It was a hideous dungeon. Margaret shivered at its dank, cold, deathly breath, and would not go in. Dick went in, and explored curiously about, while Uncle Edward and the guide had a long argument, which, to her relief, became more and more amicable as it went on.
She stood in the doorway, and shivered. Why did they want to hang about in this cold, horrid place? It was just like Uncle Edward, to forget his surroundings completely and become immersed in a discussion. And what on earth was Dick doing, peering at the walls, and fingering the damp, cruel stones?
At last, unable to bear it any longer, she went back and waited for them outside.
It was a good ten minutes before they came out. The guide was now in good humour.
‘From ’ere, they took ’im to “Little Ease”, and then to the Torture Chamber,’ he said with gusto, looking from one to another, a gleam in his eye.
‘“Little Ease”, as they called it,’ he said, ‘was ’ere, just ’ere. Yes, sir. This doorway. Small quarters, you’ll agree. Four foot six inches square. They fixed ’im ’ere, with both ‘ands chained to a ring in the middle of the floor, so as he couldn’t neither sit down nor lay down. That’s the meaning—little ease, see? You couldn’t be comfortable, like.
‘Then, when they reckoned ‘e’d ‘ad enough, they took ’im along to the rack.’
The Torture Chamber was evidently a favourite spot with visitors, for he became very eloquent, singing the praises of the various machines with all the fervour of an enthusiast.
Margaret frankly hated it. The guide’s unctuous enthusiasm, and the gloating tone of his voice, almost made her sick.
But Uncle Edward appeared to enjoy it all, and Dick, though he was pale and breathed faster than usual, stared fascinated at every detail.
For Margaret, as they walked away afterwards, a chill had come over the day. Even the sunshine of a mild November morning did little to raise her spirits.
The guide was paid off, with a tip which restored all his good humour, and they walked off to have lunch. The other two, absorbed in conversation, did not notice Margaret, and it was some time before Uncle Edward exclaimed at her pale, distressed face.
‘Why, Margaret, my dear!’ He stopped short on the pavement. ‘What is it? Are you not feeling well?’
‘I’m all right, thank you.’ She forced a smile, then burst out: ‘I can’t think how people could ever have done it.’
‘Done what? Plotted to blow up Parliament?’
‘No. I can understand that. They wouldn’t see what they did. It would just be a big bang. I meant—those horrible things.’
Dick and Uncle Edward exchanged glances of masculine understanding. Margaret saw them, but for once did not care.
’ How people could ever be so beastly to one another! No matter what anyone had done, I could never, never do things like that to them. Not if I lived to be a thousand.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Uncle Edward tried to make a joke of it. ‘Do you think people get crueller as they get older?’
‘I don’t know. I just don’t want to think of it.’
Dick, in spite of the fun of being a manly man, was concerned for his sister. When the thing was put as she put it, it did seem beastly.
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘people don’t do that sort of thing now.’
Uncle Edward thought of lynchings, and of things that were said to have happened in Germany during Hitler’s time. He opened his mouth to speak, saw Margaret’s face, and thought better of it.
‘Look, my dears,’ he said. ‘Two very important questions. Where shall we go? What shall we have when we get there?’
Margaret did not feel like lunch at all: but presently, in the excitement of hunting through the menu for the best possible assortment of her favourite dishes, she forgot the horrors of the past hour, and finally made as good a lunch as either of the others.
Chapter Six
The fireworks, when at last the time came for setting them off, were an unparalleled success. Never in the history of the Spence family had there been such a display.
Uncle Edward spent so much time and was so fussy about getting them ready—setting up a board for the Catherine wheels, arranging sockets for the roman candles, and, when everything seemed fixed, expressing dissatisfaction and starting all over again—that Dick and Margaret found it hard to keep up their enthusiasm. The air had turned chilly, and standing about in the tiny garden, holding things for Uncle Edward, while he squatted and struggled and hammered, was not calculated to keep one’s spirits at fever heat. Fond though they were of him, and grateful for all the money he had spent and the trouble he was taking, the children could not help wishing that he was more readily satisfied. All the time, they were uneasily conscious of Polly and cook watching from the scullery window, and giggling together at Uncle Edward’s antics. After about an hour of it, they got to the state when, treason though it seemed, they could have wished that Uncle Edward were at home, and they were simply going to have the ordinary show which, with a little casual assistance from their father, took only a few minutes to prepare.
