Grave Misgivings

by Caroline Wood

  ‘Talk to him,’ she said. ‘He always responds to that.’ And as I grinned down at the ginger face, Neville winked at me. Then, carrying a small leather bag, Miss Wisp departed. I waved her off and stepped back into the welcoming kitchen to feed Neville. I wanted to show that I could be relied on to provide for him – that he wouldn’t have to go hunting in the surrounding fields until his fluttery companion returned. But he had disappeared. I called upstairs and out into the garden but Neville had gone. In the absence of the cat’s listening ear, I told myself that he’d be back later.

  My hopes were high the next morning, and I expected Neville to be waiting on the doorstep. But milk, food and my persistent calls did nothing to entice him out of his hiding place. I had intended to ask at the post office if he’d been seen – but that was before I’d been in there. At least he would find nourishment if he came back while I was out exploring the rest of this pretty little village.

  The sense of order struck me first. There were rows of perfect little cottages, each one just as it should be; my imaginary country village come to life. I wondered if people actually lived in those pastel painted buildings. And did they carry out the ordinary mundane activities of more urban dwellers, or were they settled into an older, slower way of life? Everything seemed well tended and perfectly presented to the few cars that passed through on their way to somewhere else. When I looked more closely though, I became aware of something else. The order came from an overall neatness – village competition neatness. What I was actually seeing was tidy chaos. No building was the same as another. Front doors were different shapes as well as different colours. Windows didn’t match, sometimes even in the same cottage – upstairs would be tiny leaded squares of glass, while the ground floor might have arched, or even stained glass windows. It was a hotchpotch of design and style – a real tapestry of tastes and available materials. ‘Order out of chaos’ kept echoing in my head as all this striking individuality emerged. These postcard properties were not presenting a united front – they were struggling against each other to assert their distinct personalities. I became increasingly curious about the personalities of the residents behind these misleading facades.

  I’d seen nobody. They must have done their gardening by moonlight, or perhaps they did it on an agreed day of the week, according to some ancient parish order. There was no sign of life within either. No faces at windows or silhouetted figures sitting at tables. Like the goods in the post office, these strangely beautiful buildings seemed to be on display, and not functional. These thoughts brought a dream-like quality to my stroll. The sense of unreality made the back of my neck tingle. It was an oddly pleasant, hypnotic sensation, like the vibration of a tuning fork. I have always been very sensitive to my surroundings, and now I felt locked into something I couldn’t see, something I could only sense. I see myself distorted in ever changing windows. Sometimes my reflection is distant, then suddenly close up and squat in thick wavy glass, melting imperceptibly back down to the base of its frame. Thinking I have spotted an occupant, my face begins a friendly smile, then lets go of the corners again as I recognise myself. I have only seen myself.

  At the end of the cottages, I find myself back at the post office. I hurry and don’t look inside. Further up the road, other shops parade opposite the village green and the only pub. My faintly buzzing head is soothed by the prospect of browsing, chatting, and selecting fresh vegetables and bread to take home. And I’d ask about Neville. Everyone knows everyone in this type of place. Someone will have seen Miss Wisp’s cat – he may even be playing the abandoned orphan – cadging food and comfort from all the neighbours. I head towards the heart of the community. The pub is idyllic. It sits on the green, its thatched roof a fading wig, and breathes out the warm smell of hops. It is a comfortable, sinking building with no pretensions, no ambitions – a round-shouldered building offering time and space for anyone and everyone. I’ve been here forever, this pub seems to say, and I’ve seen it all before. Take me as you find me – old, dumpy, a little askew – and I’ll do the same. I went in, drawn by the homely feeling of the outside. Like slippers or a shapeless cardigan, this pub was easy to fit into.

