by Brian Aldiss
“Jock must be sick too, Mummy. He’s rolling about like anything back here.”
“Perhaps he’ll feel better when we’ve looked at the house,” Patricia Timberlane said. She raised what was left of her eyebrows at her friend Venice, who was sitting in the front with her. “I know I shall,” she said.
She climbed out and opened the rear door, helping her son to the ground. He was tall for a boy of seven, but the sickness had left him thin and lifeless. His cheeks were sallow, his skin rough. With nursing him and being ill herself, she felt as bad as he looked. But she smiled encouragingly and said, “I suppose Jock wouldn’t like to look round the new house?”
“I just told you, Mum, he’s sick. Gosh, when you’re sick, you don’t want to do a thing except die, like the way Frank did. So if it’s all the same to you, he’ll hang around in the car.”
“As you wish.” It still hurt to be reminded of the death of her older boy Frank after many months of the sickness.
Venice came to her rescue.
“Wouldn’t you like to play outside, Algy, while Mummy and I look over the house? There’s an exciting-looking garden here. Only don’t fall in the Thames, or you’ll get awfully wet.”
Mayburn was a quiet house, set on the river not too far from the suburb of London where the Timberlanes lived. It had stood empty for six weeks, and the estate agent who gave Patricia the keys assured her that now was the time to buy, since the bottom had fallen out of the property market. This was her second visit to the property; on the first occasion, she had come with her husband, but this time she wanted someone slightly more receptive to see it. Arthur was all very well, but he had these money troubles.
The attraction of the house was that it was small, yet had a fairly long strip of ground behind, which led down to the river and a little landing stage. The place would suit them both; Arthur was a keen gardener, she loved the river. It had been so lovely, earlier in the summer, when both she and Algy were feeling a little better, to bundle up in warm clothes and sail on one of the pleasure steamers from Westminster Pier, up or down the river, watching the city slide past. On the river, the feebleness of convalescence had taken on almost a spiritual quality.
She unlocked the front door and moved in, with Venice behind her. Algy trotted off around the back of the house.
“Of course, it looks a bit ghastly at present,” Patricia said as they walked through the echoing rooms. “The last owners were nuts on white paint — so colourless! But when it’s redecorated, it’ll be a different proposition. I thought we might knock this wall down — nobody wants a breakfast room nowadays — and then there would be this lovely view down to the river. Oh, I can’t tell you how glad I’ll be to get out of Twickenham. It’s a bit of London that gets worse every year.”
“Arthur still seems to like it,” Venice said, observing her friend closely as Patricia peered out of a window.
“Arthur’s... Well, I know that we’re closer to the factory than we should be here. Oh, of course times are difficult, Venice, and this beastly radiation sickness has left everyone a little depressed, but why doesn’t Arthur buck up a bit? It may sound awful, but he bores me so much nowadays. He’s got this new young partner now, Keith Barratt, to cheer him up...”
“Oh, I know you’re sweet on Keith,” Venice said, smiling.
Patricia turned to her friend. She had been beautiful before her illness and before Frank died; now that her vivacity had fled, it was noticeable that most of her beauty had resided in that quality.
“Does it show? I’ve never said a thing to a soul. Venny, you’ve been married longer than me. Are you still in love with Edgar?”
“I’m not the demonstrative type that you are. Yes, I love Edgar. I love him for many things. He’s a nice man — kind, intelligent, doesn’t snore. I also love him because he goes away a lot, and that eases the relationship. Which reminds me, he’ll be back from his medical conference in Australia this evening. We mustn’t be too long here. I must get back and do something for dinner.”
“You do change the subject, don’t you?”
Through the kitchen window, they had a glimpse of Algy running in long grass, on a pursuit no one else would ever know about. He ran behind a lilac tree and studied the fence which divided this garden from the next. The strangeness of the place excited him; he had spent too long in the familiar enclosure of his bedroom. The fence was broken at one point, but he made no attempt to get into the next garden, though he thought to himself how beautiful it would be if all the fences fell down in every garden and you could go where you liked. He ran a stick experimentally along the fence, liked the result, and did it again. A small girl of about his own age appeared on the other side of the gap.
