Stories of the Strange and Sinister (Valancourt 20th Century Classics)

by Frank Baker

  All that summer and autumn the two young people were seen about together and on Quintin’s twenty-first birthday, which was to be celebrated regally at Hassocks, everybody in the village of Anton and the surrounding country, hoped that an announcement would be made.

  It was a party that lightened the gloom of an unusually cold November. All the estate tenants were invited to dinner; to them and the other guests Quintin made an exquisitely simple speech, polished to a wit only perceivable by the more intelligent. After the feast the several hundred guests put on coats and wraps and moved out to the terrace to watch the fireworks. There were long tables lit by crimson electric bulbs concealed amidst moss and ivy in the scooped-out boles of two oak trees; and on the tables, claret punch coffee, barrels of beer, cider, a puncheon of rum, cherry-brandy and many other warming drinks. Quintin, feeling suddenly a little embarrassed by this extravagant honouring of his manhood, slipped away to the orangery, hoping to be able to get a line right in his new ballade. To his extreme annoyance he found Ianthe in there. She was sad. To-night, she felt, it was time for Quintin to make her an offer; but he had showed no signs of doing so. He had, in fact, completely forgotten her existence.

  She turned round, her face glowing in the light of the Chinese lanterns, and saw him coming in. For a moment he hesitated, wondering if he could get away. Then, realizing he might as well propose now as any other time, he made an opening, vague and yet in key.

  ‘How exquisite this mimosa is.’

  ‘Yes, it is jolly,’ she said.

  ‘How it makes one,’ he continued slowly, ‘long for the south – the south that ripens the vine and warms the blood.’

  ‘Yes, the south is awfully nice.’

  ‘There is something sad – ’ he complained, ‘ – about these pyrotechnical arabesques.’

  He drooped with a certain athletic grace into a basket chair, drawing his fingers across his forehead and smiling at Ianthe. It was a smile that always attracted people; a smile of singular humility, unexpected in one whose bearing was usually so arrogant. Actually, it was synthetic. He had worked hard to learn how to produce it at the right moment.

  ‘Fireworks are like words,’ he continued, (He was thinking, at what precise point shall I make my voice ‘vibrate with passion?’ Upon what word?) ‘ – like words, spoken – and too soon forgotten. But there are some words, Ianthe, which should be like a – ’

  ‘Oh look, Quintin!’ she cried suddenly. ‘Look at that heavenly rocket!’

  His smile vanished. Without raising his head he looked at her malevolently under his heavy sensuous eyelids. What a noodle the girl was! Beautiful, no doubt; but it was mere pig-beauty. In a few years she would have lost all her charm. Still, a wife was useful; she kept other women away. Yes, he must propose; the tedious task must be accomplished as gracefully as possible.

  Rising, he went near to her, preparing the right words, rolling them round and round silently on his tongue. Knowing that the moment had come, Ianthe waited, trembling a little, and closing her eyes. She felt his hand on her shoulder, very light; she heard him give a little cough. The next thing she heard was spoken with terrifying contempt – the single word,

  ‘Noodle.’

  She opened her eyes. ‘W – what – did you say, Quintin?’

  He bit his lip; he flushed.

  ‘You called me a noodle!’ she cried. ‘I suppose I am not clever enough for you. How beastly of you, Quintin! After all these weeks when we have been so friendly. How cruel of you!’

  ‘Wait – wait – ’ he cried. And in a moment he was stammeringly excusing himself, as he had ten years ago in the schoolroom. ‘I didn’t mean it. I – I don’t know what made me say it. I wasn’t thinking of you, Ianthe darling. I swear I wasn’t – ’

  He broke off. She had run out into the garden. He could see her, lit by the flaring light of a set-piece, disappearing towards the house, her handkerchief to her eyes. He started to pursue her; then stopped. What was the use of pretending he cared? He did not. He knew that he had, for the second time, reached a crisis in his life. Only one thing now had power to interest him. And that was –

  He saw it in the distance, above the set piece. People were crying and clapping their hands and calling for him; his father ran towards him, dragging him along the terrace to see his birthday message burnt in words of fire against the sky. ‘Many happy returns of the day.’ He watched it and hardly saw it; watched the sizzling fiery words, man high, splutter away and shiver over like a falling house until there was nothing left but a few spitting embers and, high above, in monstrously large letters, spelt out in pure ice the deadly word ‘NOODLE.’

