Nightmare

by Lynn Brock

  He thought a great deal about this small, continuous noise which in a few days had made his life a poisoned agony.

  ‘Can you remember, Hopgood,’ he asked one day, ‘how long used that gramophone of the Prossips to play—exactly?’

  3

  There was very little for Mr Ridgeway to do. He spent most of his time before the gas-fire in the dining-room, reading—got through Motley’s Dutch Republic, James’s Varieties of Religious Experience, An Old Wives’ Tale, and some of Hardy’s novels—dozed a good deal, and sometimes forgot to go down to his own flat for meals. Four times a day he attended to Whalley’s eye; but the ulcer had now grown stagnant and there was really no necessity to trouble about it. At irregular intervals he made some tea and cut some slices of bread and butter. Whalley drank the tea greedily but sometimes left the bread and butter untouched. He refused all other food, and the liver which the butcher still delivered each morning went into the rubbish-bin. There was really no necessity to trouble about that either.

  The pacing footsteps in the passage did not disturb Mr Ridgeway greatly; in the dining-room, with the portière drawn across the door, they were barely audible—no more than company. Sometimes he went out and stood for a while, watching and wondering when they would begin to tire. At first he had been a little interested by the fact that, as he paced to and fro, Whalley’s face remained always raised towards the ceiling. But the pacing figure was always the same and its face always raised; Mr Ridgeway hardly thought about it at all now save to speculate as to how long it would go on pacing on a little tea and bread and butter. Not very long, he thought. Some weeks, perhaps. But there was no hurry.

  Gradually the flat fell into disorder. At intervals Whalley interrupted his patrol abruptly and, hurrying into one of the rooms, resumed a process of dismantlement which had now been in progress for over a fortnight. It proceeded spasmodically, but with a persistency which had at first aroused a little speculation in Mr Ridgeway’s mind, but had quickly become monotonous. Now a couple of pictures were taken down—now another strip of carpet was cleared, the furniture pushed into a corner, and the carpet rolled up. Now the contents of a book-case were emptied on to the floor, or a shelf of the kitchen dresser cleared and the crockery stacked in the passage. These outbreaks of energy were, however, of brief duration; after a few minutes of feverish activity Whalley abandoned his labours as abruptly as he begun them, looked about him vacantly, and went back to resume his pacing again. Beyond keeping a clear approach to the gas-fire in the dining-room, Mr Ridgeway did not concern himself with this derangement. If its purpose was, as he surmised, an unusually elaborate spring-cleaning, he thought it extremely unlikely that it would ever be achieved. And even if one did walk on a picture or a Crown Derby saucer, it really didn’t matter in the least.

  One night he tried a little experiment. He brought up an aspirin tabloid and, just before he went away, opened Whalley’s mouth gently and placed the tabloid on his tongue. Whalley swallowed it apathetically. No experiment could have been more satisfactory. After that the swallowing of an aspirin tabloid became a nightly formality whose occasional omission appeared to cause Whalley a vague disappointment.

  His strength failed swiftly. Much more quickly even than Mr Ridgeway had expected the pacing footsteps began to weary of their sentry-go. Mr Ridgeway became restless and watchful and left the door of the dining-room ajar a little while he tried to finish The Mayor of Casterbridge.

  CHAPTER XIV

  1

  ON one windy night towards the middle of January Mr Knayle sat watching his sitting-room fire go out. For three hours he had sat there while its cheerful blaze had dwindled to a glow—faded—contracted—chilled to a grey heap of ashes whose pin-points of red were a mockery of warmth and comfort. His eyes watched the last phases of its death with stony bitterness and saw in it a symbol—an epitome of the disorder which had suddenly attacked his life. For the reason why the fire had gone out was that there was no coal in the coal-box. And the reason why there was no coal in the coal-box was that Hopgood had gone away at three o’clock that afternoon.