But, when the time actually came, all these unworthy feelings were blown away by the first explosion. Fireworks of such beauty and power were entirely new to Dick and Margaret. At the first roman candle, the garden, the tool shed, the old tattered tree leaped forward from the darkness into a ghostly glory, wonderfully lit, with deep fierce shadows: then were abolished, made invisible, by the splendour of the candle itself. When, suddenly, it went out, after what seemed a lifetime of dazzling effervescence, the darkness fell back upon them with a real shock. Their eyes and ears seemed to be tingling and fizzing.
Dick would have liked to wait for a minute or so, to savour the contrast to its utmost, and get ready for the next display: but Uncle Edward, eager for sensation, immediately lit the next. This time it was a Catherine wheel, which, after an erratic leap or two, began to whizz round at full speed, spreading into circle within circle of differently coloured fire.
For Dick, the difficulty was not to miss any of the sights and sensations each firework brought. If you looked straight at the roman candles, you became dazzled, and could not see anything else. Yet it seemed sheer ingratitude to miss any of their glory. At the same time, it was astonishing and magnificent to turn one’s eyes away from the little splutter of light which told that Uncle Edward was setting light to one, and look up to where one knew were the tall backs of the other houses around, and see them suddenly leap out, in unearthly green or crimson, solid and sharp against the darkness of the sky.
It was a wonderful sight. Ordinarily, the night sky was not properly dark, but a sort of faint orange glow from all the lights of London. This made it all different. One’s eyes were so dazzled after a firework that the darkness would be like the soft, all-enveloping darkness of the country, down at Uncle Edward’s or at Aunt Helen’s, which leaned against one’s face, cool, and wet, and silent, as one opened the window before hopping into bed. Then, just as one’s eyes were recovering, and the black outline of the housetops was beginning faintly to appear, a guess rather than a certainty, another firework would go off, and the mad brilliant stage world would return. He gazed at it, then, with an effort, withdrew his eyes to the blazing, leaping wonders before him.
Once, turning round to see what his own house looked like, Dick jumped to see it all in livid green, with the faces of cook and Polly goggling like corpses below. He looked up at the drawing-room for his parents, but the window was empty. Then he saw them, at one side of the balcony. His mother had an old cloak on, and his father was standing with his arm around her shoulders. The sight touched him in some strange way. While he was still staring, it was all abruptly blotted out.
Generally, Uncle Edward kept well back, so as not to get in the way of the watchers. Presently, however, a firework failed to start. The tiny point of light fizzed, spluttered, and disappeared. After a minute’s silence, Uncle Edward went forward, and struck another match. But the thing had not gone out.
It suddenly burst into full splendour, silhouetting against it a queer, black Uncle Edward, whose sooty shadow, huge and twisted, came squiggling across the floor of light and jumped at Dick, making him start backward as from a blow.
Margaret watched it all in a deep trance of happiness. Her attention, not fluttering about like Dick’s, was concentrated on the sheer splendour of the fireworks themselves. Indifferent to all around, she gazed always into the very central core of fire: and, when the darkness rushed down again, she saw it peopled still with fainter leaping forms of light. Her thoughts were not on what she saw. They went away into some strange region, and sat in a conclave of solemn joy: but, all the time, she was perfectly conscious of what was going on, watching it, missing nothing, not even Uncle Edward’s antics and the words of explanation or apology that kept coming from him in the darkness.
Then there was an interval which Uncle Edward called half-time. This was necessary because the boards had not been big enough to fix up everything beforehand, and a new set had to be put in position. Mr. Spence’s voice, from the balcony, sounded in congratulation and offered aid: but Uncle Edward refused it. Margaret could hear, from the tone, how he would hate to be helped. This was his show. If interfered with, he could be as jealous as a child.