  He was, of course, enthralled – for a moment far too thrilled by this second demonstration of his power to think of the cold meal that lay before him. As before, nobody could see it but himself. Complaining of the sudden coldness people were moving back to the house; the tenants were struggling in to find their caps and coats. Quintin realized he was almost alone, except for one old man who, seeing that everybody had gone, was drinking the dregs from all the glasses remaining on the tables.

  He ran suddenly, over to the place where the set piece had been burning. Glittering upon the black sky, so beautiful that his head reeled, was his new creation, NOODLE. Was it not, he thought, worth losing a thousand Ianthes to gaze upon such a thing?

  Too high for him to reach, he stood there, gazing up at it, spellbound, hardly aware how cold he was until his name, called from the house, brought him to his senses.

  Late that night when all had retired, he came down from his bedroom to a cupboard in the lobby where tools were kept. He returned with a small hammer. He had been unable to break the letters with his hands, the ice was so thick, the letters far too large to put whole into his mouth. Turning on the electric stove he contemplated his fate with a groan. It was intolerable that he should have to destroy this peerless work; intolerable, too, that he should have to digest so cold a meal – if it could be called a meal. And yet it was impossible to sleep with this chain of frozen letters which had re-appeared across the room. He knew, with a sickening certainty, that he would never get rid of them unless he ate them; and much as he admired the whole effect (particularly beautiful when the light was turned out) he knew that the constant presence of this word above him wherever he went, would have an undermining effect upon him. Better, obviously to eat it here, in the secrecy of his own room, than perhaps to betray himself in public as he had innocently done on the last and only other occasion. Tomorrow he had promised to address the local literary guild on the Sonnet. What if, in the middle of his discourse, so carefully written and rehearsed, this should appear – as very well it might?

  Switching off the light, he left only the red glow of the stove so that he might at least have the aesthetic pleasure of seeing his work for the last time to the best advantage. Climbing up on a chair he seized one of the letters, the N, and was about to haul it down, when another idea came to him. He would be very cold. A plentiful supply of hot coffee would help a great deal. He had the night before him. Why not?

  He left the room. In about a quarter of an hour, after a muddling search in the pantries and kitchen, he came back again with a saucepanful of boiling coffee and half a bottle of Cognac. Taking the hammer he again attacked the N. Laying it down on the carpet before the fire, he waited a while hoping it might melt. But no. He would have to go through with it. A pity, he mused, that this could not happen in summer. Perhaps it yet might. For one could have enjoyed even a dictionary on a hot summer’s night.

  For about ten minutes he continued his cold repast, thankful to find that at last the other letters were beginning to thaw; though, this perhaps was a doubtful blessing since they thawed over his bed, making it impossible for him to use it.

  Finally he turned to the coffee and drank that. He did not, after all, touch the brandy. He was
too depressed. Sitting there with his knees hunched up to his chin, by the fire, he contemplated the future. He did not complain; he accepted his fate; he bore Miss Bond no malice. He only wondered how best he could control and utilise this accomplishment through the long years of his life. He had never taken anyone into his confidence – except one friend (who is responsible for this history) and even that trusted friend had, he knew, been less sympathetic than amused. The secret must live and die with him; once it became common knowledge he could never be anything but ridiculous. Quintin Claribel, man-of-letters, would cease to exist; in its place the world would find a freak. Turning to his diary he wrote an account of the night’s happenings. One day, perhaps, some use could be made of the theme. Not now.