  The shift of solidity when I got inside sharpened my senses. I felt jolted, knocked off kilter – in that in-between space of not quite understanding, when you expect one thing but experience the opposite. Like when you lift a cup of hot tea to your lips. Everything is primed to receive the heat and tang of the brown liquid. But it is stone cold, and sour with curdled milk. It’s the wrong cup, the wrong taste. Simple, and rapid readjustments follow, but for those few split seconds, things go awry. Disorientation unbalanced me and I stood in the middle of the floor waiting for things to fall into place. The coolness was just one of the surprises to strike me. Not a ray of sunshine seeped into the place, and the bare wooden floor held only unreflecting dullness.

  I had become an invader again – as if I had mistakenly walked into a private sitting room. Chairs sat next to each other round the edges of the room. Piles of magazines were stacked under tables. Animals guarded the walls, keeping watch with unblinking eyes. So many furry heads overlooked me – I was centre stage to a gallery of suspended, stuffed exhibits. And every time I moved to inspect a different wall, the heads turned, snarled, prepared to howl or growl. Or so I imagined. The swift twitching glance of a gerbil caught my eye, but when I looked properly, it commenced again its rigid watchfulness. A black poodle seemed ready to bark until I met its gaze full on, forcing myself to reassess what my eyes had seemed to see. Stuffed with experiments in taxidermy and piles of magazines, but lacking bottles, glasses or a bar, the pub had managed to transform itself as I walked through the door. Surely it was closed for alterations – something – some pulling apart or putting back together of the place. It was so sturdy and certain on the outside. My retreating feet stopped on the spot as a voice called from behind me.

  ‘What can I get you?’ The head of a woman poked through a thick dusty curtain. She waited for my reply with raised eyebrows. Her right eye looked up at the ceiling, while her left eye probed a dim corner filled with puppies’ heads and a donkey in a hat. She smiled a demolition-site of teeth; they tilt and splay in all directions.

  She passed my beer through the curtain and I glimpsed the back of a head in an armchair. Shiny, oiled strands of black hair were stuck to the white scalp. I could hear the faint sound of a television – canned laughter and tinny applause. I sat among the empty chairs, sipped my drink, and hoped for the arrival of other customers. To pass the time, I began browsing through a magazine. It was fifteen years old, a motoring journal, fluffy with dust. The voice came through the curtain again, this time unaccompanied by its head.

  ‘Mustn’t touch them,’ it says. ‘Dad’s, they are. He might want to look at them in a minute. And he don’t like them disturbed, Dad don’t.’

  I put it back and brushed dust off my fingers before taking three large gulps of beer. The door opened. The bright day stood outside as a man walked in. I smiled at him, relieved to have some company. The start of the day’s trade, I felt sure. He headed straight for the curtain. He was obviously one of the regulars. He called through the faded drapes.

  ‘Pint of milk and half a dozen eggs, please Flinty.’

  The same woman poked her head out, nodded and disappeared. She came back again in seconds, this time her head and one hand came through – a puppet theatre performance. Then she receded – the money in her tightly curled fingers. The man went back outside into the patiently waiting sunshine. I left my half finished drink under the scrutiny of the glass eyes.

  Then I remembered Neville, the questions I need to ask about the missing cat. I went back inside, and refusing to look up at faint swishing sounds on the walls above me, I called through the curtain. I said hello and excuse me three times. I knew she was there – I could see the twitch of the dusty fabric, and could still hear television laughter. But I was left unanswered, and at the mercy of the preserved zoological spec
imens. I decided to escape the stifling, watchful interior for less crowded horizons.

  The first shop was closed, or so I thought. Shutters obscured the windows, but a sign hanging inside the door said open. My half-hearted push jangled an optimistic bell, and instantly, a very tall man was at my side. He stood very close, and rubbed his hands together. I noticed that the sleeves of his jumper were too short, and the hem was unravelling. But his face was friendly. He gestured towards a display unit where sectioned shelving held nails, screws, washers, nuts and bolts. There were all sizes and shapes, and they were kept under thick, transparent yellow plastic. It looked like a display of sweets and small gifts. We walked beside the shelves, and the man stopped at each segment and pointed. He spoke in a whisper.