  Mr Knayle was still too angry to think clearly how this malign and menacing thing had happened him. Hopgood’s desertion confused itself with another malign and menacing thing which had happened earlier in the day. Shortly before lunchtime a mob of howling louts had passed up Downview Road, waving red flags and brandishing sticks and pieces of gas-piping. Suddenly a stone had crashed through one of the windows of the sitting-room. It had done no damage beyond breaking the window and sprinkling the carpet with glass; but Hopgood had been badly scared and, in his panic-stricken flight from the room, had pushed Mr Knayle violently out of his way. Mr Knayle had followed him out to the kitchen and said several things which he was now unable to remember but which he felt sure had been thoroughly deserved. There had been a most unpleasant scene in the kitchen. Hopgood had refused to gather up the broken glass, refused to get lunch ready, called Mr Knayle a bloody bully, shut himself up in his room, and ultimately gone off in a taxi without warning and without asking for his wages. It had all been so sudden and so sinister and so utterly contemptuous of Mr Knayle’s dignity and comfort that he was still shaken by little hot quiverings of anger and apprehension—still quite unable to think clearly about it.

  But he felt that a devastating catastrophe had befallen him. For nearly twenty years Hopgood had supplied the essential needs of every moment of the days smoothly and unfailingly that it had never been necessary to consider even the possibility of hitch or failure. Now, in a moment, all this tranquil, complicated security had collapsed into irreparable confusion. In his heart Mr Knayle knew that Hopgood could never be replaced. Another man could be found, no doubt, honest, intelligent, conscientious in the ordinary way—able to cook tolerably—able to keep things going fairly well. But there had been a hundred thousand small personal dexterities and understandings in Hopgood’s service—a hundred thousand small knowledges which had supplied themselves to Mr Knayle’s little ways with a loyalty which had been very nearly maternal affection. Mr Knayle knew that many of his little ways were rather unreasonable—some of them rather odd—some of them childish in their pettiness. He wanted no new hands to neglect them—no new eyes to watch them—no new tongue to gossip about them. Not in twenty years could any possible new man be taught to respect them and guard them as an honoured trust. Not in a lifetime could he be taught the devotion which with Hopgood had been a tradition. For Hopgood’s forebears had served the Knayle family and its kindred for generations—a fact which lent to his desertion the baseness of a treachery. Mr Knayle’s anger could not contemplate the task of training any possible new man to regard his little ways with maternal affection and to appreciate properly the honour of serving a member of the Knayle family. It was unable to look beyond the indignities and discomforts of the moment. It desired simply to defy them, not to think of remedies for them. He sat bolt upright, defying them.

  It appeared to him incredible that he could find himself in such a position. He had had no food since breakfast. He was sitting in a room without a fire on a cold winter night. The carpet was covered with splintered glass and a desolating draught came in through the broken window-pane. Nothing would be ready in his bedroom. There would be no hot-water bottle in his bed. There would be no tea in the morning—no breakfast. These things appeared to him inconceivable and outrageous. He could have gone to the club or to a restaurant, but he had been determined not to go. He could have had the window mended, but he had been determined not to have it mended. He could have taken the coal-box out to the cellar and refilled it, but he had been determined that he would not refill the coal-box. He had never filled a coal-box in his life; nothing would compel him to fill a coal-box. He was resolved to endure cold and hunger and despise them proudly and angrily—not to yield an inch to them. He had yielded too much—allowed himself to be cowed and thrust aside—allowed his body to grow slack—his morale to slip into flabbiness. That must stop. A stand mus
t be taken before it was too late.