  So thinking, he dragged the mattress from the bed, threw aside the wet blankets, wrapped himself in rugs and dressing-gowns, and fell asleep before the fire.

  At nine he was roused by Simmons who, seeing the wet bedclothes, the recumbent form on the floor, the bottle of brandy by his side, rejoiced exceedingly to think that the young master was starting to sow his oats, and ran quickly down to the servants’ hall to report the matter to cook, whose comments upon such excesses were known to be pungent and to the point.

  The rest of that winter Quintin spent very quietly. He was, he said, writing a book, an occupation respected by his mother but not by his father, who could not see why the task should keep a young man so locked away from society. Quintin took but little interest in the affairs of the estate; the tenants, who had praised him on his twenty-first birthday party, now shook their heads critically. He was not like his father, they said. He didn’t shoot, rarely rode, never talked to them over their garden gates. And what was the story about him and Miss Postle, whom he had bitterly insulted so that never again did she visit Hassocks?

  One afternoon, late in March, Mr Claribel went up to his son’s study, determined to have a frank talk with him. Had he spent so much on the education of his son for this to be his reward?

  Quintin was writing and looked up irritably.

  ‘I wanted to have a talk with you, Quintin,’ began Mr Claribel.

  ‘Yes, Father?’

  ‘I don’t understand what has come over you these last few months. Ever since your birthday you have been behaving very strangely. Is anything worrying you?’

  ‘I am writing a book, Father. It occupies all my thoughts. I am sorry to seem so distrait.’

  ‘A book cannot occupy all a man’s thoughts. One would think you had no affection left for your parents.’

  Quintin who had been in the middle of a particularly difficult sentence, said earnestly (hoping thus to get rid of his parent), ‘I love and respect you, Father, above any man in the world. As for Mother, she is an angel.’

  This was so feelingly said, the smile that accompanied it so charming, that Mr Claribel rose at once, convinced they had been misjudging the young man; he even accused himself of not taking enough interest in the book. It was obvious that it meant a great deal to him; and Mr Claribel, though he did not understand the high mysteries of art, always admired industry, whether of brain or body.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘just try to be more sociable, my dear boy. That’s all we ask. Come and play a game of billiards with me this evening. I rarely have anyone to play with and I’m sure some such relaxation would do you good.’

  ‘I love billiards,’ said Quintin absently. Already his fingers had reached for the pen. His father sighed and left the room; Quintin sighed too, with relief, and went on writing.

  Just before tea he took a turn in the park. He had not been out all day. The wind was blowing from the east; there would perhaps be frost that night; possibly even snow. Quintin, in spite of this, felt very happy. His book was going well and he was confident that he now had his tongue under complete control. Nevertheless, it would be pleasant when summer came and he could relax a little.

  It was the sort of day when the first wheatears arrived and he walked on to a high field, where on other days of early spring, he had seen the grey and white birds and been thrilled by the prophecy of summer that they brought. In the middle of the field, high up, with Hassocks House, a solid eighteenth-century building far away beyond the knoll of scots pines – he stopped. There were no birds. But there was something else that filled him with apprehension and drove all thoughts of summer out of his mind. Faintly, in the darkening sky, he could see, not many yards beyond him, some words. They did not make up a complete sentence. All he could read was: ‘. . . and respect you . . . ab . . . any man in . . . Mother is an ang. . . .’

  He stared, thunderstruck. He shivered and rubbed his icy hands together, cramped by a day with the pen. He could not even place the sentence that the words vaguely suggested; he could not fill in any of the gaps. ‘Mother is an ang . . . ?’ He racked his brain to remember; but he could not remember having said anything about Mother. All day, surely, he had been busy on his book; his father had tiresomely interrupted him, and he had said something merely to get rid of him. What?

