by Paul Halter
‘A passing moment of discouragement,’ she scolded herself. For that’s what it was. The situation was far from tragic. A few hours’ delay was annoying, but not the end of the world. Obviously, there was a good chance Roger wouldn’t see her because he was waiting for trains coming from London, and not the opposite direction. To make things worse, there had been two trains going to London, but not stopping at this little station. Old Mr. Fielding had been right. Fortunately, there was one last local train at three minutes past nine. ‘You can’t afford to miss that one,’ the stationmaster had told her after she’d explained her predicament.
She had been too wrapped up in her thoughts, and that was something she was hesitant about telling Roger, who might be vexed by her apparent carelessness. He’d often felt like shaking her when she lapsed into one of her unpredictable moods. She would go from euphoria to depression several times a day. It was as if she were on a mental tightrope. The three-hour wait would appear to be a brief interlude one moment, and an eternity the next.
At one point, she’d thought about walking to Lightwood, which the station-master had told her was only ten miles away. Her suitcase wasn’t all that heavy and she could have made the trip in three hours—and maybe less if she’d been able to hitch a ride. The station-master had frowned at the suggestion.
‘If I were you, I’d wait for the train. It would probably be best....’
Patricia, startled, had replied half-jokingly:
‘Anyone would think it wasn’t safe around here.’
The little man averted his eyes:
‘You never know... And, anyway, it would be less tiring for you.’
Patricia stood there, reflecting on all that had happened and wondering whether she wasn’t still under the influence of old Mr. Fielding and his theory about mystery lurking within a serene universe. Over an hour had gone by and the sun was just an orange glow over the horizon, when a newcomer appeared on the platform. Under a cap much too big for his little round head, the ten-year old urchin had a brazen look in his eye as he announced, in the manner of one familiar with the surroundings:
‘Evening, mum. Not very busy tonight.’
Patricia nodded in amusement as the little fellow sat down calmly beside her.
‘Do you take the train here often?’ he continued, adjusting the braces of his old trousers, patched at the knee.
After a moment’s hesitation, Patricia couldn’t see any reason for not telling him what had happened.
‘Lightwood?’ he said. ‘What a coincidence! That’s where I live. But I’m not going there now. I have to see my uncle and it’s not the same train. The express coming from....’
For the next five minutes, he explained all the train schedules in a level of detail which would have surprised the station-master himself. Patricia paid close attention and in the process learned that her companion was called Billy, that his parents were farmers, that he was eleven years old, and that he didn’t like school, girls, cats or reverends.
‘But for Lightwood,’ he finished, ‘you’ve still got quite a while to go. Aren’t you afraid to wait alone?’
For a moment Patricia was speechless. She could understand a mature, much-travelled man warning her. But this little kid? And with such aplomb!
‘And why should I be afraid, Billy?’ she asked calmly.
‘Because you’re a young lady and you’re alone. You could be at the mercy of anyone. Look what happened to that kid who disappeared. He was the same age as me. They found him in the woods near where I live. I only knew him by sight. He came from the next village, Latton.’
He looked Patricia straight in the eye and, drawing a finger across his neck, announced:
‘His throat had been cut.’
So that’s why everyone here is on edge, thought Patricia, remaining silent while Billy explained at length the dangers such a crime engendered.
‘Tell me, Billy,’ she cut in. ‘Why don’t you like girls?’
The question seemed to shake him:
‘Why?... But... I don’t know... Yes, because they’re so stupid.’
‘All of them?’
Billy thought he detected a trap. He thought carefully before answering:
‘Well, those of my age. Not all of them, but most.’
‘What about cats?’
An angry expression crossed his round face:
‘They’re filthy beasts. Mummy says they’re the Devil’s creatures, particularly the black ones!’
‘You also mentioned reverends.’
His face hardened:
‘That’s because I don’t like ours.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he spies on me.’
‘Why would he do that?’
There was a rumbling noise in the distance.
‘That’s my train.’
He got up and a few minutes later Patricia was alone again on the platform thinking hard.
Without knowing precisely why, the conversation with the urchin troubled her. Was it because of the murdered child? She’d read plenty of press reports of similar incidents without feeling the way she did now. This was different. A sort of malaise which seemed to well up from inside her, as if she couldn’t take it any more; as if she couldn’t bear herself any more, with her tormented ideas and endless questions about everything and nothing. After a resigned sigh she sat motionless on the seat, staring absently ahead while the night finally swallowed up the day.
It was eighteen minutes past nine when she got off the train at Lightwood, slightly upset at having just noticed that the ornamental brooch of her travel bag was missing. It was of little value, but she was annoyed with herself at having been duped by a child. It must have been him, because it had been there before he turned up; all that lengthy taradiddle about railway timetables had been just to bamboozle her. But she dismissed the minor incident from her mind in anticipation of seeing Roger again.....
