by John Wyndham
‘Thermosetting? What’s that?’ he inquired.
I did my best with that, and then went on to explain what little I had picked up about molecular chains and arrangements, polymerization and so on, and some of the characteristics and uses. He did not give me any feeling of trying to teach my grandmother, on the contrary, he listened with concentrated attention, occasionally repeating a word now and then as if to fix it in his mind. This hanging upon my words was quite flattering, but I could not delude myself that they were doing anything to revive his memory.
We must – at least, I must – have talked for nearly an hour, and all the time he sat earnest and tense, with his hands clenched tightly together. Then I noticed that the effect of the brandy had worn off, and he was again looking far from well.
‘I really think I had better see you home,’ I told him. ‘Can you remember where you live?’
‘Forty-eight Hart Street,’ he said.
‘No. I mean where you live now,’ I insisted.
But he was not really listening. His face still had the expression of great concentration.
‘If only I can remember – if only I can remember when I wake up,’ he murmured desperately, to himself rather than to me. Then he turned to look at me again.
‘What is your name?’ he asked.
I told him.
‘I’ll remember that, too, if I can,’ he assured me, very seriously.
I leaned over and lifted the cover of the diary. His name was on the fly-leaf, with an address in Upper Grosvenor Street. I folded the wallet and the diary together, and put them into his hand. He stowed them away in his pocket automatically, and then sat gazing with complete detachment while the porter got us a taxi.
An elderly woman, a housekeeper, I imagine, opened the door of an impressive flat. I suggested that she should ring up Sir Andrew’s doctor, and stayed long enough to explain the situation to him when he arrived.
The following evening I rang up to inquire how he was. A younger woman’s voice answered. She told me that he had slept well after a sedative, woken somewhat tired, but quite himself, with no sign of any lapse of memory. The doctor saw no cause for alarm. She thanked me for taking care of him, and bringing him home, and that was that.
In fact, I had practically forgotten the whole incident until I saw the announcement of his death in the paper, in December.
Mr Fratton made no comment for some moments, then he drew at his cigar, sipped some coffee, and said, not very constructively:
‘It’s odd.’
‘So I thought – think,’ said Mr Aster.
‘I mean,’ went on Mr Fratton, ‘I mean, you certainly did him a kindly service, but scarcely, if you will forgive me, a service that one would expect to find valued at six thousand one-pound shares – standing at eighty-three and sixpence, too.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Mr Aster.
‘Odder still,’ Mr Fratton went on, ‘this meeting occurred last summer. But the will containing the bequest was drawn up and signed seven years ago.’ He again drew thoughtfully on his cigar. ‘And I cannot see that I am breaking any confidence if I tell you that it superseded an earlier will drawn up twelve years before, and in that will also, the same clause occurred.’ He meditated upon his companion.
‘I have given it up,’ said Mr Aster, ‘but if you are collecting oddities, you might perhaps like to make a note of this one.’ He produced a pocket-book, and took from it a cutting. The strip of paper was headed: ‘Obituary. Sir Andrew Vincell – A Pioneer in Plastics.’ Mr Aster located a passage halfway down the column, and read out:
‘ “It is curious to note that in his youth Sir Andrew foreshadowed none of his later interests, and was indeed articled at one time to a firm of chartered accountants. At the age of twenty-three, however, in the summer of 1906, he abruptly and quite unexpectedly broke his articles, and began to devote himself to chemistry. Within a few years he had made the first of the important discoveries upon which his great company was subsequently built.” ’
‘H’m,’ said Mr Fratton. He looked carefully at Mr Aster. ‘He was knocked down by a tram in Thanet Street, in 1906 you know.’
‘Of course. He told me so,’ said Mr Aster.
Mr Fratton shook his head.
‘It’s all very queer,’ he observed.
‘Very odd indeed,’ agreed Mr Aster.
Oh, Where, Now, is Peggy MacRafferty?
