Aubrey looked at his father and could tell that he was genuinely very angry and trying hard not to show it. He was breathing out slowly through clenched teeth.
‘And what happened then, Arthur?’ he said.
‘Well,’ said the boy. ‘The butler chap takes me by the hand and leads me off to the front door. He tells me to be sure and never come there again. ’E wasn’t such a bad sort, though. He gave me sixpence and smiled and that. I think he felt sorry for me. I was crying a bit, if you want to know the truth of it, sir.’
‘I’m sure you were, Arthur,’ said Reverend Baxter, ‘after such an ordeal.’
‘’T ain’t right, sir,’ said Arthur, through gritted teeth.
‘Well, you shouldn’t ought to have been there!’ said the boy’s aunt.
‘Perhaps I’ll draw you in a minute!’ said the boy, turning on her with wild eyes.
Aubrey was surprised to see that this odd outburst received no punishment. Mrs Barker’s face went very pale, twitched a little, but she made no response.
‘I don’t say I didn’t deserve a clip round the ear or some such,’ continued Arthur. ‘But he’s a bully, sir. A nasty, horrible bully. I don’t care if he’s the king of China!’
And with that speech, Arthur jumped down from the table and ran out of the room, his feet thundering up the stairs until, with the slam of a door, all was silent.
‘I’m so sorry, Reverend,’ said Mrs Barker. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do with him.’
‘That’s quite all right, Mrs Barker.’
‘Let’s have a nice cup of tea, eh?’
‘Thank you,’ said Aubrey’s father with a shiver. ‘That would be most welcome. And could I ask one favour?’
‘What’s that, then?’ said Mrs Barker.
‘Could you ask Arthur if I might purchase his drawing?’
Aubrey stared at his father. So did Mrs Barker.
‘Purchase?’ said Mrs Barker. ‘Buy, you mean? Don’t be daft, Reverend. You can have it if you want it. Here.’
Mrs Barker picked up the drawing from the table and handed it to him.
‘All the same,’ said Reverend Baxter. ‘I must insist.’
Mrs Barker yelled up the stairs and, after a pause, Arthur reappeared in the front room. Aubrey could see the boy had been crying. He could also see that he did not appear to possess a handkerchief.
‘How much you gonna give me for it, Reverend?’ said Arthur, wiping his shiny upper lip on his sleeve.
‘How much?’ said Mrs Barker. ‘I’ll give you “how much”, you little –’
‘How does ten shillings sound to you, Arthur?’ said Aubrey’s father.
Mrs Barker looked as though she might faint, and Arthur’s eyes all but popped out of his head. But very quickly he collected himself.
‘I’ll sell it to you on one conviction,’ said Arthur.
Aubrey’s father smiled.
‘And what might that be?’ he asked.
‘That you don’t go to The Grange,’ said Arthur.
After a short pause, Aubrey’s father nodded.
‘Very well, Arthur,’ he said. ‘You have a deal.’
When they finally left the house, Aubrey was somewhat dismayed to see that his father seemed to be heading towards The Grange, as originally planned, rather than back to the vicarage.
‘Father?’ said Aubrey. ‘I thought you –’
‘A white lie,’ said Reverend Baxter with a wink.
Aubrey sighed. He’d been so relieved when he’d thought they were to forgo their annual visit to The Grange, he’d been willing to forget the issue of the price his father had paid. But not now.
‘Ten shillings, Father?’ said Aubrey. ‘Really?’
‘Well, now,’ said his father. ‘It is a very good drawing. And I think they might use that extra cash.’
Extra cash? thought Aubrey. Did they have extra cash to throw about? How could his father waste money on that boy’s drawing when he’d insisted that they must have the most frugal Christmas possible? He wished he had stayed at school.
‘Besides,’ continued his father, ‘I intend to confront the Major about the punishment he dished out to poor Arthur and show him this drawing. I think if he sees the kind of sensitive soul that’s housed in that undernourished little body, he might show some remorse about treating him so badly.’