“You knock it down better by pushing it,” she said.
“I don’t want to knock it down.”
“What are you doing, then?”
“You see, my daddy’s going to buy this house.”
“What a mouldy shame! Then I shan’t be able to creep into the garden and play anymore. I bet your mouldy old father will mend the fence.”
Leaping to his father’s defence, Algy said, “He won’t, because he can’t mend fences. He’s not a handyman at all. He’s completely useless.” Catching a clearer glimpse of her through the bushes, he said, “Gosh, you’re bald. What’s your name?”
“My name is Martha Jennifer Broughton, and my hair will all grow on again by the time I’m a big girl.”
He edged closer to the fence, dropping the stick to stare at her. She wore a blouse and a pleated skirt, both red, and her face was open and friendly; but the dome of her head was utterly naked.
“Gosh, you aren’t half bald!”
“Dr MacMichael says my hair will grow again, and my dad says he’s the best doctor in the world.”
Algy was put on his mettle by small girls who claimed to be authorities on medical matters.
“I know that. We have Dr MacMichael too. He had to come to see me every day because I’ve been at Death’s Door.”
The girl came closer to her side of the fence.
“Did you actually see Death’s Door?”
“Jolly nearly. It was very boring on the whole. It uses up your resources.”
“Did Dr MacMichael say that?”
“Yes. Often. That’s what happened to my brother Frank. His resources got used up. He went right through Death’s Door.”
They laughed together. In a mood for confidences, Martha said, “Aren’t Dr MacMichael’s hands cold?”
“I didn’t mind. After all, I’m seven.”
“That’s funny, I’m seven too!”
“Lots of people are seven. I ought to tell you my name’s Algernon Timberlane, only you can call me Algy, and my father owns a factory where they make toys. Shall we have to play together when I come to live here? My brother Frank who got buried says girls are stupid.”
“What’s stupid about me? I can run so fast that nobody catches me.”
“Huh, I bet! I bet I could catch you!”
“I tell you what, then — I’ll come in your garden, ’cause it’s a good one; it hasn’t got flowers and things like ours has, and we’ll play catch.”
She climbed through the broken fence, lifting her skirts daintily, and stood in his garden looking at him. He liked her face. He could smell the sweet smell of the afternoon; he saw the pattern of sunlight and shadow fall across her head, and was moved.
“I’m not supposed to run fast,” he said, “because I’ve been ill.”
“I thought you looked pretty awful. You ought to have some cream on your cheeks like I do. Let’s play hide-and-seek then. You’ve got a smashing old summerhouse to hide in.”
She took his hand.
“Yes, let’s play hide-and-seek,” he said. “You can show me the summerhouse, if you like.”
Patricia had finished measuring the windows for curtains, and Venice was smoking a cigarette and waiting to go.
“Here comes your devoted hubby,�
�� she announced, catching sight of a car turning in at the drive.
“He promised he’d be here half an hour ago. Arthur’s always late these days. I want his advice on this primitive brute of a cooker. Is Keith driving him?”
“Your luck’s in, my girl: yes, he is. You go and let them in and I’ll slip out and collect Algernon. We really ought to be off.”
Venice let herself out of the back door and called Algy’s name. Her own children were older than the Timberlanes’, and had escaped most of the effects of the sickness; Gerald, in fact, had suffered no more than a seeming cold, which was all the external evidence of the sickness most adults showed.
Algy did not answer her call. As she walked over the unkept lawn, a little girl in a red outfit ran before her and disappeared behind a lilac tree. Half in fun, Venice ran after her; the girl wriggled through a gap in the fence and stood there gazing challengingly at Venice.
