Where Nothing Sleeps

by Denton Welch

  At last they almost collapsed on to the hard wooden seats. The man brought out the most extraordinary handkerchief with playing-cards and ladies’ legs on. He mopped his glistening face and said, ‘Ever seen a bit of nonsense like this before? I got it in Yokohama. Don’t those Japs go in for some queer manufactures? Why, I’ve even heard they make life-sized rubber women what you can blow up and take on long journeys, when you feel lonely!’

  The man’s gaze drifted towards a model who had just come in. She wore only a straw-skirt, and two plaited discs over her breasts. Her black coarse hair hung down her back, and artificial daisies and poppies were caught in it here and there as if by chance. Turning her back to them, she perched on the edge of a table and swung her legs. The hollow in her back wriggled and changed its shape with her movements. A crowd of people were soon talking to her.

  ‘Coo, look at that!’ the man said in awe. ‘Who’s the hula-hula, and when does the policeman arrive to wrap her in his cape and take her to the station?’

  ‘She’s a model,’ Robert explained carelessly; ‘we see them every day completely naked, so there can’t be any trouble when they come in skirts and saucepan lids.’

  ‘D’you think she’d dance with me if I asked her?’ the man said jokingly, but with underlying seriousness.

  ‘Oh no, I don’t expect she’ll dance with anyone. She just likes to sit and talk to all those people. She’d shed all that straw if she started moving about.’

  Robert really knew nothing about the model, but he wanted to dissuade the man from making any advances, for he feared that the crowd round the model would be insolent. He was right. A moment later a man in ragged trousers and khaki shirt came up to the group—and pushed his way through to the model. He put his arms round her, lovingly, evidently under the impression that they should become a pair, as they were both so suitably dressed for the South Seas. The model wriggled out of his grasp and the group of people round her surged forward angrily. Although he was a heavy thick young man with pig-pink skin and broad neck, yet in a moment they had torn his shirt to rags and cuffed and slapped his pink face to an angry red. One weak-looking youth wrenched at his forelock of blond hair venomously. This made the man so angry that for one moment he extricated himself from the others and landed a smashing slap on the cheek of the youth. The youth fell to the ground and the uproar grew. The last thing Robert saw as he hurriedly left the hall was the heavy young man looking about him bewilderedly—rather like a bear attacked by terriers from all sides.

  Robert realised as soon as he was in the entrance lobby how horrible the air had become in the dance-hall. Already his throat and eyes felt sore. The only other people in the lobby were an American girl, dressed all in scarlet—as a female demon, Robert supposed—and her importunate lover. They sat on the concrete steps, the man restlessly caressing the girl. He was obviously quite drunk, with drink and lust. The girl had all her wits about her.

  ‘Darling, you can’t come home with me,’ she said over and over again, as the man implored and wheedled. Her thoughts were clearly somewhere else. ‘You just stay right here and have a good; time,’ she said soothingly and absently. ‘It’s a pity I’ve got to go back home so early, but it just can’t be helped.’ She moved to the door eagerly; her whole attitude seemed to tell Robert that she had another appointment to keep. The man held her hand, dragging her back over the step. He kissed her in a clumsy drunken way, not knowing or caring whether his lips met hers, or her face, or neck, or breast. Everything about him seemed slurred and oafish.

  The girl was now in a fever to get away. She looked at him with distaste, but still called him darling. Jerking her wrist up to look at her watch, she slipped from under the man’s arm and made a dash for the door. It slammed behind her and the man looked blankly round at Robert. He didn’t seem to think of chasing her. His arms hung down forlornly, and suddenly his shoulders heaved and tears began to trickle down his face.

  ‘Don’t cry, don’t cry,’ Robert said, almost involuntarily. The man swore at him and stumbled up the stairs blindly. Nothing could cure his misery, for his joy had been taken away.

  Robert decided to leave. He looked for the last time into the hall. The uproar had subsided round the model; but the rowdier had linked arms and were now charging round the room, uttering war-cries and bearing down on all before them. Near the door stood someone whom Robert had not seen before. He wore a heavy mauve satin shirt and tight mulberry velvet breeches. On his plump white hands were two enormous rings, one diamond and one pearl. His podgy face wore an expression of outraged decency.