  He had had a bad headache since the scene in the kitchen that morning. It was not so much a headache as a sensation that his head was clamped in a vice which had compressed its contents into solidity. There was a persistent buzzing, too, in his ears which sometimes became the roar of swollen, rushing waters and blotted out everything except a desolating sense of imminent disaster. He could construct no definite thought about the discomforts of his position; they were all too sudden—too wanton in their senselessness. But they appeared to him of immense importance and significance—insults to order and justice and all sane purpose—manifestations of the sinister forces which had thrown all the world into confusion and alarm. The draught that came in through the broken window-pane was no mere current of cold air; it was an irruption of lawlessness, a spirit of brutal howling destruction. He saw that Hopgood’s treacherous desertion typified the revolt of the masses—furtive, cunning, insane in its lust to deface and pull down. It was that sort of thing that was undermining civilisation—idiotic rebellion against authority. His mind connected it with the disaffection of India—Bolshevism—the tyranny of the Trades Unions—chits of girls addressing men of fifty by nicknames—indecent films—litter left lying about the Downs—smash-and-grab raids—the swift breaking-up of the Empire. Everywhere revolt against order and tradition and superior intelligence. It was all confused and a little tremulous, but Mr Knayle was clear that it must be stopped. He saw himself—not as an individual, but as a class. It was the English gentleman, the guardian of honour and law and justice who sat by the dying fire and saw in it the threat of his extinction, and defied its threat contemptuously. There had been Knayles of Yelve Court since King’s John’s time—soldiers, sailors, lawyers, governors, ministers, a Lord Chancellor, three judges, an admiral, two generals, an ambassador and a bishop. They had all kept the trust. Mr Knayle’s cleft chin tilted itself when he thought of them. It was they and their kind that had always been the backbone of the country—the stable, stubborn spirit that had withstood all changes. What was there like them? He saw that there had never been anything in the world like them. And he was one of them. He would fight the good fight—go down fighting …

  Yes. He had allowed himself to weaken—shut himself up with his sickliness—brooded himself into cowardice. But that was done with now. Tomorrow, when the headache and the buzzing had gone, he would take steps to deal with all this—stop it—make a fresh start—get away from this sitting-room where his brain had thought itself into stupor—get away from that fellow Whalley and his pacing—get away from bleary, shambling Ridgeway—get away from rottenness and fear—get away from all the sickness of the past six months. A little place somewhere near Whanton—a bit of rough shooting—a garden—days in the fresh air—nights of sound sleep again—a couple of dogs. One would learn not to think again.

  Tomorrow. Tonight everything trembled too much. A quarter to twelve.

  But Mr Knayle was determined not to go to bed tonight.

  2

  The hall-door bell rang furiously and continued to ring while he made his way a little dizzily along the hall. When he opened the door Prossip lurched in, very white and oozing slightly at the corners of his lips. Mr Knayle stared at him in surprise and dislike—watched him shift a small suitcase to his left hand, and stepped back a little to avoid shaking hands with him.

  ‘Hello, old chap,’ said Prossip gloomily, moving his lips with great care. ‘Sorry to knock you up at this hour.’

  He stood, swaying a little, holding out his hand, looking so meanly bounderish in his new mourning that Mr Knayle remained determined not to shake hands with him. What was this boozing cad coming to his hall-door for at twelve o’clock at night, ringing the bell like a madman and slobbering at his lips? A mean, frightened-looking, drunken cad. What was he doing there? Shake hands with him? Mr Knayle was determined that he wouldn’t

  But something must be said to him—something about his daughter having been murdered. How would one begin it? ‘I’m so sorry your daughter was murdered.’ ‘I’m so sorry that you have met with such a—’ ‘I’m so sorry—’ Mr Knayle couldn’t begin to think of something to say. Murder? Who wanted to talk about murder? Sick thoughts—footsteps pacing—pacing—pacing. Done with all that.

  ‘I’m so sorry about your daughter, Mr Prossip,’ he said at last, slowly and frigidly.

  Prossip waved a hand. ‘Don’t, old man—’ He darted a quick look of doubt. ‘I’ve lost the poor Missus, too, you know.’

  ‘The—your wife? Your wife? Do you mean that your wife is dead?’

  Mr Prossip’s head nodded gloomily. ‘Gone. It’s finished me, old chap. I’m through.’