Aubrey was not so sure. He had a master at school who liked to beat boys for any small infringement of the rules. That sort never felt guilt.
‘It’s fascinating, isn’t it?’ continued Aubrey’s father. ‘This drawing is the boy’s way of responding to that flogging. Do you see? The Major beats him for stealing firewood and the boy punishes him by drawing him as though frozen in his own house. Absolutely fascinating.’
Aubrey had to admit it was, but he still wasn’t sure it was worth ten shillings. The boy would have been pleased enough to receive a halfpenny piece. Aubrey was certain that he could have found much better ways of spending such a sum. The boy’s awful aunt would probably take it from him in any case.
Aubrey and his father arrived at The Grange and shortly thereafter found themselves standing in the very hall Arthur’s drawing depicted.
Aubrey saw that not only were the details of the tree and the decorations just as Arthur had shown, but so was the make-up of the guests, all of whom Arthur had portrayed in his drawing. It made it seem even more extraordinary.
Aubrey found himself more unsettled than amazed. Despite the fact that, as usual, an enormous fire burned in the gigantic stone hearth, Aubrey shivered at the memory of the drawing.
‘Bother,’ said Aubrey’s father, seeing the Major chatting to the Bishop. ‘I will have to bide my time. I need to get the Major on his own.’
Then Aubrey’s father shivered as well. And Aubrey noticed that those about him were rubbing their hands and complaining about the cold.
Aubrey looked around the room. Women were pulling on stoles and shawls to cover their bare arms and shoulders. Aubrey could see their breath rising, and he now realised he could see his own. People were making their excuses and leaving, muttering about the chill. The room was emptying – and becoming colder.
How was this possible? The fire could not have been any bigger without risk of burning the house down, and yet as he and his father – like the remaining people in the room – moved closer to it for warmth, Aubrey realised that far from being a source of heat, it seemed to be emanating ice-cold air. Aubrey could see frost forming on the carved stone of the fire surround and the tiles of the hearth. There were icicles glittering on the mantelpiece.
‘C-c-could I s-see the drawing again, F-Father?’ said Aubrey.
His father’s movements were slow and shaking as he took the folded drawing from his pocket and handed it to his son.
Before the frost completely obscured the lenses of Aubrey’s glasses, he saw that he and his father now appeared among the guests in the drawing, frozen in the position in which they now stood, realising, too late, their terrible fate.
5
In the Bleak Midwinter
It had been Simon Littleton’s idea, but the rest of the choir had been only too happy to go along with it. They were going about the village carol-singing, raising money for a new roof for the church.
Everyone had been very generous. The guests at Lord Canford’s dinner alone had given over twenty-five pounds. The boys could hardly contain themselves as they left the long driveway to the manor house. It was more money than any of them had ever seen in one place before: a heap of coins and crumpled notes stuffed into a leather satchel.
And they had reason to be especially excited, as not all of the money was going to end up in the service of a new church roof. Half of it would. But the other half was to be divided among the choirboys themselves.
Simon knew this was dishonest and that dishonesty involving the church – even when it was just the roof of the church – probably made the deceit even worse. However, they felt that this sin sho
uld be counterbalanced in their favour by all the hours of singing they had done for free in that selfsame cold and uncomfortable church.
The way Simon saw it, everyone benefited. The boys were trailing round on a freezing cold night, collecting money towards the new roof – something they would certainly never have considered doing without compensation of some sort – and they would get some spending money.
Simon had particular need of ready cash because there had been a craze for gambling at school, and though he was an enthusiastic card player, he was a poor one. He owed several pounds in total and had long ago spent his meagre allowance.
One of the boys he owed money to – Martin Curtis – was a thug who would think nothing of beating Simon to a pulp if his debt was not repaid. In fact, Simon had the distinct impression that Martin did not especially care one way or another about the money, and if he did have a preference, it was probably for handing out a beating.
