Shadows at Midnight.: The Maynard Sims Library. Vol 1

by Maynard Sims

  MR DAWSON'S CHURCH STORY

  This is the story of Mr Dawson, an acquaintance of mine, whose chief love is church architecture. He is an expert on his subject, but he is such a dull old fellow that I try to avoid him whenever I can. His story is a sight more interesting than he is (at least I hope you will find it so). Mr Dawson loves all churches, old and new, although if pressed he would admit to a preference for the old. His annual holidays are spent visiting and examining the churches in different parts of the country, and then he enters his findings in a large notebook.

  Mr Dawson's story takes place in the summer of some six years ago, when England enjoyed a few very pleasant months of sun. East Anglia was the place marked down by Mr Dawson as deserving a visit. His affairs tidied up for the three weeks he normally takes off, he departed on his travels. The first week he spent visiting a series of churches along the coast; the second week he moved a little inland; and so it was in the third week that he found himself on the road to Colchester. It was the last week of a successful holiday, and he was looking forward none too eagerly to resuming his job of work.

  It was getting late, he had no further churches marked down to visit that day, when he spied an excellent specimen laid back from the road between some trees. Though unexpected, this was too good an opportunity to miss, and he decided to delay the evening meal he had been planning in order to add another page to his notebook.

  He parked his motorcar in front of the oak gates of the churchyard, allowing himself the pleasure of examining the building and the grounds at great length from the outside. Happy with what he saw, he locked his car, straightened his attire, and entered the churchyard.

  The church building itself was probably early English, he could date it as such by the windows, although later building styles were also evident, notably the modern south porch, and the windows of the clerestory, which were probably sixteenth century. The walls of the church had also been strengthened by several buttresses of the fifteenth century type.

  Around the church lay gravestones. Some were new, gleaming white, while others, crumbled by the years, lay grey and forgotten. To the north of the church, and encroaching around each side, were trees which, at that time of the day, served to cast gloomy shadows amongst the gravestones. The trees were perfectly still, there was no wind. To his surprise Dawson realised that there was not a sound to be heard. There was a complete silence such as he had never experienced before. It was an eerie feeling.

  He was a thorough man, and he spent some time examining the graves and area of the churchyard before moving onto the building itself. The silence bothered him a little, it was so dominating that he had to make an effort to keep his thoughts on his notebook. When he turned to place his concentration on the church he was surprised to find a man standing behind him. The man was small, old, and dressed in the comfortable but worn clothes of a gardener.

  "You quite surprised me," said Mr Dawson. "I didn't hear you come up."

  The man regarded him without speaking for a moment, then he cocked his head to one side and said, "It's getting late, sir, will you be planning to spend some time in the church?"

  "I certainly am," said Mr Dawson. "Churches are my great interest, and I want to examine this one at length. I hope that will be all right?"

  The man considered those words for a while and then said, "It's getting dark, sir. Don't stay too long," and walked off.

  Now Mr Dawson is not too quick-witted, and it took a moment for him to wonder why he should not stay too long. He turned around to question the man, but the man had gone. As he was pondering on this point, Mr Dawson became aware that the silence had been broken. From somewhere in the churchyard, he could not be sure where, there was a curious scratching sound, a faint muffled scrabbling, which he decided to attribute to rats. He was pleased the silence had been broken.

  He went into the church and began his examinings. He was faintly disappointed, as it was short of being splendid, although it was rather pleasant. A note in his book reads, `...has no majesty, but maintains a certain amount of charm...' The next half an hour was spent jotting notes about the interior peculiarities of the church which, it turned out, was quite ornately decorated, with more than enough detail to please a man of Dawson's leanings. He noted some finely carved corbels, an ornate reredos and a stepped sedilia. The scratching sound outside was getting louder, but he did not notice.

  It began to get quite dark, although there was still sufficient light to enable Dawson to make notes. He was standing before a striking painting of Daniel in the lion's den. Daniel was represented as a mild man, kneeling at prayer, whilst all around him the ferocious devil lions were getting nearer. Mr Dawson was scribbling away when there was a loud rending crash from the churchyard, like wood cracking under pressure, and then something being thrown to the ground. This was followed by silence for an instant, and then a continuous shuffling sound, scraping and dragging towards the church.

  Mr Dawson stopped in mid-sentence, pen in hand. He admits he became scared. The shuffling had reached the south porch. The door slowly opened. Dawson was fortunate in that aisles had been added to both the north side and the south side of the nave, with an arcade supported on pillars separating them. He moved into one of the bays in the south aisle and hid behind a pillar.

  The door slowly opened, and the air in the church became suddenly cold. The shuffling was accompanied by a loathsome whispering, as though a group of people were walking by. Mr Dawson stood shaking, as the sounds moved past him to the far side of the church. There was nothing he could see, but the air was cold, and the shuffled steps and hoarse whispers were enough to keep him hidden. The whispers grew louder and more excited, as if several voices were speaking at once, although he could hear none of the words clearly. There was a faint splashing of water, and the whispers were quiet for a moment. Dawson stayed where he was. Very soon the noises began again. They moved from where they had congregated, to pass Mr Dawson, until finally the awful whispering and the shuffling had left the church. The door was closed, and the air gradually became less cold. Mr Dawson was still shivering.