‘Oh, where –’ is the question they ask in the little grey cottage that rests on the emerald grass of Barranacleugh where the Slieve Gamph sweep down to the bog, ‘Oh, where is our Peg? Where is her that was pretty as the ox-eye by the marsh, with her eyes like turf-pools, and her cheeks like Father O’Cracigan’s peonies, an’ all the sweet, winnin’ ways of her? Many a letter have we written to her since she went away, but never a one of them has she answered because we do not know where to send them. Ochone!’
And this was the way it happened.
A letter came to the cottage, addressed to Miss Margaret MacRafferty, and after the postman had reminded her that that was the elegant way of spelling Peggy, she accepted it – and with some excitement, for she had never had a letter of her private own before. When Michael in Canada, Patrick in America, Kathleen in Australia, and Brigit in Liverpool did get to writing, they always addressed it to all MacRaffertys, to save work.
Besides, it was done on a typewriter. She admired it for some time before Eileen said, impatiently:
‘Who’s it from?’
‘How can I tell? I’ve not opened it,’ said Peggy.
‘That’s what I meant,’ said Eileen.
When it was opened, it revealed not only a letter, but a postal order for twenty shillings. After she had studied this, Peggy read the letter carefully, beginning at the top where was printed, Popular Amalgamated Television, Ltd, and continuing steadily to the signature.
‘Well, what does it say?’ Eileen demanded.
‘A man wants to ask me some questions,’ Peggy told her.
‘Police?’ exclaimed her mother, suddenly. ‘What’ve you been doing? Here, let me see.’
They had it sorted out after a while. Somebody, it was not quite clear who, had suggested to the writer that Miss Margaret MacRafferty might be willing to take part in a quiz, with valuable prizes offered. This event would take place in the Town Hall at Ballyloughrish. The writer hoped she would be able to attend, and would supply further details when he received her reply. In the meanwhile he begged to enclose £1 on account of expenses.
‘But the bus fare to Ballyloughrish is only three-and-sixpence,’ said Peggy, troubled.
‘Well you can give him the rest back when you see him,’ Eileen pointed out. ‘Or at least,’ she added, more practically, ‘you can give him something. Two shillings, maybe.’
‘But suppose I can’t answer the questions,’ Peggy demurred.
‘Oh, for goodness sake! What does that matter? The fare is three-and-six, you give him back two shillings to look right, and threepence for the stamp when you write, that’s five and nine, so you get fourteen and threepence just for sitting in the bus to Ballyloughrish and back.’
‘But I don’t like TV,’ objected Peggy. ‘Now if it were to do with movies …’
‘Oh, you and your movies. Regular old-fashioned you are. A TV personality’s what you want to be nowadays.’
‘I don’t,’ said Peggy. ‘It’s the movies I want to get on.’
‘Well, you’ve got to be seen, haven’t you? You’ve got to start somewhere,’ Eileen told her.
So Peggy wrote her acceptance.
But it turned out that there was more to the occasion than just the questions. First there was a kind of high tea at the Ballyloughrish Castle Hotel, with a young Irishman who was something to do with it all, being helpful and nice to her on her right, and another young man on her left who was trying to be just as helpful and nice, but finding it harder because he was an Englishman. Afterwards they went along together to the Town Hall which was cluttered up
with wires, and cameras, and blinding lights, as well as with the whole population of Ballyloughrish.
Luckily they did not begin with Peggy, and she listened carefully to the questions put to her predecessors. They were not nearly as fearsome as she had expected – in fact, the first was always very easy, the second not quite so easy, and the third a little harder, and as those people who didn’t fail on the first were failing on the second, she felt quite cheered up. At last her own turn arrived, and she took her place in the box.
Mr Hassop, the question-master, smiled at her.
‘Miss Peggy MacRafferty. Well, now, Peggy, it’s been your luck to draw the geographical section, so I hope you were good at geography at school, Peggy.’
‘Not very,’ said Peggy, which for some reason appeared to please the audience.
After some patter Mr Hassop arrived at his first question.
‘How many counties of this fair land of yours are still groaning under the foreign yoke, and what are their names?’