  ‘What about those?’ he said. ‘They’re always worth having. I could order you some in.’ He glided along beside me as I lost touch with the outside world and fell into some sort of trance. I knew only that I was smiling and looking at yellow nails. I began to wonder about the way he walked, and the question absorbed me as I smiled lovingly at panel pins and brass screws. His footsteps are small works of art, acts of precision, each one placed carefully after the completion of the one before. First he let his heel touch the floor, then the rest of his foot seemed to unfold, and a smooth, silent movement was achieved, seemingly with no effort at all. I remember wondering if his shoes were hinged or jointed to allow for such exaggerated movement. But it seemed rude to look, so the mystery had to remain. I politely declined all his offers to place an order and drifted out of the shop after looking at his face to say thank you. A collection of white paper fragments were hardening into scabs on his chin. One cracked away from its healed wound and fell onto the yellow plastic as his face smiled back at me.

  The cat – again I had forgotten. I stepped back inside immediately and asked him about Neville. There was more whispering.

  ‘No cats here, my dear,’ he said. ‘Not in these parts. Did you want me to order you one?’

  My confusion must have been clear.

  ‘Just joking,’ he said. ‘That’s one thing I can’t order for you, unfortunately.’ He smiled and I waited for more paper to crack away from his face but it didn’t. ‘Try the pet shop. Just across the way.’ His hushed tones were beginning to lull me again and I smiled a second departure.

  The pet shop was huge – two shops knocked into one, with long windows stretching the length of the pavement. But it wasn’t possible to see inside – the glass had been painted with cloudy white brush strokes from eye level to the ground. I was strongly tempted to stand on tiptoes and peer inside, but made my way instead through the heavy door. Brightness hit me – fluorescent tubes hummed fierce songs above this vast clinical space. The shop stretched back even further than it stretched sideways, and had an echoing, empty sound. It wasn’t empty though – rows of cages lined the walls. They were four storeys high – and each had a blank label. It looked like a small prison wing. The floor was painted glossy white and shone with sterile cleanliness. Silence hung beneath the humming lights. Suspended from the high ceiling, metal shapes made a sculptural design of black arcs and interlocking triangles. They were animal traps. There were various sizes, with various abilities – all of them lacking compassion or forgiveness as they waited obediently to have their jaws prised apart so they could perform their grisly task. I shuddered and realised that I was close to crying for all the snapped, cracked and crushed bones that these cold hard mouths would cause. All the indiscriminate deaths of innocent lives; the lingering agony of gnawed off limbs. I turned away from the killing metalwork above me and went to look at the pets instead.

  Little animals, waiting to be spotted by children and taken home to caring homes and given time, attention and daily treats to eat. It was difficult to focus through the close bars of the cages, and at first I thought all the cages were empty. Then there was movement in a corner and I was reassured that at least there was something in one cage. It was a shy creature though and showed no curiosity at my fingers as I tapped a gentle greeting on the front of its temporary home. I tried another cage with a similar shape in the corner, although that one wasn’t moving – must be asleep. I continued along the rows in the hope of meeting a twitching nose, bright eyes, or fluffy ears. But it was spikes. In the end, I found spikes. The whole pet shop was stocked with hedgehogs. Snuffling, shuffling or curled and sleeping. Every cage had a spiny, small-eyed hedgehog. One large cage had been allocated as a nursery and housed a family – the mother hedgehog tending grumpily to her smooth and pinkly crinkled babies, who in their blindness, made frequent painful collisions with her sharp maternal presence. I wanted to release them all.