So while there was a lot of excitement among the boys about the amount they had collected, Simon had already calculated that his part of the proceeds would still not be enough to save him from a pummelling.
Unfortunately for him, the other boys didn’t have the same sense of urgency and were more than happy to take their shares and head home. Simon blocked their path as they crossed Belldew Common on their way back from the manor.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Just a couple more houses.’
The others shook their heads.
‘Not likely,’ said Maurice Birtley, who held the lamp, hanging from a pole, above their heads. ‘I’m going home.’
‘Me too,’ said his brother, Francis.
‘Come on, chaps,’ said Simon, trying to sound as casual as possible. ‘Why don’t we try Hopton House? There are people up from the city who’ve taken the place for Christmas. They’ll be loaded and they go weak at the knees for this kind of thing.’
‘You go if you want to,’ said Maurice, offering him the lamp.
‘I can’t go on my own and you know it,’ said Simon with a frown. ‘Come on. Richard? Henry? Matthew?’
The boys tried not to make eye contact with him.
‘We’ve had enough, Simon,’ said Matthew. ‘It’s freezing and I want to go home. Don’t be so greedy.’
‘Greedy?’ said Simon crossly. ‘Who are you calling greedy?’
‘Look,’ said Henry. ‘No point in fighting about it. But sorry, Simon. I think we’ve all decided to call it a day.’
Simon had always hated Henry’s annoying habit of acting as peacemaker, but he had never found his tone of voice so infuriating as he did then. He had a good mind to knock him down.
But he could see he had lost the argument. They all looked at each other in the lamplight for a few moments. Then Simon shook his head bitterly and stepped out of their way, and joined them as they walked back towards the centre of the village.
It was properly dark now. The wide view that was visible from the crest of the common by daylight was hidden to them, and even the huge oak trees at the edge were indiscernible against the inky sky. It was cold too. A frost was forecast.
As they walked along, Francis started to sing ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’ and, one by one, the others joined in. The song was a special favourite of Simon’s, but he adamantly refused to join them.
Simon found the boys’ singing especially galling. If they still had the urge to sing, why couldn’t they have done it for money as he had asked? He was just about to point this out, when Richard spoke before him.
‘I say, chaps,’ he said. ‘We shouldn’t be singing here, you know.’
The boys turned a deaf ear. Richard considered himself to be the sensible one of the group and the others did their best to cure him of this affliction by ignoring him whenever possible.
‘You should never sing in a graveyard,’ he said, over their voices.
‘Snow had fallen, snow on snow . . .’ sang the boys with increased enthusiasm and suppressed giggles.
‘What are you talking about, Richard?’ said Simon. ‘This isn’t a graveyard. We’re on the common.’
‘Well, it is a graveyard – in effect,’ he replied. ‘It was a plague pit, you know. Back in medieval times. They buried people from all around, that’s what my father says. Who knows how many –’
‘Even so,’ Simon butted in, eager to avoid another of Richard’s long lectures. ‘What has any of that got to do with singing or not singing? Why shouldn’t we sing in a graveyard?’
‘In the bleak midwinter,’ sang the boys, ‘long ago . . .’
‘Because . . .’ began Richard.
But he never finished his sentence. He, like all the other boys, came to a full stop. Simon walked into the back of Maurice and the lamp swung wildly, its dancing light illuminating the front row of what seemed like an enormous crowd ahead of them.
But as Simon and the other boys stared in astonishment, the swinging light also showed that there were just as many people to the side and behind. They were completely encircled, as far back into the gloom as they could see.
Who are these people? thought Simon. There weren’t this many people in the whole village, surely? Whoever they were, they didn’t look very happy and they were heading their way.
‘I told you!’ hissed Richard.
‘Told us what?’ said Simon.
The crowd shuffled nearer and nearer, moaning as they did so.
‘The dead come to singing,’ he said, his voice trembling. ‘They come to it like moths to a –’
‘The dead?’ said Simon. ‘Are you crazy? What do you mean, “the dead”?’