  It was obvious that the broken words he saw were hardly frozen yet, the thermometer had not dropped enough. Perhaps by morning the temperature would rise and he would be safe. But it was very disquieting nevertheless. He hurried home, upstairs to his room, and sat down. He felt very weakened by what he had seen. He had said nothing unkind all day; his thoughts had been exclusively concerned with his work. What could it mean?

  At tea-time, anxious to restore himself to his father’s confidence, he nodded his head quite eagerly when it was suggested that tomorrow he might try out a new pony.

  ‘Unless the weather is too hard,’ said his father, helping himself to cake and thinking happily that their son was, after all, a very good son.

  Quintin made no comment. Like the child of twelve years ago he sat staring in front of him. Blazing in their full icy glory, encircled like a coronet above Mr Claribel’s bald head, were the words ‘I love and respect you, Father, above any man in the world. As for Mother, she is an angel.’ They were smaller than previous words; each letter no more than an inch in height. But they were shockingly clear; shockingly attractive. Of all his works this, undoubtedly, was the most finished, the most graceful. It had none of the ingenuousness of ‘Vile Old Owl’; none of the vigorous brutality of ‘Noodle’. This was the fastidious product of a more adult genius.

  Without a word he rose and left the room. He was very shocked. Surely, what he had said had been true? He did love his father; his mother was an angel. No! It was not true. He did not love his father; his mother might very well be an angel, but what cared he? He had spoken only in order to get rid of a parent who, in fact, he regarded as a tiresome old bore without a single original thought beneath his hairless scalp. Dismayed by this realization, Quintin nearly wept. He was brought very low.

  The words were circled round the electric light shade. He could not bring himself to eat them yet; he could not feel that he had been justly treated. But it was clear, it was clear from the way they hovered over his finger bowl during dessert, that they demanded to be eaten.

  ‘You are shivering, Quintin,’ remarked his angelic mother. ‘Are you cold?’

  ‘No. No,’ he muttered, looking away from her, not caring to meet her gentle eyes. He heard his father saying, ‘Shall we play billiards, Quintin?’

  He rose abruptly. ‘Yes.’ Anything for action. Preceding his father to the billiard room he found his cue and whipped the cover from the table. Soon, they were silently immersed in the game and for perhaps twenty minutes, all went well. Quintin played indifferently but with style; his father played brilliantly. The shameful circlet had not reappeared since dinner and Quintin began to hope that, after all, fate had played him an unjust trick and had now repented. Outside the snow was falling. He was aware of the horrible dangers that surrounded him and he longed to be completely alone.

  ‘Y
ou are very quiet,’ said Mr Claribel. He smiled and nodded pleasantly, not daring to allow himself a word. His father was crouching low over the table, intent upon a break. As he was about to aim his cue at the red, he was jerked in the back by Quintin who had leaned forward, under the shaded green light, and was clutching wildly at something in the air.

  ‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ cried Mr Claribel. ‘Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a shot?’

  ‘I can’t help that,’ mumbled Quintin whose mouth and hands, to his father’s amazement, were dripping wet.

  ‘Are you going to have a fit or something?’ snapped Mr Claribel. But Quintin again made a snatch at the air and brought his hand to his open mouth. In doing so he dropped a piece of ice on the table – it was, as a matter of fact, a hemisphere of the letter B. At the sight of the water on the table, Mr Claribel went wild.

  ‘Where the devil is all this water coming from?’ he shouted. ‘Burst pipe – burst pipe – ’ and he ran to the door calling for everybody whose name he could remember.

  While he was gone, presumably in search of an amateur plumber, Quintin hastily consumed the rest of the sentence – ‘I love billiards’ – which had suddenly shot out of the void above him, just as his father was about to take his shot. It had been too much for him. Such chilly mockery, so glacial an echo of words reminding him all too coldly that, indeed, he loathed the game of billiards – this had been too much for him. He was, for the first time, almost glad to eat his words. And having eaten them he hurried away from the room, unable to face his father’s wrath when he should see the puddle on the table.