While they waited, they became aware, from sporadic bangs and flashings in the neighbourhood, that others were holding their celebrations. Occasionally the housetops were lit up—but how feebly, how ineffectively, after their own illuminations! How puny were those other efforts, after theirs!
But it was nice to have this interval. Not only did it mean that there was more to come, that the treat was not yet over. There was pleasure, too, in seeing the garden become ordinary again, seeing the soft glow in the sky, like the medicated cotton-wool that was sometimes put on their chests if they had colds, and hearing the familiar subdued noise of the traffic.
Then, before they expected it, Uncle Edward’s voice sounded triumphantly, and the second scene of splendour had begun.
An hour afterwards, Dick and Margaret went into the bathroom, to do their teeth, on the way to bed. No sooner did they get in, than Dick, with the air of a conspirator, shut the door.
Margaret, at the basin, turned in surprise.
‘What is it?’
‘Stop a minute. Don’t make a noise. I can’t speak loud.’
‘Wait a sec.’
She rinsed her mouth, spat vigorously, then turned to him. He was sitting on the edge of the bath, swinging his legs, in an effort to appear unconcerned.
‘Well?’ she said, as he did not seem in a hurry to begin.
‘You know what daddy was saying last night about Uncle Edward having had queer dreams and things, when he was a boy?’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I asked him some more about it last night, while you were with mummy.’
‘Would he talk about it? He didn’t look a bit pleased when daddy mentioned it.’
‘I didn’t ask him about his own dreams, silly. I only asked him what sort of thing daddy meant. He hummed and hawed a bit at first. Then he said that sometimes people dreamed of things at the same time that they happened, and that sometimes they dreamed of things that were past. Things they hadn’t seen, I mean, and couldn’t remember. Well, I asked him some more questions, and he said that he thought that sort of dream—about the past—often depended on the room one was in, on the bed one was asleep in. As if rooms and things kept a sort of record of what had happened to them. Like a scent hanging about in an old cupboard, he said: only, of course, it lasted much longer, and only certain people could spot it, and then, usually, only when they were asleep.
‘“You were talking about a girl who dreamed about ancient Egypt,” he said. “A cousin of mine once was given a tiny little figure, a toy, taken from an old Egyptian tomb. His sister was afraid of it. He put it under her pillow one night, and she had terrific dreams, all about Egypt.”’
Margaret looked at him. She did not see any need for secrecy about all this.
‘Well.’ He leaned forward, his eyes shining. He was breathing quickly, and spoke in jerks. ‘When we were in that cell this morning, I was picking at a bit of mortar in the wall. It looked loose. I pulled at it, and a piece came away in my hand.’
‘Dick! You shouldn’t! How big a piece?’
‘Oh, only quite small. Not enough to do any harm, or be missed. Only about an inch long.’
‘What have you done with it?’
‘That’s just it.’ He looked at the door, to make sure no one was listening. ‘I’ve put it under Uncle Edward’s pillow!’
Ten minutes later, Dick was back in his bedroom. He stood in his pyjamas, stretching his arms, just before getting into bed.
Margaret had remonstrated with him, as he was sure she would, but, though she did not approve, he had sworn her to silence. It had been, perhaps, silly to tell her. He knew she did not like the Torture Chamber and all to do with it, but he had not realized how intensely she hated it. She was afraid that Uncle Edward would dream terrible dreams, and could not at first be convinced that grown men did not mind torture chambers and the like.
Yes. Perhaps it was silly to have told her. But he had not told her everything.
She did not know that he had broken the piece of mortar in half, and that one piece was under his own pillow.
He stood for a minute more, prey to a strange feeling. It was not fear, but a kind of cool, deliberate excitement. He had felt it once before, when he had ridden a bike without brakes down a hill: the feeling, not to be described by any single word, that, of one’s own choice, one was exposing oneself to chance: not petty chance, such as the spin of a com, but the chance of something happening which is unknown, and may be dangerous, and need not happen at all if one does not put oneself in the way of it.
