SWEETHEART, SWEETHEART
BERNARD TAYLOR
With a new introduction by
MICHAEL ROWE
VALANCOURT BOOKS
Dedication: This is for my mother and Tom.
Originally published in Great Britain by Souvenir Press in 1977
First Valancourt Books edition 2015
Copyright © 1977 by Bernard Taylor
Introduction © 2015 by Michael Rowe
The right of Bernard Taylor to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Published by Valancourt Books, Richmond, Virginia
http://www.valancourtbooks.com
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the copying, scanning, uploading, and/or electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher.
Cover by M. S. Corley
Love Never Dies: An Introduction to Sweetheart, Sweetheart by Bernard Taylor
I can’t see the sun right now; there’s an angel in the way.
As I lie here in the short-cropped grass with my eyes just half open a butterfly alights on the carved angel’s head. It stays only a few seconds—its wings opening and closing—then takes off, fluttering away, dancing up and down over the grey stone wall.
Thus opens Bernard Taylor’s chilling classic English ghost story, Sweetheart, Sweetheart, first published in 1977, republished for the American mass-market audience by Leisure Books in 1992, and now reissued in a handsome new edition by Valancourt Books in 2015 for a new generation to discover, cherish and thrill to.
The novel’s lifespan of nearly forty years tells one truth above all: Sweetheart, Sweetheart is a masterpiece, one of the great ghost stories of the second half of the 20th century.
Even within the horror fiction field, let alone within mass-market horror, trends have come and gone, others have mutated and adapted to the changing tastes of the decades. There has been absolutely superb work done in the field of classic ghost story fiction in the years since Sweetheart, Sweetheart first found its way into readers’ hands: to name the brightest stars in the canon, Stephen King published The Shining in the same year Sweetheart, Sweetheart was published; Peter Straub’s epic Ghost Story was first published in 1979 (though to be fair, his first novel to deal with the supernatural, the ghost story Julia, was published in 1975); Susan Hill’s The Woman in Black was first published in 1983. Jonathan Aycliffe (the pen name of Denis MacEoin) published Naomi’s Room in 1992. In the mass-market paperback original field, there were the spectacular “quiet horror” novels of Charles L. Grant, Michael McDowell, and Douglas Clegg, and others, all of them small, perfect jewels.
All of these writers went on to internationally acclaimed careers in the field since then, with many, many novels between them, brilliant, terrifying, elegant stories that reached for readers like a cold, bony hand in the dark, a hand that didn’t let go until the last page was turned and the book was closed. Between them, and in the company of other top-drawer writers, they provided a standard against which all serious writers of supernatural fiction must measure themselves, and do.
And yet, there is something about Sweetheart, Sweetheart, last read between the now-tattered black covers of a paperback that can still be found in second-hand bookstores throughout the English-speaking world, that shines with a dark light all its own, a light that hasn’t died out in nearly four decades. This first-person tale, which begins with the narrator lying atop his brother’s grave in a remote cemetery, is somehow as timeless and terrifying today as it was in 1977.
In the canon of 20th-century ghost stories, Sweetheart, Sweetheart has ceded none of its primacy to the years.
The novel’s protagonist, David Warwick, a transplanted Englishman living in New York, receives a sudden, violent premonition that he needs to return to England and visit his recently married twin brother, Colin, whom he hasn’t seen in years. Upon arriving in London, his father, from whom he is estranged, informs David that Colin has been killed in a car crash and has left David Gerrard’s Hill Cottage, the property in the village of Hillingham that Colin and his wife, Helen, had purchased and refurbished. David’s father adamantly refuses to discuss Helen, and it is only when David arrives at Hillingham that he discovers that Helen, too, has died, in a fall from the roof of Gerrard’s Hill Cottage.
The two mysterious deaths, both abrupt and within days of each other, set the stage for the supernatural elements to come—elements I’m not going to reveal. I found my way to Gerrard’s Hill Cottage and the terrible thing that waited there all on my own.
I paid the price. So can you, my friend.
Still, as a novelist who owes a tremendous debt to the literary and storytelling gifts of Bernard Taylor, I do want to make few brief remarks on the writing itself.
Classic Gothic fiction tends to rely on certain redoubtable tropes—castles, vast country houses, or ruined abbeys—and makes ample use of darkness; Sweetheart, Sweetheart takes place almost completely in the sunlight. Furthermore, not just any sunlight, but the sunlight peculiar to the idyllic English country summer of legend, in a cottage replete with a luxurious rose garden, itself as emblematically British as could be.
This subversion—light against dark—is worthy of mention, first of all because only a horror writer with a full palette of gifts could have pulled it off, and also because with it, Taylor preemptively injects an element of realism into the novel, realism that removes a significant measure of readers’ ability to protectively distance themselves from the chills to come. It establishes the credentials of the horror to come because if that horror can happen here, in the midst of all this beauty, it can happen anywhere, and there is nowhere to hide. From the first line, you find yourself not merely in the haunted world of Gerrard’s Hill Cottage and the sweet, somehow sinister, scent of sun-warmed roses, but in the mind of a man lying atop his brother’s grave.
