plainer case of hysterical remorse – hair-shirts, and all that – I shall be interested to hear it.’
‘And Harriman, too?’ Janet persisted.
For Harriman had one day made his appearance in Willers’ surgery in a shocking mess. Nose broken, couple of teeth knocked out, both eyes blacked. He had been set on, so he said, by three unknown men – but no one else had seen these men. On the other hand, two of the village boys claimed that through his window they had seen Harriman furiously bashing himself with his own fists. – And the next day someone noticed a bruise on the side of the Harriman baby’s face.
Dr Willers shrugged.
‘If Harriman were to complain of being set upon by a troupe of pink elephants, it would not greatly surprise me,’ he said.
‘Well, if you aren’t going to put it in, I shall write an additional report,’ said Janet.
And she did. She concluded it:
‘This is not, in my opinion, or in anyone’s opinion but Dr Willers’, a matter of hysteria, but of simple fact.
‘The situation should, in my view, be recognized, not explained away. It needs to be examined and understood. There is a tendency among the weaker-willed to become superstitious about it, and to credit the babies with magical powers. This sort of nonsense does no one any good, and invites exploitation by what Zellaby calls “the beldame underground”. There ought to be an unbiased investigation.’