Dick knew then, in small degree, the feeling which has puzzled its victims ever since man ceased to be a mere animal and learned to set himself obstacles and hurdles, to seek hardship, to choose, in obedience to some law of his inner being, something which half of him would like to avoid: to keep a bargain with himself on which his deepest self-respect depends.
‘It’s silly,’ Dick said to himself. ‘Nothing will happen. Nothing can happen. I shan’t dream anything. I’ll wake up in the morning, and remember nothing at all about it, until I think of the fireworks and it all comes back to me. I’ll feel a fool. But no one need know. I haven’t told anyone; not even Margaret. I shan’t be any the worse off.’
He looked at the bed, then, with a half-laugh, went over and turned out the light.
‘Here goes,’ he said to himself, and got in, and nestled his head firmly into the pillow.
For a minute or so it felt strange, and he could not get comfortable. Then, telling himself not to be a fool, he snuggled down, and, before he had time to wonder further, fell asleep.
An hour and a half later, the drawing-room door opened, and voices, sounding on the landing below, reached the floor where the children were sleeping. Dick stirred in his sleep, rising a little towards the surface of consciousness, but did not come near waking. Then the voices were hushed on the stairs, and, before good nights had been whispered on the landing, he had gone down again like a plummet to the depths.
Uncle Edward went to his room. For more than half an hour the light showed under the door, and his step sounded, as he took his precise small journeys about the room, setting everything in order, folding his clothes, and performing each detail of the ritual he observed every evening of his life, whether he was at home or away.
Then, at last, the light was extinguished. The bed gave a decorous creak, Uncle Edward composed himself, on his right side, closed his eyes, and, with the precision which characterized all his other actions, went to sleep.
An hour passed. He sank deeper and deeper, though never going quite so deep as Dick on the other side of the landing. Outside, the soft orange glow hung still in the sky, but the noise of traffic slowly diminished. By one o’clock,
it had ceased to be a continuous noise, but consisted of occasional passing taxis, and, every now and then, a lorry on the main road. By two, these were fewer and fewer. Between their sounds, the night was still.
Then, audible first of all in the distance, a huge heavily laden lorry, first of a series, charged its way along the Bayswater Road. At its nearest, its rattle and rumble sent tremors through the quiet houses. Uncle Edward uttered a plaintive grunt, stirred, turned over, and sighed. For a second or so, his consciousness fluttered near the surface. Then, stimulated maybe by the noise, he began to dream.
His dream at first was confused, a rushing past of scenes and images at such speed that they meant nothing. Then, from the chaos, something emerged.
He was aware, first of all, of a large surface, spinning, carrying him with it, so fast as to make him dizzy. Then he became separated from it, and it receded, spinning faster and faster, until he saw it as the world, spinning in space, dark, backed with clouds. He made out, in swift interest, the shapes of the continents, half hidden, the leaden gleam of seas, the snowy patch at the pole.
Barely had he had time to recognize this, than he noticed a piece of thistledown, floating high above the spinning globe, blowing about, helpless, erratic. Then, suddenly, he knew it as his mind, blowing about in space and time.
The picture suddenly blurred and skidded, like a film breaking in the cinema, and then came clouds and gloom, all in a mad, boiling motion. After what seemed ages, they grew still. There was nothing, but an utter stillness of sad, dark cloud.
Uncle Edward’s mind contemplated it, without thought, and forgot all about itself and everything else, till it was presently aware that the picture was clearing. There was a light in the middle of it.
Slowly, so slowly that it might have taken years to happen, the light became a patch, took definite shape, and was revealed at last as the polished top of a table, upon which light was falling from a window. Sundry dark blobs on it took shape as drinking mugs, of queer design. A hand moved, very, very slowly, taking one of them, and withdrawing it from sight. Then, suddenly, most of a room appeared, with shadowy figures. …
The Fifth of November Page 4