"Watch me," Rosemary started running down the slope towards the gate. "I'd intrude on Dracula himself if he had a decent cup of tea handy."
Their feet moved on to a gravel path and it seemed whatever breeze stirred the sun-warm heather out on the moors did not dare intrude here. There was a strange stillness, a complete absence of sound, save for the crunch of feet on gravel, and this too ceased when they walked on to the parched lawn.
The old lady looked up and a slow smile gradually lit up a benign, wizened little face, while her tiny hands fluttered over the table, setting out two cups and saucers, then felt the teapot as though to make sure the contents were still hot.
"You poor children." Her voice had that harsh, slightly cracked quality peculiar to some cultured ladies of an advanced age, but the utterance was clear, every word pronounced with precision. "You look so hot and tired."
"We're lost," Rosemary announced cheerfully. "We've wandered for miles."
"I must apologise for intruding," Brian began, but the old lady waved a teaspoon at him as though to stress the impossibility of intrusion.
"My dear young man-please. You are most welcome. I cannot recall when I last entertained a visitor, although I have always hoped someone might pass this way again. The right kind of someone, of course."
She appeared to shiver momentarily, or perhaps tremble, for her hands and shoulders shook slightly, then an expression of polite distress puckered her forehead.
"But how thoughtless I am. You are tired having wandered so many miles and there are no chairs."
She turned her head and called out in a high-pitched, quivering voice. "Carlo! Carlo!"
A tall, lean man came out of the house and moved slowly towards them. He was dressed in a black satin tunic and matching trousers and, due possibly to some deformity, appeared to bound over the lawn, rather than walk. Brian thought of a wolf, or a large dog that has spotted intruders. He stopped a few feet from the old lady and stood waiting, his slate-coloured eyes watching Rosemary with a strange intensity.
"Carlo, you will fetch chairs," the old lady ordered, "then some more hot water."
Carlo made a guttural sound and departed in the direction of the summerhouse, leaping forward in a kind of loping run. He returned almost immediately carrying two little slatted chairs and presently Brian and Rosemary were seated under the vast umbrella, drinking tea from delicate china cups and listening to the harsh, cultivated voice.
'I must have lived alone here for such a long time. Gracious me, if I were to tell you how long, you would smile. Time is such an inexhaustible commodity, so long as one can tap the fountainhead. The secret is to break it down into small change. An hour does not seem to be long until you remember it has three thousand, six hundred seconds. And a week! My word, did you ever realise you have six hundred and four thousand, eight hundred seconds to spend every seven days? It's an enormous treasure. Do have another strawberry jam sandwich, child."
Rosemary accepted another triangular, pink-edged sandwich, then stared open-eyed at the house. At close quarters it looked even more grim than from a distance. There was the impression the walls had drawn their shadows above themselves like a ghostly cloak, and although the house stood stark and forbidding in broad daylight, it still seemed to be divorced from sunshine. Rosemary of course made the obvious statement.
"It must be very old."
"It has lived," the old lady said, "for millions upon millions of seconds. It has drunk deep from the barrel of time."
Rosemary giggled, then hastily assumed an extravagantly serious expression as Brian glared at her. He sipped his tea and said: "This is really most kind of you. We were fagged out-and rather scared too. The moors seemed to go on and on and I thought we would have to spend the night out there."
The old lady nodded, her gaze flickering from one young face to the other.
"It is not pleasant to be lost in a great, empty space. Doubtless, if you had not returned before nightfall, someone would have instigated a search for you."
"Not on your nelly," Rosemary stated with charming simplicity. "No one knows where we are. We're sort of taking a roaming holiday."
"How adventurous," the old lady murmured, then called back over one shoulder. "Carlo, the hot water, man. Do hurry."
Carlo came bounding out of the house carrying a silver jug in one hand and a plate of sandwiches in the other. When he reached the table his mouth was open and he was breathing heavily. The old lady shot him an anxious glance.