But as the crowd moved closer, Simon feared for his own sanity more than for Richard’s.
They were dressed as though they had stepped out of his Every Boy’s Book of History. There was an illustration in it showing a crowd at a medieval market, and the market-goers in that picture looked just like these people. Except that the people in the illustration were smiling.
‘Look at them!’ shouted Maurice. ‘They look furious!’
They did. They were nearing the edge of the lamplight now, and were only a few yards away. Every one of them, man woman and child, wore an expression of pent-up fury mixed with terrible longing. Their eyes stared and their mouths snarled in a kind of savage pleading.
‘Sing!’ shouted Simon.
‘What?’ said Henry.
The crowd shuffled closer.
‘It . . . It’s because you’ve stopped!’ he shouted. ‘That’s why they’re miffed. Sing! In the bleak midwinter . . .’
The boys joined in tremulously.
‘Stormy winds may blow . . .’
The crowd came to a halt and stood at the edge of the light, their faces now utterly benign and at peace, their bodies swaying from side to side. The groaning changed to a murmur now, like the purring of some giant cat. The whole common seemed to be filled with them, converging on the little knot of boys directly beneath the lamplight’s glow.
Simon’s theory was clearly correct. The boys worked through their repertoire of carols, but every time they stopped to choose the next one, the crowd let loose an awful groan and moved a little closer.
The boys became quickly adept at switching to the next carol with the smallest degree of interruption but, even so, by the time they had sung all the carols twice, the terrible crowd was standing only a matter of a foot away.
Simon’s heart was pounding in his chest and he was sure that he could feel the hearts of those around him – those who were alive, at any rate – beating to the same crazed rhythm.
The boys sang in a tight circle, facing out towards the encroaching horde as though they were a wagon train on the prairies of America, surrounded by Sioux Indians.
As the boys broke off before launching once again into yet another rendition of ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’, Simon stared in horror as the ghastly figures in front of him moved a step nearer.
They were now only inches away. Looking from face to grim face, Simon saw a thin man wit
h a broken nose, an old woman with her grey hair in plaits, a boy with large ears sticking out from a mop of black hair. Behind them stood a dozen others. Behind those, who knew how many more? All of them looked like they would tear the boys apart every time the singing faltered.
But though seeing this horror was sending the boys to the brink of madness, it was nothing compared to the fear they experienced when the oil in the lamp finally burned dry and the whole scene descended into pitch-darkness.
This caused all the boys to stop singing at once, until the touch of the dead against their faces as they crowded in made them sing out again in a last-ditch bid to fend them off.
‘Close your eyes!’ shouted Simon. ‘And sing!’
‘In the bleak midwinter . . .’ they sang, their voices now cracked and feeble.
Having their eyes closed did help a little. It made the darkness feel as though it was their choice. They did not, in any case, wish to see the crowd now squashing them inside a tight circle and whose faces now pressed against their own, muffling their singing and making it difficult even to breathe.
The boys sang all night, until their voices were barely audible. Simon was just thinking to himself that without the others beside him he might well have fallen to the ground his legs were so weak, when he suddenly realised that the pressure he’d felt against the front of his body was no longer there.
Gingerly opening his eyes, while singing in a hoarse and gasping whisper, he saw that the sky was glowing with the first light of dawn and the boys now stood alone on Belldew Common.
Richard had attempted to tell his parents what had occurred that night and had been threatened with a private asylum if he did not immediately say he was joking. Simon and the others decided they would not make the same mistake. They swore never to mention the matter again – even among themselves.
And it was Simon’s idea to give all of their proceeds to the church roof fund and keep none of it for themselves. The money seemed tainted now. He had vowed to himself on Belldew Common that he would sacrifice the money if he could just escape from that terrible horde. In any case, after what he had been through, a beating from Martin Curtis held no great dread.
Christmas Tales of Terror Page 5