by Frazer Lee
Having studied hard for a year, and having accumulated considerable savings from her job as a florist in the Temple, Christine rewarded herself by moving on to London. She had never before experienced London’s galleries, cathedrals and bustling street markets. Christine found this city to be a joy that sang to her heart. She took lodgings in Hampstead and became a godsend to her landlady Mrs. Harris, whose advancing years made it difficult for her to keep the house in order. Christine became as a daughter to her, helping out whenever she could, and scolding her for not taking a moment’s rest, even when out of breath. This was to be Mrs. Harris’ undoing, as one day she had a heart attack whilst bringing coal up from the cellar. Christine returned from an outing to find her cold and lifeless on the stairs. The funeral was a slight affair, as Mrs. Harris knew very few people and kept herself to herself. Her tenant had, however, become so dear to her in those final months that Mrs. Harris left the house and all her monetary wealth to Christine in a will written not two weeks before her demise. She considered selling the house, donating the money to several charities, before moving on to another continent altogether. Yet deep inside, Christine had reached a state of grace and serenity.
All her life, it seemed, she had been plagued by abandonment and death but had remained resilient and brave throughout. She could not help feeling that her benefactor had left her exactly what she needed at this stage of her life. Calmly, and without any fuss, she set about decorating the house in her own style, with dried flowers and gifts from the sea, Indian fabrics and church candles. Then she established a small florist’s shop in the commercial row of Hampstead Village nearby.
“It’s quite a story, no?” she said, drinking the last of her port and licking her sparkling lips as she set the empty glass down on the table.
“Good God yes,” I replied earnestly, the sweet song of her voice still gently murmuring inside my head, “I feel I haven’t lived listening to your story.”
“Oh you’ve lived alright Mr. Shaw. Just not to the fullness of your potential, no?”
And with that, we kissed. And something changed forever in my heart.
I was working at that time as a clerk in a tailor’s just off Regent Street. The owner, a fat Jewish gentleman called Mr. Caplan, used to work me like a dog. I was often given to wondering how business could be as bad as he always complained it to be when the pile of paperwork persisted to grow on the corner of my desk. Towards Christmas, the seasonal orders almost tripled and I found myself working increasingly long hours for, I might add, the same wages.
I began to despair, as no sooner had I cleared the workload, an even bigger pile would appear as if by magic first thing the next morning. Gradually I saw less and less of my beloved Christine. My lunch hour shrank to about five minutes and once, I had so much work to do that I forgot Christine was waiting on the doorstep below my office in the belief that we were to go to the pictures together. Somehow remembering as I finished for the evening, I grabbed my hat and coat and rushed downstairs. Thankfully, Christine had been put in a cab by the concierge of the neighboring Hotel Royale and sent home. The concierge was a giant of a man, rather like an iceberg in an overcoat, and he picked me up by my lapels and gave me a severe ticking off for my outrageous treatment of such a delicate flower as Christine. I rushed to her home, and although I could see smoke from the chimney and lights in her rooms, she would not acknowledge me.
Unable to sleep, I arose from my bed and walked the great distance from my room in Bermondsey to Caplan’s of Regent Street as the sun came up. I was in no fit state for work and my employer seemed to sense the trouble in my brain and the storm in my mood. By late afternoon, he had given me a modest Christmas bonus and told me to take the remainder of the week off. This only gave me an extra day’s holiday of course, Mr. Caplan being no fool, but his generosity almost caused me to fall off my chair in shock and served to lighten my mood considerably. And as my mood lightened, an idea formulated within me. For the first time in ages I felt as though my head and heart were working in tandem once more as when I had first met my beloved.
She let me into her house that evening. After a superb meal of spice and delicacy had been devoured by my very unworthy self, I sank to my knees and offered her the ring I had purchased on my way from the office. Her face was bathed in the firelight and I swear she never looked lovelier than at that moment. Her eyes communicated such a profound mixture of joy and sorrow that I could not doubt earnest reply of, “Yes, I will marry you Mr. Shaw.”