  ‘Yahoos,’ he drawled out, turning to Robert and fluttering the hand with the enormous diamond on it. ‘They never used to behave like this.’ Then he lapsed again into his stolid, disapproving silence.

  As Robert let himself out into the cold air he understood how dreary the whole evening had been. Even the strange clothes had only been the thinnest cloak over ordinariness and drabness; there had been no joy, no love, no pleasure, no delight and no cohesion. Each little body had rushed about distractedly, alone. Only for a moment, when he was dancing whole-heartedly with the sailor, had he had any real contact with another human being. Now he knew why the very thought of ordinary ‘pleasure’ filled him with despair.

  He walked along the pavement, not caring whether people stared at him or not. Soon there were quick footsteps behind him and someone caught him up.

  ‘Not a bad dance, was it?’ the stranger said affably. ‘How far have you got to go? We won’t get any buses tonight.’ Robert saw the neck of a Russian blouse sticking up above the other’s collar. He remembered seeing the man in the hall.

  ‘Are you an art student?’ the stranger asked.

  ‘Yes, are you?’ Robert replied.

  ‘No.’ The man paused with mock diffidence. ‘I try to write.’

  Robert was suddenly filled with a sense of frustration and rage and despair, the culmination of the stupid evening.

  ‘Well, go on trying!’ he spat out derisively, before he knew quite what he was saying; then he was out and away down a wide turning, before the bewildered man could either show pain or displeasure at his uncalled-for rudeness.

  VIII

  The next day Hope and Robert set out for the country. Robert’s throat was still sore, but he talked a lot, explaining the countryside to Hope with pleasure.

  They crunched over the gravel and Robert’s aunt met them in the hall. Hope’s manner with her was good. He was polite, not too talkative. She led them both into the drawing-room, where Robert’s grandfather was reading as usual by the fire. He looked up over his steel-rimmed glasses and said something correct and punctilious but not warmly welcoming. Hope immediately became even more correct and called him ‘Sir’. This came as a shock to Robert. It struck him that Hope perhaps made too many concessions to the opinions, upbringing and period of other people. He knew how Hope despised and disliked in his heart even the common courtesy of taking off his hat. This ‘Sirring’ even of a very old man was almost too much out of character.

  They settled down to a quiet tea. Hope passed the scones beautifully and even brought himself to pat the wire-haired terrier, although Robert knew that he considered all pets dirty nuisances.

  After tea Robert took Hope up to his room; then they wandered round the garden in the evening light, ending up by the ancient apple tree.

  It’s called Black Jack’s apple tree,’ Robert said, as they both stared up into the branches, which were rapidly melting into the darkness of the sky. ‘It has bunches of mistletoe on it, and it’s supposed to have been named after a well-known smuggler, but I always feel that that sort of local legend has been manufactured by some romance-loving lady, don’t you? The smuggler is said to have lived in a cottage where the house now stands.’

  Hope gave a grunt.

  ‘But it’s a lovely tree, isn’t it?’ Robert went on. ‘And the mistletoe makes it romantic enough without any legend. When I was small I once took all my clothes of
f and climbed up into its branches, swathed only in a blanket. I sat up there jabbering and chattering nonsense for half the afternoon. I can’t think why I did it now, but it meant something very exciting and serious at the time.’

  The thought flashed into Robert’s mind that Hope was bored. He led him down the narrow path between the thick-leafed shrubs. They were both swallowed up in terrifying, floating blackness until they reached the slimy bricks of the stable-yard. The huge coach-house door had lately been painted ochre. It could still be seen, glimmering pale and fresh; but Robert knew that the whole building was deserted and empty, except for his aunt’s car, the mowing-machine, the garden furniture; and upstairs in the loft, three trunks of tousled fancy dress for a pageant, and rows and rows of shrivelling pears and apples, looking like tiny human heads.

  ‘I’ve always thought it would be nice to make a little house or flat out of the stable,’ Robert said to Hope with animation. ‘I wish I had the money to do it with and my grandfather would let me. You could have two lovely rooms on the ground floor and then there’s all the loft above.’