  3

  It was late and Knayle looked damn unfriendly, but Mr Prossip decided to sit down on one of the very hard hall-chairs and tell how dear old Emma had gone from him. It was a long story because first it had to go back over his life with Emma and make it clear that they had always been the best of pals and had never had as much as an angry word between them. Then it had to make it clear that he had warned Emma hundreds and hundreds of times against riding a bicycle—done everything a man could do to prevent her riding a bicycle. All this took a lot of time because he had to move his lips very carefully so as not to be ill in Mr Knayle’s hall. He had had a lot of whisky during the day and he knew that he was going to be ill as soon as he got up to his own flat; but he didn’t want it to happen in Knayle’s hall. It was an effort to keep his lips close together, and he was tired and Knayle kept on saying nothing and looking damn unfriendly. However he made it quite clear that he had always warned Emma against riding a bicycle. That was the important thing.

  Then he told how Emma had gone off to church one morning and how a car had knocked her off her bicycle in the fog, and how she had been found by a postman lying dead on the footpath. The postman had seen the whole thing from the other side of the road and had run after the car; but it had disappeared into the fog and he hadn’t been able to see its number. A two-seater car, he had said, driven by a man with a bandage tied round his head. The bicycle, of course, had been smashed up, but Emma hadn’t had a scratch on her. At any rate that was something to be thankful for.

  Knayle kept on looking damn queer and unfriendly and, tiring of his story, Mr Prossip rose heavily to his feet and hiccupped loudly.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Can I have my key—the key of my flat, you know? I left it with you.’

  ‘Key?’ Knayle repeated. He opened his mouth, shut it again, dithered through a door, dithered out again, handed Mr Prossip a labelled key and opened the hall-door.

  ‘When—?’ he began, and shut his mouth again. Mr Prossip felt another hiccup coming on and lurched out into the safety of the windy darkness. The hall-door shut behind him immediately.

  It was all damn odd and unfriendly, Mr Prossip thought as he climbed to the top flat with his suitcase. But everyone had been unfriendly towards him for some time back and he was beginning to expect it. No use worrying—just toddle along and take no notice. He sang as he fumbled with the latchkey.

  ‘Pack all your troubles in your old kit-bag

  And smile, smile, smile.’

  The song died away abruptly when he discovered that the electric light had been cut off. After a long search he found a stump of candle in one of the kitchen drawers. But its wavering light cast uneasy shadows and never reached corners. Mr Prossip liked to be able to see corners distinctly now. Finding that Emma had stripped all the beds and locked away the bedclothes in a cupboard for which he had no key, he sat down and wept for a little while heavily. The thought that Emma would never unlock the cupboard again and take out the neatly-folded blankets and sheets and pillow-slips which she had put away so carefully strangled his heart. It was a reminder that all her untiring, ruthless efficiency was lost to him for ever; she died again while it choked him.

  He had often wondered what it would be like if Emma died. It had seemed to him certain that, once rid of her
watchful tyranny, his life would instantly expand into a splendid liberty—an unending series of eases and reliefs. But it hadn’t worked out like that. The lonely weeks since Emma’s death had opened his eyes and given him a new view of himself. He had discovered that all the comforts and conveniences of his life had depended upon her—that all his reputable friends had been hers, all his decent actions directed by her, all his facade of respectability maintained by her. It had been revealed to him that everything of him which had been at all presentable had died with her. What was left had not been agreeable company for Mr Prossip during the past five weeks. He had got through a lot of whisky in the effort not to think about it. But for some reason whisky had lost its kick since Emma’s death. Mr Prossip merely got ill now, when he drank enough of it, and began to think about Emma’s bicycle and Marjory’s fiddle and the possibility of his ending in an inebriates’ home. The wind howled and the shadows waved and he blubbered like a baby because he knew that he was just a helpless, boozing old blackguard and that there was now no one to care whether he was one or to prevent him from being one.

  However, he felt better presently when he had taken a swig at a bottle of whisky which he had packed in his suitcase. Toddle along and take no notice. Scrape through. He would have to sleep in his clothes tonight, and there was a lot of troublesome business to be done with Emma’s solicitors tomorrow. But in a couple of months he would be comfortably settled in a little flat in London, with an income of twelve hundred or so. No more nagging—no more going out to early service—no more scraping. Not so bad after all. Not so bad.