Everything was as new again and we sat by the fire and talked animatedly over several glasses of our favourite port wine. Gradually, Christine moved our conversation from us, to me, to my job, to work in general. Transfixed as I was by her voice, I must admit that I became increasingly uncomfortable.
“The problem with all you Londoners is that al you do is work, no?” she said, “I mean you are truly obsessed with it. Work, work, work. I like to earn an honest wage, but life has so much more to offer. I’ve watched you losing your soul to a desk full of paper Bill, and I don’t like it, not one bit.” She always called me Bill when she’d been drinking. Especially port wine. “I don’t want my husband to be soulless to his wife, to his children,” she said, “And so, I want you to leave your job and never go back to that horrible place.”
“And if I don’t? If I refuse?” I knew the answer. Utterly in her spell. Utterly in thrall of her. Utterly powerless once again.
“Then I won’t… Can’t marry you my love because gradually, I’ll lose you anyway if I let you go on.”
“But how will we live?”
“In paradise my darling. You’ll move in here and help me with the florist’s. We’ll be a good team, no? It’s settled then.”
We filled our glasses and drank a toast to our happiness. I felt we were drinking to my death as a man. I even told her. She told me this was the typical male ego. I’m inclined to agree, even now. But in retrospect, I believe even so ugly a beast as the ego must surface on occasion, if only to preserve some kind of balance.
No matter. I did as she said and sent a resignation letter to Mr. Caplan. His honorable reply consisted of my final wage and a glowing reference, should I require one in the future. Christine kissed the frown from my head as I read it and said we should place it in a frame.
We decided upon a rural wedding and took leave of London to get married in my parent’s village in Somerset. To my delight, my parents took instantly to Christine and we rejoiced in an open-air ceremony in the shade of huge trees one midsummer morning. The Second World War loomed, preventing us from returning to London, and we took my parents’ out-house as a honeymoon cottage. As the war raged on, Christine and I stayed safe in our bed and our love amidst the trees of my youth.
My wife was never happier.
She craved the fresh air and the windows in our humble home were rarely closed. Sometimes I awoke in the middle of the night to find her gone; a warm indentation in the mattress where she had lain. I would creep to the open window overlooking the vast weeping willow and birches of the garden and watch her spinning and dancing there. All the while she had her head thrown back and she embraced the stars and the moon as their light seemed to rain down on her, my beautiful wife, dancing barefoot in the garden.
One such night, it was raining heavily and the roof had sprung a leak above our bed. I moved the bed to one side with Christine’s help and placed a bucket beneath the leak to catch the water. The drip-drop of the rain was to me as the tick of a clock and I was soon sleeping deeply. No such luck for my poor wife, who could not bear the sound, which conspired with the brilliant light of the full moon flashing and flickering through the rain clouds. A terrible migraine took possession of her skull and she ran out into the river night without even closing the door. I awoke soon afterwards and instinctively crossed to the window, narrowly missing the bucket, half full with chilly rainwater. I peered out into the garden as I latched the window for fear it would blow open and strike me. I saw nothing sav
e the rain pounding the grass. And a panic seized me.
Pulling on my greatcoat and boots, I ran out into the storm crying out my wife’s name. The ferocity of the wind robbed me of my words. From the garden I could see her footprints heading in the direction of the lane.
The full moon had a cousin that night, in the sheets of lightning which further illuminated the empty space where my wife should have been, distressing me further. I stumbled down the lane and into a thicket of trees before coming to a halt in a small clearing next a felled tree into which I had carved my name as a small boy.
I could hear breathing in the trees beyond. Crouching, as this seemed to improve my hearing, I concentrated on the sound and slowly moved towards it in this self-same posture with a quickening heart.
Eyes were watching me. Eyes like coals, hot and glowing, impervious to the cold and the rain. A low steady growl replaced the breathing and I stood erect, beginning already to retreat from this hider in the woods.