  When he had recovered a little of his nerve he ventured to the far side of the church, where it seemed the group had remained for some length of time. The only possible place to gather was at the font.

  Mr Dawson's regard for that particular church had dwindled considerably, along with his courage. He marched quickly, but nervously, to the door. After some hesitation, he opened it to find that it was dark outside. As he walked to his motorcar he could not fail to notice the freshly disturbed soil on several of the graves. He reached his car, drove off immediately, and his evening meal was supplemented by an abundance of whisky.

  Nowadays Mr Dawson looks back on the incident with some false joviality. The coldness in the air he puts down to the weather, the unpleasant noises he attributes to the acoustics of the old church, and the disturbed soil of the graves he says is due to the over-zealous gardener to whom he had spoken. The last entry in his notebook regarding the church describes the painting of Daniel. It reads, `Despite the obvious dangers all around him, he looks on and ignores them as though they are not there.'

  THE BASSINET

  It started innocently enough, and with a conversation about the best news any woman, or man for that matter, can impart.

  "You mustn't forget that I have this blessed business trip to America later this year," I said.

  "Then we will have to delay the christening," Helen smiled at me across the desk. Her face glowed with the full bloom of expectant motherhood. "There's little point in going ahead with it if the godfather isn't going to be there."

  "Won't Matt object?" I asked.

  "He'll understand. After all, it was his idea to ask you, not that I could think of a more suitable choice, so stop worrying. You go off and enjoy yourself in America, and we'll hold the christening when you return. I can't think of anything more simple."

  I returned her smile. "You're right of course. Tell me, h
ow did Matt react to the news that he was to become a father? If I know anything at all about that old man of yours he started organising everything in sight."

  "How true," Helen said, laughing. "He set about turning our spare bedroom into a nursery. Poor Matt, he's no hand with a paintbrush, anything in the slightest way practical totally confounds him. I put the wallpaper up myself. No, I must be fair. He's overflowing with enthusiasm. He took himself off to an auction over Long Melford way and came back with the most gorgeous bassinet. Oh, you should see it, John. It's absolutely delightful. Varnished wicker with a hood, on a cane stand. It will be ideal for the first few months, until the baby starts moving around; then we'll have to invest in a large cot."

  Helen's conversation drifted into reverie as she told me of her plans and hopes for the child. I gave her a moment before interrupting. I could understand her excitement.

  "And how are you?" I said at last. "I must say I've never seen you looking better."

  "Oh, I feel fine in myself. I get a few butterflies occasionally when I think about what's involved, but I can usually control them."

  I took her hand and squeezed it affectionately. "You're not to worry about anything. One of the top specialists at St Martin's is a very good friend of mine. I'll have a word with him and see to it that you get exemplary treatment."

  "Now, John, I don't approve of favouritism," she said in mock admonishment, then added. "But thank you for the thought. Now I'd better leave you to your work." She glanced at her watch. "Heavens, I only called in for a few minutes to pass on the christening news. Your secretary will be going frantic rearranging your appointment book."

  "If I had known you were coming I would have cancelled everything else and taken you to lunch. But thanks for coming in." We both stood. Helen leaned across the desk and kissed me lightly on the cheek.

  "Come and see us soon," she said walking to the door.

  "I shall. Keep well. Give my regards to Matt. Tell him I'll write to congratulate him."

  With a final smile Helen left my office, closing the door behind her. I watched her go and then sat back in my chair, gratified that such an unlikely friendship between a man rapidly approaching retirement age, and a young couple could prove so rewarding.

  We first met at a hotel in Austria. I was there taking a long overdue holiday; they were newly married and on their honeymoon. It was late in the year, near the end of the season. The hotel's only other guests were a middle-aged couple from Bruges who spoke no English, thus, Matt, Helen and myself found that we naturally gravitated towards each other.

  At the beginning I did not know quite what to make of Matt. I found this tall bearded young man slightly arrogant. He observed the world through imperious eyes and had rather a cynical turn of phrase when engaged in conversation. However, as I got to know him better over the two weeks of the holiday, I discovered that the arrogance was a facade that concealed a basic shyness. Once I had broken through the double barrier I took an immense liking to him. The only fault I could find in him was a singular lack of imagination, probably due to the nature of his work as junior partner in a small law firm in Suffolk. Working within the strict practice of the law, where the main thing that matters is cold evidence, I could see how the most inquiring of minds could be dulled.

  I found Helen, in contrast to her husband, to be one of life's true aesthetics, sensitive to the nuances of a Tennyson love poem, appreciative of every brush stroke in a Van Gogh painting. There was empathy between us from the first, and our friendship developed into one of deep understanding and mutual caring.

  I was fifty-five at that time, a bachelor with regrets, and had reached the stage where all I could look forward to was old age. My friendship with Matt and Helen changed all that, and gave me a totally new lease of life. In return I offered the benefit of my years, advice when needed, ears always open to hear the problems suffered by most newly weds. They became my adopted offspring, the son and daughter I never had. Now that I had been given the news of their impending parenthood I felt as proud as any father would be.