Sweetheart, Sweetheart is likewise peopled with resonant characters, large and small, all of them perfectly drawn, shaded and nuanced to the point that they walk through the novel almost of their own volition, opening and closing doors in the reader’s mind and leaving echoes in their wake. Like the perfect setting itself, none of them seem to be entirely what they are. This too has the effect of keeping the reader perpetually off balance as the screw tightens and everything in the story shimmers with ever-increasing menace until the soul-searing crescendo.
Most of all, Taylor’s novel, in addition to being one of the finest ghost stories of its time, is a love story of sorts. Sweetheart, Sweetheart is a powerful meditation on the deathless nature of love and desire.
Not the “good” kind of love, the life-giving, heart-filling kind, but also the kind of love that lives in the darkest of hearts: the kind of love that doesn’t offer, but rather demands. The kind that takes rather than gives, the kind that would rather see the object of its devotion dead alongside it than have the object alive outside its sphere of influence. Homicidal love, insane love, love that literally never dies.
Love that is more terrifying even than hate.
My very patient editors at Valancourt Books have instructed me in no uncertain terms not to reveal spoilers in this Introduction to one of my favourite novels that I’m so very honoured to have been asked to write.
As I sift through my notes, written during my most recent reading of Sweetheart, Sweetheart, I’m struck by the near-impossibility of not revealing plot points, because the
novel is so magnificently paced and plotted. Like the interconnected chambers in Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Masque of the Red Death,” each painted a single colour with matching drapery, all designed to propel the unwary explorer towards the final room, painted black with a single stained-glass window streaming ghastly red light, no single part of the story arc in Sweetheart, Sweetheart will do anything but drive the reader to reach the final, dreadful chamber.
So, instead of writing a cool, detached introduction, I feel like a child holding out a Christmas gift, bursting to tell you what’s inside so you can be as excited to receive it as I am to give it, impatient for you to open it. This particular present, however, is wrapped in rose petals, not paper, and the ribbon is made of sharp wire and broken glass, not grosgrain, so please be careful not to cut yourself while unwrapping it.
In 1988, Charles L. Grant chose it as his selection for Horror: The 100 Best Books, edited by Stephen Jones and Kim Newman. Grant was certainly a writer of supernatural fiction well qualified to make such a selection. I have no trouble seeing why, and seconding his choice wholeheartedly.
In December 2013, my second novel, Wild Fell, was published. Critics and readers were very kind, for which I was grateful. It features a remote mansion—not in the English countryside, but in the wilds of Northern Ontario lake-country. Among other things, it features a powerful female entity with a very, very long memory.
There are echoes of Sweetheart, Sweetheart all through Wild Fell, echoes that surprised even me upon re-reading Mr. Taylor’s novel, but in retrospect it makes perfect sense. Sweetheart, Sweetheart had been waiting for me, all those years, in the haunted house of my own mind. It wasn’t until this most recent re-read of Sweetheart, Sweetheart that I realized how much this novel had influenced me as a writer, or how many malignant seeds it had planted in the garden of my subconscious, germinating in the dark for almost forty years.
But now, in the moonlight, the garden is up, and I can see Mr. Taylor’s hand in all of it.
I offer this last anecdote as an homage, not as an inducement to purchasing Wild Fell because, frankly, it would be an honour for me, and indeed many horror writers, just to carry Bernard Taylor’s laptop case. When you read Sweetheart, Sweetheart, whether as a reader, or a writer, or both, I’m quite confident you’ll understand why.
Now, stop to smell the roses.
Then, open the door to Gerrard’s Hill Cottage. Take a candle with you—you’ll need the light, because what’s waiting for you in the darkness doesn’t want you to leave.
Ever.
Michael Rowe
The Farmhouse, Toronto
March 5, 2015
Michael Rowe is the author of the novels Enter, Night and the Shirley Jackson Award-nominated Wild Fell. He welcomes readers at www.michaelrowe.com.
1
I can’t see the sun right now; there’s an angel in the way.
As I lie here in the short-cropped grass with my eyes just half open a butterfly alights on the carved angel’s head. It stays only a few seconds—its wings opening and closing—then takes off, fluttering away, dancing up and down over the grey stone wall.
Everything around me makes a picture of the greatest calm and serenity. And so it should. This spot, I tell myself, should be peaceful by definition. Yet often I wonder about that . . .
I remember how I told Shelagh I’d find peace by coming back to England. And the irony of my words returns to me every moment. As if this gravestone isn’t enough there’s the old man further off who stoops, lovingly tending his roses. The roses are not white, though. They’re red, blood red. But still, they’re roses.
Yes, it’s all calm. To any onlooker it must whisper only of peace. But to me it shrieks of things that are best not thought about—if I want to survive. But it’s impossible, that—not to think about them.