The beast erupted from the trees and tore at my greatcoat with huge white fangs, tearing a piece of my lapel away. Suddenly, the beast halted its attack and sat back on its haunches chewing the torn cloth slowly. I could see through my fear and the drizzle of my vision that it was a large wolf. Its eyes seemed very old to me somehow, like fossils encased in ice. Slowly, it chewed and sniffed before returning to its hiding place in the trees. I fought the paralysis that had taken me and somehow managed to turn and flee the terrible scene of my near-death. I ran and ran until I collapsed on my bed, fully clothed and soaking, numbed by the terrors of the wild and the disappearance of my wife. I battled with sleep, but passed out in shivers and whimpers as the rain pounded deafeningly on the windowpanes.
Several weeks passed and there was no sign of Christine. My parents were distraught and my mother grew sick with worry. We contacted the local authorities but their searches proved futile. Christine had gone. Ripped from my life like a flower from its bed.
The rains returned and my melancholy became to me as permanent as a siamese twin. The howling in my head upon her vanishing had leveled into a numb buzzing sound like angry bees. I had not slept for days and food was unpalatable to me. I missed Christine with every fiber of my being. I was stricken without her. The sound of the raindrops in the bucket next to the bed on this cool, wet night served only at first to remind me of the events of that terrible night. Eventually however, to my inmost delight, the sound of the water dripping soothed me to sleep.
Soft, warm breaths on my face awoke me. I slowly sat up and the breaths moved away from me, as if knowing their work was done. Astonishment.
As I opened my eyes, I saw my beautiful Christine, kneeling naked at the bedside. She had leaves in her hair, mud and moss caked her soft white skin. Her eyes sparkled with the wisdom and joy of a traveler who has finally returned home. My breath stopped in my throat as I reached out to hold her. Then I saw her hands. Covered in blood they were. Blood both dried and fresh. Tiny catgut strands of gore hung from her wrists like bracelets. And in her left hand, she held a piece of cloth. In Heaven’s name, it was the lapel from my greatcoat, taken away by that massive wolf in the woods.
Her eyes sparkled as if asking the question, “It’s strange, no?” and I dropped my gaze to avoid those eyes, suddenly so terrifying to me.
I wished I hadn’t looked down. For there, in the bucket of water next to the bed, I saw my wife’s reflection, perhaps for the very first time. In the still rainwater collected there, I saw the hot coal eyes and wolf face of my wife. Looking back to her, I could see she was placid now, but I knew in the quickness of my terror that this beast was within her and would come out again. Ashamed of what happened next, I am. But I have no regrets, even now.
My wife climbed onto my trembling body gracefully and whispered into my ear that everything was better now, that she had returned and would never leave my side again. Her words burned my brain and her hot tears singed my flesh and we made love ferociously, over and over, like new lovers in their first heat. Me, a trembling mess of a man, and her at once beautiful and beastly, smelling of blood and meat and earth and dead wood.
Christine’s return was greeted with rapture by my parents and her absence was explained away by myself as a case of amnesia brought on by exposure. Certainly, my wife played the invalid, suffering visits from the family doctor and receiving silly gifts from my mother with the patience of a saint. But I could see her alertness behind those long lashes and heavy-lidded eyes. Something older and wiser than us dwelled in there. Reluctantly, my parents allowed us to return to London, my wife and I, back to the chaos, wreckage and strange peace left behind after the Blitz.
And so I became prisoner to the beast woman whom I loved, in the idyllic surroundings of our Hampstead home.
I knew that I could never leave, for fear that Christine would find me in her altered state one night as I ran and ran by the light of that bloody full moon.
Every moon cycle marked a little death for me. Although the periods in between my wife’s transformation were filled with love and desire, I grew older and weaker as she remained young and strong.
I have been in this house for forty years now. Tonight is full moon and I have dutifully left the windows open for ease of exit for the beast. I am elderly, cold and stupid. Today I found the reference letter from my old employer in a box in the cupboard. It says I am, “Loyal and trustworthy.”
I dearly hope my wife, the wolf, remembers that when she returns. So greatly have I outlived my usefulness, I fear she may tear out my throat and take what meat remains on my old bones when she comes home through that window.