  They went out into the road, still talking about the converting of the stables. Between them they planned something wonderfully attractive and luxurious.

  ‘It’s no good exploring the village now,’ said Robert, looking down the dark road.

  ‘Oh, let’s walk for a bit; I want to stretch my legs,’ Hope suggested.

  Robert led him towards the common. ‘You seem to be able to manage my aunt and grandfather well,’ Robert said.

  ‘Oh, I’m always able to make myself pleasant to people,’ Hope answered complacently. ‘I don’t understand why there’s all this trouble in some families—everybody squabbling with everybody else.’

  ‘Don’t you think you might overdo it unless you’re careful? If you’re too fluid and malleable, people may get suspicious and think you’re playing with them.’

  ‘D’you think so?’ Hope asked interestedly.

  ‘Yes, I think they end up by hating you when they see that you’re only saying a thing to please them.’

  ‘Not everybody’s a suspicious devil like you,’ Hope said with heat. ‘You don’t trust anyone, let alone me.’

  They walked on in rather boorish silence, until Robert said at last, rather gruffly, ‘Tomorrow we’ll go exploring.’

  The day was warm and feathery with mist, so they fastened the dog’s collar and decided to go for a long walk, with their lunch in their pockets.

  ‘He must be brushed,’ said Robert’s aunt, looking down at her pet. ‘Yes, darling must be brushed,’ she repeated to the dog, putting her face down to him. The dog’s wet tongue came out and licked a strand of her hair.

  ‘Scampy, Scamp,’ called Robert, patting the horsehair seat in the flower-room, so that the dog jumped up. He held it by the collar and began to brush vigorously, making endearing and hissing noises. ‘Pets-kin stay still!’ he ordered, as he combed its ears.

  ‘How absurd you are with it,’ Hope said. ‘It isn’t particularly strange that you should be absurd with it,’ he added insultingly ‘but what I find so strange is the way forbidding-looking hearties and other almost extinct species melt and maunder over their flea-ridden pets. They’re not ashamed to shower their “darlings” all over the place, and I’ve even heard one calling his spaniel “sweet-heart”.’

  ‘I suppose it betrays a deep-felt need for expressing tenderness,’ said Robert sententiously. ‘In England you can only do it on the dog.’

  ‘Isn’t it grizzly to think that people only keep these creatures as emotional outlets?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Robert, clipping the leash on to the dog’s collar.

  They waded through the shingle which covered the drive.

  ‘Why is it so deep?’ Hope asked.

  ‘Well, you see, my grandfather ordered an enormous cartload and had it spread about six inches thick all over, so that the weeds could never push through. Every week the gardener rakes it; then it looks wonderfully smooth, as if the tide had washed it; but it soon gets all churned up again.’

  The sun was gradually melting the mist. The dog danced and pulled on the lead. As soon as they were in the fields Robert unleashed him. The dog took the end of the leash in his mouth and pranced backwards in the most absurd way. He worried the lead until his head seemed to be moving as quickly as a vibrating tuning-fork.

  ‘Does he always behave like that?’ asked Hope.

  ‘Except when he chases things.’

  ‘Perhaps he’ll get shot one day by a farmer,’ Hope suggested hopefully.

  They passed through some park gates and started to walk up the mud and gravel road through the fields.

  ‘Aren’t we trespassing?’ said Hope, turning to Robert.

  ‘Oh no; the church is up here, close to the big house, but there is also an old “moated grange” which I want to show you. It must have been abandoned by the family and turned into a farmhouse when they built that huge yellow-stone thing,’ said Robert, pointing with his stick, as the newer house came into view.

  They branched off across the fields, and soon were standing on the edge of a weedy and dark-coloured moat. The house on the enclosed square seemed to have dwindled and shrunk; for at one end was an isolated stone gate-house with a belfry and at the other the much-patched house. An overgrown neglected garden with ugly rose pergolas divided the two.

  ‘Isn’t it rather romantic and sinister? All decaying and gloomy,’ Robert said with relish. ‘I wish my grandfather lived in something like that instead of his ugly ivy and stucco house.’