"Poor old boy," she consoled. "Does the heat get you down, then? Eh? Does the heat make you puff and pant? Never mind, you can go and lie down somewhere in the shade." She turned to her guests and smiled a most kindly, benign smile. "Carlo has mixed blood and he finds the heat most trying. I keep telling him to practise more self-control, but he will insist on running about." She sighed. "I suppose it is his nature."
***
Rosemary was staring intently at her lap and Brian saw an ominous shake of her shoulders, so he hurriedly exclaimed:
"You really live all alone in that vast house? It looks enormous."
"Only a small portion, child." She laughed softly, a little silvery sound. "You see the windows on the ground floor which have curtains? That is my little domain. All the rest is closed up. Miles upon miles of empty corridors."
Brian re-examined the house with renewed interest. Six lower windows looked more wholesome than the others; the frames had, in the not-too-distant past, been painted white and crisp white curtains gave them a lived-in look, but the panes still seemed reluctant to reflect the sunlight and he frowned before raising his eyes to the upper storeys.
Three rows of dirt-grimed glass: so many eyes from behind which life had long since departed, save possibly for rats and mice. Then he started and gripped his knees with hands that were not quite steady. On the topmost storey, at the window third from the left, a face suddenly emerged and pressed its nose flat against the glass. There was no way of telling if the face were young or old, or if it belonged to a man, woman or child. It was just a white blur equipped with a pair of blank eyes and a flattened nose.
"Madam…" Brian began.
"My name," the old lady said gently, "is Mrs Brown."
"Mrs Brown. There's a…"
"A nice homely name," Mrs Brown went on. "Do you not think so? I feel it goes with a blazing fire, a singing kettle and muffins for tea."
"Madam-Mrs Brown. The window up there…" . "What window, child?" Mrs Brown was examining the interior of the teapot with some concern. "There are so many windows."
"The third from the left." Brian was pointing at the face, which appeared to be opening and shutting its mouth. "There is someone up there and they seem to be in trouble."
"You are mistaken, my dear," Mrs Brown shook her head. "No one lives up there. And without life, there can be no face. That is logic."
The face disappeared. It was not so much withdrawn as blotted out, as though the window had suddenly clouded over and now it was just another dead man's eye staring out over the sundrenched moors.
"I could swear there was a face," Brian insisted, and Mrs Brown smiled.
"A cloud reflection. It is so easy to see faces where none exist.
***
A crack in the ceiling, a damp patch on a wall, a puddle in moonlight-all become faces when the brain is tired. Can I press you to another cup?"
"No, thank you." Brian rose and nudged Rosemary to do the same. She obeyed with ill grace. "If you would be so kind as to direct us to the nearest main road, we will be on our way."
"I could not possibly do that." Mrs Brown looked most distressed. "We are really miles from anywhere and you poor children would get hopelessly lost. Really, I must insist you stay here for the night."
"You are most kind and do not think us ungrateful," Brian said, "but there must be a village not too far ajvay."
"Oh Brian," Rosemary clutched his arm. "I couldn't bear to wander about out there for hours. And suppose the sun sets…?"
&nbs
p; "I've told you before, we'll be home and dry long before then," he snapped, and Mrs Brown rose, revealing herself as a figure of medium height, whose bowed shoulders made her shorter than she actually was. She shook a playful finger at the young man.
"How could you be so ungallant? Can you not see the poor girl is simply dropping from fatigue?" She took Rosemary's arm and began to propel her towards the house, still talking in her harsh, precise voice. "These big strong men have no thought for us poor, frail women. Have they, my dear?"
"He's a brute." Rosemary made a face at Brian over one shoulder. "We wouldn't have got lost if he hadn't made us leave the main track."
"It is the restless spirit that haunts the best of them," Mrs Brown confided. "They must wander into strange and forbidden places, then come crying home to us when they get hurt."
They moved in through the open french windows, leaving the hot summer afternoon behind them, for a soft, clinging coolness leapt to embrace their bodies like a slightly damp sheet. Brian shivered, but Rosemary exclaimed: "How sweet."