But Roger wasn’t there. She couldn’t possibly be mistaken because there were only three or four people on the platform. It was quite understandable, she told herself. Roger must have resigned himself to not seeing her that day. There was no reason to become alarmed. She would soon be in her husband’s arms. Finding her way to the house in such a small place would be no problem. Just ask the first person she saw—in this case the station-master—who, after giving her directions, assured her in time-honoured fashion that she couldn’t possibly miss it.
Lightwood was a small village just like hundreds of others in England, with its winding high street, its church complete with pointed steeple, its shipshape inn, and its charming little houses covered with ivy and wisteria. A few lighted windows punctuated the streets, deserted at this hour. Patricia walked more briskly, partly out of impatience but also because of the wind, which had become stronger after the calm of the afternoon. It whispered constantly in her ears as she turned round and round in the narrow alleyways before finding the street which the station-master had described, leading to the ancestral home of the Sheridans. She was in a trance as, shortly thereafter, she stood in front of an imposing if slightly quirky structure.
She knew instinctively that this must be it. Well, it certainly had character. It reminded her of her old teachers who couldn’t be taken in by any amount of sophistry. Its roots were deep and it had watched many generations go by. It exuded an austere calm in the midst of its rather wild surroundings. Built of red brick, it had the simplicity of a Georgian house, but had been enhanced by a Doric portico. Towards the rear, somewhat separate from the main building, the gables of the half-timbered part were visible. The whole construction sat in the middle of a wide lawn surrounded by thick hedges interspersed with various trees. The moon brought the newly-painted door- and window-frames to life, but no light shone from any of the windows.
Could Roger already be in bed at this early hour? That would be astonishing. She set off determinedly up the path to the portico.
A hostile silence answered the ring of the doorbell,
which she repeated several times without success. She had to accept the evidence: Roger wasn’t there. So where could he be? She turned the doorknob mechanically and, finding that the door was open, she couldn’t resist the temptation to take a look inside.
A creak of protest could be heard as she pushed open the door. She could smell an odour of fresh paint combined with that of wax polish and ancient humidity. Groping around in the dark, she managed to find a light switch, whereupon the bare light from a wall lamp chased away the shadows to reveal a long corridor with dark red tiles. Patricia immediately noticed the jacket hanging on the coat stand. From the leather patches on the elbows, she recognised it as one of Roger’s.
She called out, but the only response was an echo. Shrugging her shoulders, she told herself that there could be several explanations for his absence and so, bursting with curiosity, she decided to make a tour of the property. It was her home, after all.
Despite being rustic, everything had been restored tastefully. She particularly appreciated the copper saucepans in the kitchen and vowed that, soon, she would be unrivalled in their use. The lounge was very spacious and, despite having been freshly carpeted, seemed redolent of the past. There was not a single piece of modern furniture. The atmosphere was deliciously old-fashioned, which appealed strongly to Patricia. The beautiful old oil lamp with its elegant detail, and the ancient rocking-chair with its soft cushions, pleased her particularly. One part of the sideboard had been turned into a bar and she unhesitatingly served herself a port to celebrate—alas! alone—her arrival.
She was at home now. Her home.
And wasn’t that metal crucifix over the door just like the one her late parents had? It was extraordinary! My goodness, she almost felt like dancing. She felt sure Roger wouldn’t object: he’d often told her how much he liked to see her dancing alone. And she felt like singing as well. If only there were some music....
That was when she noticed the phonograph in one corner of the room with a pile of records next to it, mostly classical. From amongst the Grieg, Vivaldi and Bach, she selected a waltz by Strauss and a few seconds later the walls were echoing to the enchanting melody.
Patricia whirled around the room and then served herself a second glass of port, as agreeable and limpid as the waltz. Life was good! Only after she stopped the music a little later did she become aware of the whistling wind.
The wind in my ears and my head in a spin, she thought, flinging herself on the sofa, and I’m dog tired. What a day. I’ve done nothing but travel, but it was the wait which was exhausting.
Nevertheless, she decided to continue her inspection. When at last she reached the oldest part of the house—the gabled part—the smell of humidity and old wood became more pronounced, and she started to feel vaguely oppressed by the melancholy and outdated character of the place. Everything was steeped in the past: the whitewashed walls; the ceilings with exposed oak beams; the old carpets worn threadbare. The first two rooms she visited were filled with old bric-a-brac and workmen’s tools, but the third door revealed a small bedroom with a low ceiling, scrupulously clean and ready for occupancy. The simple furnishings consisted of a pine wardrobe, an old iron bed painted white, and a bedside table. The leaded glass double-windows shuddered under the assault of the wind. A shiver ran down Patricia’s spine, yet she felt strangely attracted to the place.
She shut the door and lay down on the bed. A few moments later, she turned off the ceiling light. The orientation of the room was such that the window was less than three feet from the bed. Once her eyes became accustomed to the dark, she was thus able to study the nocturnal landscape outside. Except that the view was largely obscured by a twisted old tree whose branches were creaking in the wind. The pale moon illuminated its gnarled limbs in close proximity to the windows. Quivering in the wind, its foliage wiped the shaking window panes.