  The following months passed quickly. I managed to find the time to keep my promise to Matt, and with a letter dispatched in the post I felt a little less guilty about not visiting them. I arranged with my secretary for her to send a dozen red roses to Helen once she had received word that the baby had been born, and with a final instruction for her to contact me as soon as she heard, I left the country.

  It was during the last week in November that the telegram arrived at my hotel in New York. Helen had given birth to a seven pound three ounce baby girl, and mother and child were in excellent health. I immediately sent off a letter of congratulations, and told them to set the date for the christening in the second week of January, as by then I would be back in England.

  The flight home was appalling. The aeroplane passed through a violent storm over the Irish Sea, and for a few dreadful minutes the fear of an air disaster played on my mind. I soothed myself with thoughts of the baby, wondering which of her parents she would take after. Would her eyes be liquid blue like Helen's, or a deep impenetrable brown as Matt's were? When we finally touched down I carried from the aeroplane a picture in my mind of a child that could be carried away from a beautiful baby contest with all the prizes.

  I arrived at my London apartment to find a letter written in Matt's spidery scrawl, informing me that the christening was to be held on the following Sunday at St Leonards, their small parish church, and including a post script inviting me to stay over at their house for a few days.

  They had made a home from a converted farmhouse that nestled just inside the boundary of a tiny village a few miles outside Bury St Edmunds. It rested in tranquil splendour, surrounded by thickly wooded countryside. An ideal setting in fact for an exhausted, globetrotting business man to play truant for a while, away from the commotion of the city. I arranged a leave of absence at the office, and on the Sunday morning, with my weekend bag on the back seat of my car, I set off towards East Anglia.

  The roads on that particular Sabbath were blissfully clear, and I made good time throughout the journey, pulling into the side lane which led to the farm house just before one, an hour before the service was due to begin. As I approached I could see the house in between the stout elms that encircled it. Wisps of grey smoke eddied upwards from the chimneystack, giving the place a warm inviting appearance, a welcome sanctuary from the biting January wind.

  Matt must have heard my car approaching, for as I pulled up outside the front of the house he swung his angular frame into the doorway, a large grin showing through his beard, a hand extended in a gesture of welcome.

  "John, marvellous to see you," he boomed, as I stepped out of the car. "Here, let me take your bag. Bitterly cold, eh? How about a whisky to keep out the winter's chill?"

  He led me into the house to the drawing room, where a small group of people clustered around a log fire that roared in the hearth. I recognised the respective parents of my two young friends from the photographs I had been shown of them. Helen's mother sat closest to the fire holding what looked absurdly like a bundle of rags. It took a few seconds to register that it was in fact the baby swathed in a crocheted shawl. Mrs Williams, Matt's mother, looked on enviously as the other woman cooed and cosseted the child, pausing only to look up and bid me a polite hello. The two fathers stood and extended hands as Matt introduced me. Mr Williams looked more like an older brother to Matt than his father. The hair was greyer, and the skin more weathered, but apart from this it was difficult to tell them apart. Mr Hebden, Helen's father, however looked nothing like his daughter, and as I looked from this rather weasel-faced man to his plain and plump wife, I wondered from which distant ancestor Helen had inherited her stunning good looks.

  I shook hands with both men and then my hand was occupied again, but this time with a tumbler full of whisky. It suddenly struck me that someone was missing from this cosy family portrait.

  "Where's Helen?" I asked Matt.

  A
frown creased his forehead. "She's lying down, upstairs."

  "Nothing wrong, I hope?"

  He shook his head vehemently. "No, no. Just a little tired, that's all. Midnight feeds, the usual thing."

  I grimaced. "Poor girl. I hope you're sharing the load, Matt?"

  "It's a question of routine," a feminine voice sounded behind me. I looked across to Mrs Hebden who was peering at me as if I was some kind of intruder. "Once she settles into a routine she'll soon be back on her feet."

  "I'm sure you all know better than me," I ceded. "What I know about looking after babies could be written on the back of a postage stamp." This demonstration of self-effacement restored the status quo, and a broad smile of acceptance spread across the woman's face.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and all eyes turned expectantly to the door. Helen entered the room; at least, a parody of Helen entered the room. Gone were the luxuriant flaxen fronds of hair, replaced by dry straw scraped severely back into a knot at the back of her head. The skin was sallow, black rings of tiredness encircled her eyes, and the eyes themselves were dull, lifeless. The pitiful pinched-faced creature who walked feebly across the room and took the baby from Mrs Hebden's arms was Helen, but a Helen who looked as if she hadn't seen sleep for weeks. Bravely she had tried to camouflage her emaciation with the use of make-up, but this only seemed to heighten the effect. Those ruby lips looked incongruous as they whispered tender endearments to the baby. I realised with numb surprise that she hadn't even noticed me.

  "Helen?" I said uncertainly.

  An age passed before I received a reaction. Slowly she turned, a wan smile crossed her lips then vanished, as if it was too much of an effort to maintain it.