“I shan’t hurt you,” Venice said. She suppressed an exclamation at the sight of the child’s bald head. It was not the first she had met. “Have you been playing with Algy? Where is he? I can’t see him.”
“That’s because he drowned in the river,” the girl said, clasping her hands behind her back. “If you won’t be cross, I’ll come back and show you.”
She was trembling violently. Venice held out a hand to her.
“Come through quickly and show me what you’re talking about.”
The girl was back through the gap in an instant. Shyly, she took Venice’s hand, looking up to judge her reaction to the move.
“My nails weren’t affected, only my head,” she said, and led the way down to a landing stage that jutted into the river along the end of the garden. Here her courage failed her, and she broke into a storm of tears. For a while she could not speak, until from the barricade of Venice’s arms she pointed a finger at the dark stream.
“That’s just where Algy drowned. If you look, you can see his face looking up at you under the water.”
In alarm, Venice held the child tightly and peered down through the willow tree into the stream. Clinging around a root, half submerged and moving gently against the current, was something that did vaguely resemble a human face. It was a sheet of newspaper.
Patiently, she cajoled Martha into looking and seeing her mistake for herself. Even then the girl continued to cry, for the shape of the paper was sinister.
“Now you run along home to tea,” Venice said. “Algy can’t be far away. I will find him — perhaps he ran round to the front garden and went indoors — and perhaps in a little while you will be able to play with him again. Would you like that?”
The girl looked into her face with immense swimming eyes, nodded, and dashed away towards the hole in the fence. As Venice straightened up and began to walk back towards the house, Patricia Timberlane came out of the back door with two men. One of the men was her husband, Arthur, a man who at forty-odd gave all the appearance of having forgotten his more youthful years. Venice, who liked him — but she was far less choosy than Patricia with her likes and dislikes, and tended to be friendly to anyone who seemed friendly to her — had to admit that Arthur cut a glum figure; he was a man saddled with troubles who had never decided to meet them either stoically or with a sense of defiance.
Patricia held her husband’s arm, but it was towards the other man that she most frequently glanced. Keith Barratt, Arthur Timberlane’s co-director, was a personable man with a too-shallow jaw and tawny hair brushed back untidily. Keith was only five years younger than Arthur, but his manner — particularly his manner with Pat, Venice thought cattily — was more youthful, and he dressed more like a man-about-town.
As Venice went towards them, answering their greetings, she saw a glance like a bird of sweet ill-omen fly between Patricia and Keith. She saw in it — heavily, for there was pain enough — that trouble was nearer than she had thought.
“Venice likes the house, Arthur,” Patricia said.
“I’m afraid of damp with the river so close,” Arthur said to Venice. He put his hands in his trouser pockets and stared down towards the river as if expecting to see it rise and engulf them. It seemed to be with reluctance that he swung his eyes around to look at her as he asked, “Is Edgar getting back early tonight? Good. Why don’t you both come round for a drink with us? I’d like to hear what he makes of the situation in Australia. Things look very black, very black indeed.”
“Art, you old pessimist!” Keith said. He spoke in a tone of laughing reproach that pronounced his partner’s name Ah-ha-hart. “Come off it! A lovely afternoon like this and you talk like that. Wait till you get that MR report and see if things aren’t just as bad for everyone. Come Christmas, trade will improve.” In explanation, he said to Venice, “We’ve had Moxan, the market research people, in, to find out what exactly has hit our trade; their report should be with us tomorrow.” He pulled a funny face and slit his throat with a knife-edged forefinger.
“The report should have been in today,” Arthur said. He stood with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched, looking about at surroundings and sky as he spoke, as if tired of talk. “There’s a touch of autumn in the afternoons already. Where’s Algy, Pat? Let’s be getting home.”
“I want you to have a look at the boiler before we go, darling,” Patricia said.
“We’ll talk about the boiler later. Where’s Algy? The boy’s never about when you want him.”