She was referring to the room. It wfts full of furniture: chairs, table, sideboard, from which the sheen of newness had long since departed; the patterned carpet had faded, so had the wallpaper; a vase of dried flowers stood on the mantelpiece and from all around-an essential part of the coolness-came a sweet, just perceptible aroma. It was the scent of extreme old age which is timidly approaching death on faltering feet. For a moment, Brian had a mental picture of an open coffin bedecked with dying flowers. Then Mrs Brown spoke.
"There are two sweet little rooms situated at the rear. You will rest well in them."
Carlo emerged from somewhere; he was standing by the open doorway, his slate-grey eyes watching Mrs Brown as she nodded gravely.
"Go with him, my dears. He will attend to your wants and presently, when you have rested, we will dine."
They followed their strange guide along a gloom-painted passage and he silently opened two doors, motioned Rosemary into one, then, after staring blankly at Brian, pointed to the other.
"You've been with Mrs Brown a long time?" Brian asked in a loud voice, assuming the man was deaf. "Must be rather lonely for you here."
Carlo did not answer, only turned on his heel and went back along the passage with that strange, loping walk. Rosemary giggled.
"Honestly, did you ever see anything like it?"
"Only in a horror film," Brian admitted. "Say, do you suppose he's deaf and dumb?"
"Fairly obviously," Rosemary shrugged. "Let's have a look at our rooms."
They were identical. Each held a four-poster bed, a Tudor-style chest of drawers and a bedside cupboard. The same faint odour prevailed here, but Rosemary did not seem to notice it.
"Do you suppose this place runs to a bath?" she asked, seating herself on Brian's bed.
Before he could answer, Carlo's lean form rilled the doorway and he made a guttural sound while beckoning them to follow him. He led the way down the passage and at the very end opened a door and motioned them to enter the room beyond. It was empty save for a very ancient hip-bath and six leather buckets lined up against one wall.
They began to laugh, clinging to each other for support. Their silent guide watched them with an expressionless stare. Brian was the first to regain his powers of speech.
"Ask a silly question," he gasped, "and you'll get a ridiculous answer."
"I rarely eat."
Mrs Brown was sipping daintily from a glass of mineral water and watching the young people with lively interest as they each consumed a large steak and a generous helping of fresh salad.
"When you are my age," she went on, "one's fires need little fuel. A sip of water, an occasional nibble, the odd crumb."
"But you must eat," Rosemary looked at the old lady with some concern. "I mean-you have to."
"Child-" Mrs Brown beckoned to Carlo who started to collect the empty plates, "-food is not necessarily meat and vegetables. Passion will feed the soul and nourish the body. I recommend love as an hors d'oeuvre, hate as the entree and fear as a chilly dessert."
Rosemary looked nervously at Brian, then took a long drink of water to hide her confusion. The young man decided to bring the conversation back to a more mundane plane.
"I am most interested in your house, Mrs Brown. It seems a shame that so little of it is used."
"I did not say it was not used, dear," Mrs Brown corrected gently. "I said no one lived in the region that lies outside this apartment. There is, as I am sure you will agree, a difference."
Carlo returned, carrying a dish of large, pink blancmange; this he deposited on the table after giving the girl and young man a long, expressionless stare.
"You must forgive Carlo," Mrs Brown said while she carved the blancmange into thin slices. "It is some time since we entertained guests and he is apt to stare at that which he is not allowed to touch."
Brian nudged Rosemary, who was watching the blancmange carving with undisguised astonishment. "Mrs Brown, you say the rest of the house is used, but not lived in. I'm sorry, but…"
"Does anyone live in your stomach?" Mrs Brown asked quietly.
He laughed, but seeing no smile on the wrinkled face opposite quickly assumed a serious expression.
"No, of course not."
"But it is used?" Mrs Brown persisted.
He nodded. "Yes indeed. Quite a lot."
"So with the house." She handed Rosemary a plate that contained three thin slices of pink blancmange and the girl said "Thank you" in a strangled voice. "You see, the house does not require people to live in it, for the simple reason that it is, in itself, a living organism."
Brian frowned as he accepted his plate of sliced blancmange.
"Why not?" The old lady appeared surprised that her word should be doubted. "Do you begrudge a house life?"