The horror didn’t begin when I returned. It had started long before. Even in New York, so far away, I’d had signs—though I hadn’t recognised them as such. All I was certain of was that I had to come back again, to England. And the only thing I’m certain of now is that I should have stayed where I was, with Shelagh. If I had, this story would be different; at least it would have a different ending. But I couldn’t stay. Not when there was that need in me—to see Colin again.
There in Manhattan I never really found contentment. Never anything lasting. But was that what I was looking for when I went off those eight years ago? I don’t know. Something. I certainly didn’t go with any great hope. I went leaving behind me vague feelings of unhappiness, of not belonging; yet having no reason to imagine I’d find elsewhere the answers I sought. I chose America because I liked American people, because there’d be no language problem, and because I felt the British were closer to that people, spiritually, than to any other. But there was nothing really positive about the exercise—unless escape is such. And that’s really what it was, I suppose; I can’t be sure now; I wasn’t so much going to what was new and strange and exciting, as getting away from the scene of so many failures.
I look back now in some surprise, wondering that I should have stayed for so long—while being aware of my lack of contentment—certainly until Shelagh came along, anyway. But I’d had six years there, alone, until she came to share my life with me. So why had I stayed? Was it the need to assert myself?—to prove that I could get along without any help or encouragement from my father? Not that he was about to offer any. Perhaps it was just that—some impotent up-yours gesture to him. If so, it was pretty futile.
Shelagh, though, during those last two years, did give me a positive reason for being there; if only so that we could be together. And if my brother had never met Helen then we might be there still . . .
But he did meet her; and then began that draw, that need, that reaching out to me, and I couldn’t rest once that had started.
And there was no explaining my feelings to anyone. Not even to Shelagh. I think she saw it all just as some kind of vague homesickness, and that was something she couldn’t understand.
“Why are you so anxious to go back?” she asked me. “You can’t be that desperate to see your father. Or your home.”
“What home?”
“Exactly. And it can’t be Colin. I mean, you never saw him that often.”
It was Colin—but I didn’t say so, then. “I shall find peace,” I said after a moment. The words sounded so foolish, but she didn’t smile.
We had met when she came to teach at the private school where I was a teacher of history and English. I can remember my first sight of her as she walked into the staff room that morning wearing a light-blue pinafore dress over a white blouse. It was her colouring that struck me first: rich, copper-coloured hair, very straight, heavy, brushing her collar; and the bluest, bluest eyes I’d ever seen—evidence of her Irish ancestry. I was drawn to her warmth right from the start, and day by day in her company I grew happier, feeling the warmth and friendship between us grow and blossom. And over the weeks our mutual attraction and our friendship grew into something more: richer, stronger; and inevitably we made our decision, looked around for a bigger apartment, and moved in together. I’d never felt about any girl as I did about Shelagh, and I was aware of that from the beginning.
“Couldn’t we,” I asked her now, “at least go to England for the vacation. We could leave as soon as the semester ends.”
“We’re going to teach summer-school. You know that. We’ve already agreed.”
“We can get out of it. Christ, I’ve had enough of teaching, anyway.”
“We can’t get out of it now,” she said. “It’s too late. Wait till summer-school’s over. It’s only for a month. You can’t be that restless . . .”
I could sense the petulance of my expression, feel the sullenness in the set of my mouth. “Marry me, Shelagh,” I said. Same old tune. “Marry me and let’s get away to England together . . .”
“. . . We’ve been through all this before . . .”
> I said, making a laugh:
“It’s because I can’t dance, isn’t it?”
She looked at me very steadily for a moment without any trace of humour, and went away, into the kitchen. I watched her go, the phoney smile on my face congealed, then followed her, more than a little aware of my limp as I crossed the carpet. Leaning in the doorway I looked at her as she busied herself with the coffee-percolator.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean that, and I’ve never thought it—even for a moment.”
“You’re different lately,” she said softly. “You’re a different person. Over this past year you’ve been getting steadily more and more—introspective.” She shook her head. “I don’t know . . . I’ve watched you daily getting more uptight and jumpy. And even at night you’re no better. You can’t sleep without taking those damn pills. And when you don’t take them you just lie awake, tossing and turning. A year ago you’d have laughed at the idea of taking sleeping-pills . . .” She turned away. “My God, Dave, you’re starting to make me nervous. I just don’t know what’s come over you.”
I shrugged. “It’s probably the school . . . and this place . . .” I waved a hand, taking in the apartment. “Everything . . .” I forced a smile. “It’s a phase. I’ll get over it.”
She came over to me, reaching up, arms about my neck. “Sure you will.” She kissed me. “But I worry about you . . .”
“Marry me . . .”
“Look . . . I’ve known you for two years, and half that time it’s like you’ve been in another world. Before—that first year—you were not like this, and I know—” here she smiled, “—at least I think I know—that this isn’t the real you.” She paused. “Anyway, I’ll marry you when you’re more like you. I’m not about to be the solution to somebody’s problem.” She eyed me steadily, then added:
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