  I could no longer keep my tears in check and they plashed onto the shiny floor. Sadness engulfed me, and I knew I ought to leave before a shop assistant appeared. But Neville was part of my sorrow too. In my imagination, he was trapped somewhere, his ginger body contorted back on itself to try and get free from metal teeth. I was his only hope. I had to overcome my emotions and ask questions about the cat in my charge. Pushing tears away with my wrists, I made my way to the back of the shop in search of someone to talk to. No-one appeared and I could hear only my own footsteps. The place felt like an aircraft hangar; the staff could be anywhere. I called out and my voice was small, it got lost in the space above me – seconds later, an echo came back to me. I decided to leave. Sadness had drained me. As I traced my steps back to the door, a hand fell lightly on my shoulder. When I turned, a young woman looked at me blankly. She was very pale – translucent under the stark glare. Her hair was the whitest blond, her eyes pink. She wore a white dress, and the only colour about her screams at me from the right side of her face – the purple stain of a birthmark; a violent splash onto her bleached skin.

  I fight images of fancy dress balls, with her face like a mask. Or magic shows, carnivals, the circus. My need to cry has turned into an urge to vomit great surges of hysterical laughter. But not because I am amused – it wouldn’t be a mirthful chuckling if I allowed this mania to explode. It would be the uncontrolled giggling of insanity. I dug fingernails into my palms and with an effort of will, spoke to her. I made enquiries about the lost Neville. She stared at me and did not move. I tried more questions, explained my reasons for being there, and could hear the pleading in my voice as her unchanging face stared back at me. Social graces dictated that I stop my questions, and I felt too awkward anyway, so gave up.

  Her white hand disappeared into her white pocket as my attempts at communication faltered. She pulled out a small notebook and the stubby end of a pencil. She wrote slowly, her concentrating tongue snaking up the groove above her top lip. Her beautiful writing informed me that she had never heard of Miss Wisp, that there were no cats at all in the village and that hedgehogs made excellent pets, but she was unable to sell me one as these had all been reserved. I nodded and handed back the piece of paper. The formality of our exchange affected my sense of balance, and my knees felt wobbly. My desire to shriek wild howls of laughter equalled my need to weep freely. These churning emotions threatened to spill out in theatrical torrents unless I got away from the masked mute and her prickly custodians. I knew she watched me as I walked away – the distance seemed vast and I had to concentrate hard as if these were my first steps.

  My only wish then was to return to the cottage. I wanted to lock the door, drink tea, sleep and talk to Neville – most of all, I wanted to talk to Neville. The sun still shone, though it was somehow dimmer after the cold tubular dazzle. I took deep calming breaths while I waited for my eyes to adjust. Eased by my return to the outside world, but with pounding temples and the weight of unshed tears behind my eyes, I felt the erratic, discordant rhythms of my heart in my chest and throat. There were little racing flutters then big lurching thuds, everything was off-key and out of tune. I kept my head down and hurried along the pavement, walking straight into a tangle of flapping plastic ribbons as a tiny man sank his nose and thick spectacles into my astonish
ed abdomen. We strained our necks to look at each other in this unexpected waltz.

  ‘No more appointments today,’ he shouted, looking up at me. ‘I’m fully booked.’ He brushed snips of hair off his grey nylon jacket and rushed back through the plastic strands. I stood and stared as he climbed onto a wooden box and began hacking at the wiry hair of his next customer.

  Relief oozed through me when I reached the cottage. I flopped down onto the bed. My intention to have a short rest extended itself without my knowledge and I entered the world of dreams. Miss Wisp places intricate doilies across the room like dainty stepping-stones.

  ‘This way, dear,’ she says gently. I follow until weariness stops me. She nods permission for me to sleep – a dream within a dream. A warm weight covers my upper body, and my hand discovers cat fur.

  ‘You’re back, Neville,’ I say. ‘I’m so pleased to see you.’

  Neville is in a serious mood and he looks at me with concern in his eyes.

  ‘There’s no place like home,’ he says, ‘and this isn’t yours.’ Life is just a bowl of cherries,’ he goes on, ‘but watch out that the stones don’t choke you.’ Finally he adds, ‘If you can’t beat em, join em. Or run while you’ve still got all your legs.’

  I woke from the real dream and the dream inside it at the same time. I was alone. Darkness had arrived. I switched on the lamp, drew the curtains, and saw again the forgotten envelope. Miss Wisp’s payment was generous. Her message was written in timid, spidery ink.