They both shook their heads violently and Mrs Brown appeared satisfied with their apparent acquiescence.
"After all, in ordinary houses, what are passages? I will tell you. Intestines. Bowels, if you wish. And the boiler which pumps hot water throughout the body of the house? A heart-what else could it be? In the same way, that mass of pipes and cisterns that reside up in the loft, what are they if not a brain?"
"You have a point," Brian agreed.
"Of course I have," Mrs Brown deposited another slice of blancmange on Rosemary's plate. "But of course I was referring to ordinary houses. This is not an ordinary house by any means. It really lives."
"I would certainly like to meet the builder," Brian said caustically. "He must have been a remarkable chap."
"Builder!" Mrs Brown chuckled. "When did I mention a builder? My dear young man, the house was not built. It grew."
"Nutty as a fruit cake." Rosemary spoke with strong conviction while she sat on Brian's bed.
"True," Brian nodded, "but the idea is rather fascinating."
"Oh, come off it. How can a house grow? And from what? A brick?"
"Wait a minute. In a way a house does grow. It is fathered by an architect and mothered by a builder."
"That's all very well," Rosemary complained, "but that old sausage meant the damned thing grew like a tree. Frankly, she gives me the willies. You know something? I think she's laughing at us. I mean to say, all that business of carving blancmange into thin slices."
"A house is an extension of a man's personality." Brian was thinking out loud. "In its early life it would be innocent, like a new-born baby, but after it had been lived in for a bit…" He paused, "then the house would take on an atmosphere… could even be haunted."
"Oh, shut up." Rosemary shivered. "I'm expected to sleep here tonight. In any case, as I keep saying, the old thing maintains the house grew."
"Even that makes a kind of mad logic." He grinned, mocking what he assumed to be her pretended fear. "We must reverse the process. The atmosphere came first, the house second."
"I'm going to bed." She got up and sauntered to the door. "If you hear me scream during the night, come a-runni
ng."
"Why bother to go?" Brian asked slyly. "If you stay here, I won't have to run anywhere."
"Ha, ha. Funny man. Not in this morgue." She smiled impishly from the doorway. "I'd be imagining all manner of things looking down at me from the ceiling."
Brian lay in his four-poster bed and listened to the house preparing for sleep. Woodwork contracted as the temperature dropped; floorboards creaked, window frames made little rattling noises, somewhere a door closed. Sleep began to dull his senses and he became only half-aware of his surroundings; he was poised on the brink of oblivion. Then, as though a bomb had exploded, he was blasted back into full consciousness. A long drawn-out moan had shattered the silence and was coming at him from all directions. He sat up and looked round the room. So far as he could see by the light of the rising moon that filtered through his lace curtains, the room was empty. Suddenly, the groan was repeated. He sprang out of bed, lit his candle, and looked wildly around him. The sound was everywhere-in the walls with their faded pink-rose wallpaper, in the cracked ceiling, the threadbare carpej. He covered his ears with shaking hands, but still the mournful groan continued, invading his brain, seeping down into his very being, until it seemed the entire universe was crying out in anguish. Then, as abruptly as it began, it ceased. A heavy, unnatural silence descended on the house like a great, enveloping blanket. Brian hastily scrambled into his clothes.
"Enough is enough." He spoke aloud. "We're getting out-fast."
Another sound came into being. It began a long way off. A slow, hesitant footstep, married to squeaking floorboards, a laborious picking up and putting down of naked feet, interspersed with a slow slithering which suggested the unseen walker was burdened with the tiredness of centuries. This time there was no doubt as to where the sound was coming from. It was up above. The soft, padding steps passed over the ceiling and once again the house groaned, but now it was a moan of ecstasy, a low cry of fulfilment. Brian opened the bedroom door and crept out into the corridor. The moaning cry and the slithering footsteps merged and became a nightmarish symphony, a two-toned serenade of horror. Then, again, all sound ceased and the silence was like a landmine that might explode at any moment. He found himself waiting for the moan, the slithering overhead footsteps to begin all over again-or perhaps something else, something that defied imagination.
Collected Stories (4.1) Page 10