Funny no? I can no longer see any beauty, any beauty at all, when I look up at the moon.
Conspiracy Of Silence
David Jones had lived in Acacia Drive for his entire adult life. Not much of a life, truth be told. Thirty-eight years as a non-entity. He was simply “Dave” to his co-workers, having no real friends to speak of. Dave was the kind of man you met at dinner parties by the buffet, only to quickly forget him as soon as you went in search of a cheap wine refill. He’d looked pretty much the same all his life. Stocky, dumpy, with a square face and permanent five o’clock shadow adding further non-description to an uninspired chin. Short back and sides with a neatly shaved neckline was the order of the day once a month at the barbershop just ten minutes walk from the office.
Work was the highlight of Dave’s day. He didn’t love his job, oh no. He didn’t hate it either. It was just that when he was working, the unimaginative Mr. Jones didn’t have to think about anything other than the relentless In-tray, Out-tray repetition of his daily tasks. Truly, it helped pass the time, being at work. He was the perfect civil servant. Always punctual, never rebellious, always there. Dave had only taken one day off sick in twenty years; a one-off weakness that troubled him whenever he thought about it (so he no longer thought about it).
Dave always sat alone in the canteen, eating his staple diet of meat and potatoes; no veg. No-one bothered him save for the occasional polite “Hello” or a request to borrow the salt cellar. No one hated Dave, or particularly liked him. He was like the matte white woodchip wallpaper lining the office. He was just there.
And that’s exactly the way David Jones liked it.
Acacia Drive was made for people like Dave. A quiet, leafy suburban street lined with blossom trees and vast Victorian houses set back from the wide road. Net curtains and giant pot-plants added further anonymity to each residence. The road was perfectly tarmaced and unusually wide adding to the absolute quiet. That was what stood out most about the street - that fact that it was so quiet. Save for the occasional passing of a car, or the soft staccato rhythm of a cyclist’s wheels, Acacia Drive was an oasis of peace. All sounds seemed to be swallowed up by the neatly trimmed hedges and sturdy brickwork. Even the birds were quiet, as if singing under their breath.
Dave’s day always ran like clockwork. A masterpiece of routine. His alarm clock would ring out at seven AM. He would swi
tch it off and sit up, on the side of the bed facing his large sash window. He’d then rise, and pull back the curtains giving him a view of the street outside. Emotionless and yawning, he’d wipe the sleep from his eyes and look at the blossom tree over the road. Then he’d make his way to the bathroom and run a bath. Dave had never had a shower unit installed at the house. Showers just didn’t make sense to him. With the bath running, Dave would make himself a cup of tea and a bowl of porridge. He would then turn of the taps and devour his breakfast in exactly ten minutes. By this time the bath water would be the perfect temperature.
Exactly fifteen minutes later, Dave would be on his way to the station, bathed, shaved and with a full belly.
He wore the same outfit each day. Pressed grey suit, starched white shirt, grey tie. The ironing board was Dave’s closest companion. He had never had a girlfriend.
He simply didn’t have time to deal with the perplexities of the opposite sex. He was always polite to the women he worked with, but his emotionless eyes gave not a glimmer of excitement when one of his more attractive colleagues walked by. Any advances from females fell on deaf ears, if there had indeed been any such advances. Dave’s mother had been the only woman worthy of his attention. So practical, rigid and a staunch observer of routine. She had passed away in her sleep a couple of years ago. Dave found her in bed the next morning. He dusted and cleaned her room before calling the doctor. He knew that’s how she would’ve wanted it. The cremation was a swift affair. Afterwards, Dave stepped outside into the chill air and made his way up the path leading from the Crematorium to the main road. Upon reaching the gate, he turned and watched a thick black plume of smoke billowing out of the chimney. As the smoke stained the heavy clouds hanging overhead, Dave thought of his mother scrubbing soot from the windowsills at the front of their house every Sunday. He turned and walked away. He would have to clean the windowsills from now on.