Well, that was easy, anyway. The audience applauded.
‘Now then, we move across the water to England. I want you to name me five university cities in England.’
She did extra well with that as it had not occurred to her that Oxford-and-Cambridge were separate places, and so had one to spare.
‘And now to America …’
Peggy was relieved to hear it was America. Partly because Hollywood was in America, and also because as well as her brother Patrick who made automobiles in Detroit, she had two uncles in the New York Police Force, one in the Boston Police Force, one who had been shot in Chicago in the good old days, and one who lived at a place called San Quentin. So she had always taken quite an interest in America, and listened attentively to the question.
‘The United States,’ said Mr Hassop, ‘is, as you know, and as its name tells us, not a single country but a union of states. Now I am not going to ask you to name them all, ha, ha! But what I want you to tell me is how many States go to make up this Union. Take your time. Remember, no one so far this evening has answered all three questions correctly. So there are the prizes, and here is your big chance. Now, for the prize how many States are comprised by the expression the U.S.A.?’
Peggy considered carefully. She ran the tip of her tongue across her lips, then:
‘Forty-eight States,’ she said.
The glass box that prevented her receiving tips from the audience also protected her from its composite sound of exasperation. Charles Hassop looked professionally saddened. Having, as well as sound ideas on public relations, quite a natural kindly disposition towards his victims, he stretched a point to ask, tentatively:
‘You’ve told us that there are forty-eight States in the Union. You feel quite sure forty-eight is the number you meant?’
Peggy in her glass box nodded.
‘Sure I do – but I don’t think it is very fair of you, either,’ she told him.
Mr Hassop arrested his incipient expression of compassion to inquire:
‘Not fair?’
‘No,’ said Peggy stoutly. ‘For was it not “no trick questions” you were telling us just now? And is it not “fifty” you are after trying to make me say this minute?’
Mr Hassop stared at her for a moment.
‘Well,’ he began, but she cut him short.
‘It was forty-eight States I said, and ’tis forty-eight States I say still,’ affirmed Peggy. ‘Forty-eight States, and two Commonwealths, and the District of Columbia,’ she added, decisively.
Mr Hassop had a glazed look. He opened his mouth to reply, hesitated, and thought better of it. He knew what the card said, but a possible predicament was suddenly revealed ghastly clear, a pitfall at his feet. With an effort he imitated his usual aplomb.
‘Just a minute, please,’ he told the audience, and stepped hastily to the side of the platform to confer.
When the performance was over they all went back to the Ballyloughrish Castle Hotel for supper – all, that is, except Mr Hassop who had left them after congratulating Peggy on her winnings in a rather guarded way.
‘Miss MacRafferty,’ said the nice Irish young man who was again her neighbour, ‘I had already observed you to have a disproportionate share of our national charm, now may I congratulate you upon equal felicity with our national luck?’
‘I’m sure that is very kind of you, indeed – even though everybody there, except a few of your people, was Irish, too,’ Peggy told him. ‘Besides, I did know the answer.’
‘Sure, you did – and ’tis as clever as pretty you are,’ he agreed. ‘But, after all, it might have been a different question, you know.’ He paused, and chuckled. ‘Poor dear Charles. The trick question he knows very well, in spite of what he says, but the trick answer is a nasty new experience for him, and he near-as-a-toucher bought it, too. They had to ring up the U.S. Consulate in Dublin, and he’s still sweating slightly.’
‘Is it trying to tell me it was not a trick question, you are?’ demanded Peggy.
He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, and decided it might be simpler to change the subject.
‘What will you be doing with all your loot?’ he inquired.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘we don’t have the electricity at Barranacleugh, but I am thinking the deep-freezer would make a lovely corn-bin.’
‘Without doubt,’ he agreed.
‘But those paper things are just cheating,’ she added.
‘You mean the year’s free supply of Titania Cobweb Decosmeticizing Tissues? I don’t quite see –’
‘But, of course. Don’t you see, what they are hoping is that I shall spend all the money on cosmi – cosmics – cosmetics so that I can wipe them off free. Well, I shall not. It is what they call in America a racket,’ she explained.