Patricia quickly became hypnotised by the old tree which seemed to be twisted by pain while it simultaneously attacked the house. It became difficult to distinguish between the moaning of the wind and that of the tortured tree. She closed her eyes in order to hear better, but fell asleep. Thus she failed to hear the creaking of the front door a short while later.
3
Patricia could still see the tree in front of her. Its bark was calloused, wrinkled like a nut and as black as coal. Its horribly long, gnarled arm had terrifying, leprous hands which attacked the room like the tentacles of a demented octopus.
It seemed to be sneering at her. Its twisted fingers seemed somehow able to transverse the windows without breaking the glass and reach for the bed in order to seize the throat being offered. Burning hot hands relentlessly suppressed the victim’s cries of distress. She was being suffocated, any resistance being to no avail. The twisted fingers grasped her everywhere, relentlessly tightening their grip. Claws were penetrating her skin....
That was the moment Patricia awoke with a start, drenched in perspiration.
What a terrifying nightmare! But she hadn’t cried out. Her hands were as hot and dry as her throat. How long had she been asleep? She didn’t know. Outside, it was still as black as pitch although she could sense the tree’s menacing silhouette. She turned on the light and realised that only two hours had passed. That was when she detected the sounds of a conversation. A cheerful and happy one, as far as she could make out.
It was Roger! She could recognise his voice.
Without further ado she hastened towards the lounge.
An expression of stupefaction appeared on her husband’s face when he saw her. He was with a blond, slender, timid-looking young man of the same age who appeared to be just as surprised as Roger. They looked at each other as if they were seeing a ghost. From their bright eyes, dishevelled appearance and animated discussion, it was obvious they were partly under the weather and the half-empty whisky bottle was further evidence. It was easy for her to see that Roger, having waited desperately and fruitlessly for her to arrive, had gone to drown his sorrows with a friend from the village. And that was what he was trying to explain to her, between the confusion and the joy of seeing her again. His companion was David Hale, whom Roger introduced as the best cabinetmaker in the region. David, embarrassed, attempted to leave but Roger and Patricia, like a long-established couple, wouldn’t hear of it. He capitulated, insisting he wouldn’t stay long, and accepted one last glass.
After Patricia had recounted her little misadventure on the train, Roger looked at her with admiration:
‘I didn’t think of that. But when you didn’t get off the last train from London I assumed you would be arriving tomorrow. I dropped in on David and we went to the pub together. It’s incredible, nevertheless, I only sent the telegram around twelve o’clock. You were incredibly fast to have caught that train. You’re amazing, darling, absolutely amazing.’ He turned to his friend. ‘Isn’t she wonderful, David? What did I tell you?’
Patricia knew her husband well. How long would this wild enthusiasm last, she asked herself. They say the initial ardour starts to wane after the first few months of life together. So far, Roger had given no sign of it. What Patricia appreciated most about him—aside from the fascination, which she did find flattering, despite herself—was his calm temperament and the balance he brought to everything. He was of medium height and well-proportioned. Beneath his flamboyant hair, his eyes were calm and intelligent. He had a strong sense of humour which he kept under control. Above all, unlike Patricia, he was consistent and steadfast, never indulging in wild excesses which would inevitably be cause for regret the following day.
She looked at David, still confused about the question Roger had asked.
‘W—well,’ he stammered, ‘I agree with you, Roger, of course. But I’d go further: she needs to be immortalised in wood.’
‘David is also a sculptor,’ Roger hastened to explain. ‘What he said is no small compliment, darling, believe me.’
‘Immortalised in wood,’ repeated Patricia pensively. ‘You don’t realise what
you’re saying.’
The two young men stared at her, perplexed. Then David smiled:
‘That’s what you want, isn’t it? To leave this world at the same time as your husband, like Baucis and Philemon, who were turned into intertwining trees at the end of their lives....’
Patricia smiled:
‘That’s very romantic, but it’s not what I was thinking.’
‘You don’t want us to die together?’ asked her husband, pretending to be deeply disappointed.
‘Don’t joke about it, Roger. I was very afraid... I had a frightful nightmare before I woke up. I dreamt that the tree had been transformed into a human being and was strangling someone.’
‘Strangling someone?’ repeated Roger in astonishment.
‘Yes, and I think it was me in the dream. But it must just have been the wind which—.’
‘No, it’s the room,’ cut in Roger. ‘It was also the wind, of course, but most of all it was that room. The room with the view of the tree where someone... But that’s a long and old story which I’ll tell you some other time, darling. Your dream was incredible... You’re truly wonderful, darling.’
Incomprehension was written all over Patricia’s face.
‘What’s wonderful about it, Roger?’
‘I’ll explain another time, my darling, don’t worry about it. It’s quite simply extraordinary.’
He seemed to believe what he was saying and Patricia was starting to wonder whether she wasn’t really a goddess, such was the way Roger was looking at her.
‘David,’ he announced suddenly, ‘I’ve a job for you.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Yes, I want to place an order for a wood sculpture. I assume you can guess the subject....’
David turned to Patricia and looked at her for a moment.