“He’s hiding somewhere,” Venice said. “He’s been playing games with the little girl from next door. Why don’t you two look for him? I really ought to be getting along, or I’ll never be ready for Edgar. Keith, be a darling and give me a lift home, will you? It’s not much off your route.”
“But enchanted,” Keith said, and made an effort to look as though he meant it. They said their farewells and went around to the front drive. Keith’s car had brought him and Arthur over from the factory, as Patricia had the Timberlane car. When Venice settled in beside him, Keith drove away in silence; though far from being a sensitive man, he lost some of his assurance with her, knowing that she did not greatly approve of him.
Between Arthur and Patricia a silence also fell, which he covered by saying, “Well, let’s look for the child, if we must. Perhaps he’s down in the summerhouse. Why didn’t you keep an eye on him?”
Ignoring this opening for a quarrel — of all her tricks, that one annoyed him most — Patricia said, as they turned towards the bottom of the garden, “The last owners let this place become a wilderness. There’s more work here than you will be able to tackle alone; we shall have to have a gardener. We must have this row of bushes out and perhaps just leave that peony where it is.”
“We haven’t bought the place yet,” Arthur said morosely. His reluctance to disappoint her made him speak more grudgingly than he intended. She did not seem to be able to understand that their business slipped nearer disaster every day.
What Arthur most resented was that this trouble, into which his firm slipped more deeply even as he spoke, should come as a barrier between Pat and him. He had seen clearly, a while ago, that they failed to make a very united couple; at first he had almost welcomed the financial crisis, hoping it would bring them more closely together, for Patricia had listened sympathetically enough to his woes before they married. Instead, there seemed something deliberate in her lack of understanding.
Of course, the miserable business with the boys had upset her. But after all, she knew Sofftoys and its workings. She had been a secretary in the firm before Arthur married her, a little irresponsible slip of a thing with a good figure and twinkling eyes. Even now, he could recall his surprise when she agreed to marry him. He told himself he was not like most men: he did not forget the good or the bad things in his past life.
It was the good things that sharpened his present miseries.
Plodding through the grass, he shook his head and repeated, “We haven’t bought the place yet.”
They reached the summerhouse, and he
pushed the door open. The summerhouse was a tiny semi-rustic affair with an ornamental bargeboard hanging low enough to catch a tall man’s head and one window set in its riverside wall. It contained two folded garden chairs leaning across one corner, a rotted awning of some kind, and an empty oil drum. Arthur glanced round it in distaste, closed the door again, and leaned against it, looking at Patricia.
Yes, for him she was attractive still, even after her illness and the death of Frank and eleven years of marriage to him. He felt an awful complex thing rise in his breast, and wanted to tell her all in one breath that she was too good for him, that he was doing his best, that she ought to see that ever since those bloody bombs were let off the world was going to hell in a bucket, and that he knew she was a bit sweet on Keith and was glad for her sake if it made her happy, provided she just didn’t leave him —
“I hope Algy hasn’t fallen in the river and drowned,” she said, dropping her eyes before his gaze. “But perhaps he’s gone back to the house. Let’s go back and see.”
“Pat, never mind about the boy. Look, I’m sorry about all this — I mean about life and things being difficult lately. I love you very much, darling. I know I’m a bit of a duffer, but the times we live in — ”
She had heard him use that phrase “I know I’m a bit of a duffer” in apology before, as if apology was the same as reform. She lost track of what he was saying under a memory of the Christmas before last, when she had induced him to give a party for some of their friends and business acquaintances. It had not been a success. Arthur had sensed it was not succeeding, and — to her dismay — had produced a pack of cards and said to a knot of his junior employees and their wives, with a host’s hollow geniality, “Look, I can see the party’s not going too well — perhaps you’d like to see a few card tricks.”
Standing there in the cool afternoon, she blushed dull red again at her embarrassment and his. There were no shames like social shames, suffered before people who would always try to smile. He was pathetic to think that naming the truth altered it in any way.