‘Ah, I’d not thought of that,’ he admitted. ‘But the money – I hope that’s all right?’ he added with concern.
Peggy took the cheque from her bag and smoothed it out on the table. He, she, and the young Englishman on her other side, looked at it respectfully.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘That is very nice. ’Tis me darling fortune. Half a grand, as they say in America.’
‘Five hundred nicker is a lot better than half an American grand, and very nice to have,’ agreed the Irish young man. ‘But scarcely a fortune, you know. Not these days. Still, no tax – and that’s where we’re one up on America, too. What will you be doing with it?’
‘Oh, I’ll be taking myself to America and going on the films – movies they call them there,’ Peggy explained.
The Irish young man shook his head reproachfully.
‘You mean television,’ he said. ‘Films are passés, corny, vieux jeux, old rope.’
‘I don’t mean television. I’ve just been on that. I mean the films,’ Peggy told him firmly.
‘But look here –’ he said, and proceeded to argue his case eloquently. Peggy heard him out politely, but when he had finished:
‘’Tis loyal you are,’ she told him, ‘but ’tis still the films I am meaning.’
‘But do you know anyone there?’ he asked.
Peggy started on a list of her uncles and cousins, but he cut it short.
‘No, I mean anyone in films, in Hollywood? You see, nice as five hundred pounds is, it won’t keep you very long out there.’
Peggy had to admit that as far as she knew, none of her relatives was actually concerned with films.
‘Well –’ he began, but at this point the English young man who had been regarding her thoughtfully for some time without speaking, broke in to say:
‘Are you serious about the films? It’s a tough life, you know.’
‘Maybe I’ll be ready for the soft life when I get a bit older,’ Peggy told him.
‘And Hollywood’s full of would-be stars checking hats,’ he added.
‘And some who are not,’ replied Peggy stoutly.
He sank into thought for a time, but presently reverted to the subject.
‘Is that easier, then?’
‘It might be. I happen to know a film director –’
‘Now, now,’ said the Irish young man. ‘That’s dated, too.’
The other ignored him.
‘His name,’ he went on, ‘is George Floyd –’
‘Oh, yes. I’ve heard of him,’ said Peggy with aroused interest. ‘He did Passion for Three in Italy, didn’t he?’
‘That’s it. I could give you an introduction. Of course, I can’t guarantee anything, but from something he was saying the other day I think it might be worth your while to see him, if you’d like to.’
‘Oh, yes –’ said Peggy eagerly.
‘Er – look here, old boy –’ began the other young man, but the English man turned on him.
‘Don’t be a clot, Michael. Can’t you see the tie-up? If George Floyd takes her on, the Popular Amalgamated Television has uncovered a new film star. Every time she’s mentioned, there’s “the Pop. Amal. Telly discovery” after her name. That’s worth something. Anyway, it’s worth their while to take a chance on it, and get her over to London, and put her up in a good hotel for a week. Even if George doesn’t play they’ll get some publicity out of it, and it needn’t cost her a penny. But I think it’s very likely he will play. From the way he was talking she could be just what he’s looking for. And she mugs well, too; I looked at the monitor.’
Both of them turned to study Peggy with severely professional regards. Presently the Irish young man said:
‘Do you know? I think you’ve got something …’ with a serious conviction which started Peggy blushing until she discovered he was addressing his colleague.
After that, though, they stopped being professional, and it was a lovely evening right up to the time they took her home in a car, to the astonishment of those still awake in Barranacleugh.
A week later there came another, and longer, typewritten letter. After congratulating her on her success, it informed her that a proposition laid before the Board of Popular Amalgamated Television, Ltd, by Mr Robbins, whom she would doubtless recall, had been approved. The Company therefore had great pleasure in inviting her, etc., and hoped that the following arrangements would be acceptable … A car would call for her at Barranacleugh at 8 a.m. on the morning of Wednesday, the 16th …