  ‘But it would cost an awful lot to make it really fit for human habitation, wouldn’t it?’ said Hope with not much interest.

  They sat down under some trees and ate their lunch. Scamp kept pestering for titbits. He sat close to them, stiff and trembling, not quite daring to snatch the food from their hands. When they had finished they went back to the moat and threw fragments of bread to the two oily-looking swans that floated there. Robert watched one of the pieces of bread sinking into the slimy water.

  Towards two or three o’clock the mist thickened again and had soon turned into a drizzle.

  ‘What shall we do?’ asked Robert as they stood in the middle of the wet fields.

  ‘Let’s get home damn quick,’ Hope spat out. He now seemed to be quite out of temper. They yelled after the dog, which had disappeared. Scamp emerged from the mist in his own good time. He looked delighted, for he had found some deliciously fresh cow-pats and had been rolling himself in them very thoroughly.

  Robert gave extravagant groans and wails. ‘Oh, Scamp, you stinking and repulsive beast,’ he chanted.

  ‘Give him to me,’ said Hope firmly. He hooked his umbrella handle through Scamp’s collar and dragged him relentlessly to the edge of a dreary little stream.

  ‘Tear up large handfuls of grass and be ready to wipe him down,’ he ordered.

  ‘Oh, don’t push him in,’ Robert cried. ‘He’ll catch cold and die and then my aunt will be taken off to the madhouse.’

  But by this time Hope had already jerked the filthy Scamp into the shallow stream. There were yelps and mad scrambles for the bank, but before the poor dog could reach dry land Hope had very neatly pushed its head under with his foot and had totally submerged it.

  Robert rushed at it with the handfuls of damp grass and rubbed it down. It shivered in a spectacular way—like a machine. Robert tore off his scarf and began to rub again. The dog seemed to love the vigorous friction. It stuck out its legs like stiff poles and seemed to be arching its back slightly.

  ‘That’s quite enough,’ said Hope. ‘You’re exciting it. Stop rubbing.’

  Robert made Hope run across the fields so that the dog should chase them and get warm. It gave delighted yelps and ran away with one of Hope’s gloves in its mouth. They all three arrived back at the house hot and damp.

  No one was in the drawing-room. Robert’s grandfather was writing letters in the dining-room and h
is aunt was resting. Robert and Hope sat down by the fire and played their poetry game. Each wrote a line, turned the paper down and handed it to the other to write the next. When they had written the required number of lines they read out the composite poems with screams of laughter. They seemed amazingly suggestive and illuminating. There was naturally a great deal of indecency and private innuendo in them, so they gathered up the scraps of paper hurriedly when they heard footsteps.

  ‘Well, did you have a nice walk?’ asked Robert’s aunt. ‘And was Scampy a good boy?’

  ‘Oh, quite good,’ said Robert with emphasis. He wanted no mention made of the cow-pat rolling, for it would lead inevitably to the story of the ducking and that would not have been forgiven easily. ‘It’s a pity it came on to rain. We went to see the old house with the moat round it.’

  The tea was brought in and Robert’s grandfather made ponderous remarks quite charmingly.

  Gradually the pleasant dull holiday was passing away. It had been a success. Robert’s aunt looked pleased when she saw them both getting ready to go out with their paint-boxes slung on their backs.

  ‘Have a good day,’ she said gaily.

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t take Scamp,’ Robert said. ‘He’ll get in the way and knock the easels over.’

  ‘That’s all right. I’ll take the naughty devil out myself.’ Robert’s aunt, as she said this, put her face close to the ground and made a gargoyle’s grimace at her animal. Scamp backed away, growling excitedly, not quite certain what was afoot.

  The two let themselves out of the garden door and walked through the bushes.

  ‘Where shall we go?’ asked Robert. ‘Is there anything in particular you want to paint?’

  ‘No, you know the country, so you decide,’ Hope answered.

  ‘Let’s go and do the church then. I like all the different-shaped tombstones and the Gothic arches. We might even invent people coming out of the tombs. Don’t you love Stanley Spencer’s Resurrection in the Tate?’