THE GODSEND
BERNARD TAYLOR
VALANCOURT BOOKS
Dedication: For Ricky and Bob
The Godsend by Bernard Taylor
Originally published in Great Britain by Souvenir Press in 1976
First Valancourt Books edition 2015
Reprinted from the 1976 St. Martin’s Press edition
Copyright © 1976 by Bernard Taylor
Introduction © 2015 by Mary Danby
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
INTRODUCTION
Bernard Taylor is possibly the most multi-talented person I know. I first met this teacher-turned-writer in the early ’70s, and was soon introduced to the actor, artist, singer, songwriter, playwright and theatre director who went on to become a prolific author.
In those days, I was the editor of the Fontana Books of Great Horror Stories. By the time of the 8th in the series, the Fontana and Pan horror books between them had more or less exhausted the stock of previously published short horror stories, and I was on the lookout for some new writers. Among the many manuscripts sent to me was one about a very peculiar children’s nanny, whose charges ended up being bitten to death by giant grasshoppers. It was intriguing and entertaining, with the necessary “eugh” factor. Hallelujah—a writer with real flair! This was the first of many Bernard Taylor stories that I was privileged to include in various anthologies over the next ten years, and we became good friends, too.
I have followed with great pleasure Bernard Taylor’s successful writing career. His first full-length novel was The Godsend, and he has gone on to write numerous horror and ghost stories (including one that was set, unnervingly, in my own house), brilliantly-researched true crime histories and (under the name Jess Foley) romantic novels.
The Godsend, first published in 1976, deals with a time-honoured but uncomfortable subject: the innocence of childhood supplanted by evil. In the 1950s, ground-breaking novels that had become famous movies included John Wyndham’s The Midwich Cuckoos and William March’s The Bad Seed, and in 1976 a film was made of Laird Koenig’s The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane, starring Jodie Foster. Of course, one of the most famous movies of this era was The Omen, about a child possessed by the devil. However, The Godsend takes a very different approach. Instead of being asked to believe that the child Bonnie is by nature evil, the reader has to question whether there can actually be such a thing as an evil child. Is a cuckoo chick evil when it turfs its rivals out of the nest in order to take their share of the food on offer? And what of the mother bird who lets this happen, who continues to feed the killer in her nest?
Bernard Taylor introduces us to a familiar world that gradually becomes more and more disconcerting as the horror slithers in. Alan and Kate already have four children when Bonnie, abandoned by her mother at birth, comes into their lives. From that moment on, their contented family life begins to unravel. Can it be just a coincidence? How could a child like blue-eyed Bonnie, sweet, adorable Bonnie, be the catalyst for all the horror that follows? But as the evidence mounts, and Alan’s suspicions begin to threaten his sanity, all Kate can see is her beautiful baby girl, whose trusting little hand is held safely in her own.
The skill of the writer is in conveying the unease, the alarm, the eventual horror, by outlining the scenes and allowing the reader’s imagination to draw in the details—which are probably even more unnerving in the mind than they would be on the printed page. Bernard Taylor is a master of the art of suggestion.
He describes the characters in close detail, so that we are almost part of the family, experiencing, rather than witnessing, its chilling disintegration. And as the story builds to its inevitable but shattering conclusion we hardly dare to turn the pages. Bonnie’s family is our family, and we, too, are her victims.
In the field of horror and supernatural fiction, Bernard Taylor is one of the greats. As Publishers Weekly said, “His fiction grips and holds the reader even when it crosses the line from the everyday to the bizarre.” A terrific storyteller, you can trust him to lead you into the darkest woods and startle you at every turn. And when you eventually emerge, trembling, you may feel just a little less confident in the sunlight.
Mary Danby
Ashampstead, Berkshire
March 2015
Mary Danby is the author of two novels and more than thirty short stories, which have recently been published in a collection as Party Pieces. She has also edited numerous anthologies of short stories, including the Fontana Horror and Armada Ghost series. She lives in Berkshire, England and is the great-great-granddaughter of Charles Dickens.
ONE
When it began there was no way of knowing that anything had begun. How could we know? Any of us? We had no sign. There was no drumroll, no great fanfare, no dramatic, soaring orchestra like you’d find in a Max Steiner film score. There was nothing; just a little silence. Her silence—surrounding her; a little look from us—and then Sam with his crumbs.
When enough time has passed perhaps I shall find it easier to look back, easier to speak of it all—and yet I wonder whether sufficient time could ever be. Right now there is no hour, no minute, when the thoughts and memories don’t come pouring in. And they’re too much to cope with. And when they do come they come unexpectedly, taking me off-guard, so that I’m left with no defence. So straight-away I start thinking of it all over and over again. Ceaselessly I find myself going through the chain of events—like tracing a circle—as if by doing so I could somehow rewrite the story. But it’s always the same. There, before I know it, I’m where I am at the present—here, now. So I am led, link by link, to the start again, to begin over again, with the same beginning . . .
That summer.
I remember it as one of the warmest, brightest of summers; little rain; when Davie ran along the lane his feet kicked up tiny clouds of dust from the dry earth. But it was not parched, that season; the vivid green leaves and the soft grass were moist to my touch. It was a beautiful time. Perhaps later events have imbued it with a depth of charm and colour that was not there—but I don’t believe so. It was beautiful.
I can see beauty, happiness and contentment manifested in myriad everyday sights and sounds: Kate, smiling as she sits feeding Matthew; the softness in her face; the gentle, but aggressive sounds from his tiny sucking mouth. The others running in and out of the house—Lucy, Davie and Sam. The shouts, the singing, the chasing, the laughter . . .
Now, glancing into the mirror I find it difficult to believe that so little time has gone by; my reflection tells a different story. But there, not time alone has taken its toll. Time is the minor exactor. And not only from me.
Here, where I sit, only silence comes from within the room, but outside the sound of the passing traffic drifts up to us. It’s continuous, and there’s no escape from it. I had thought I would get used to it in time. Now I realise I never shall. Before, the loudest sounds were birds’ songs. You could stand by the plum-trees and hear the buzz of the wasps’ wings as they settled on the over-ripe fruit. You could hear the rustling of the leaves. But that was before. That was there. That was then.
Having no boss to consult as to when I might take my summer holidays, Kate and I did the choosing, taking them when it suited us. And when July came up warm and
sunny, this, we decided, was the time. And I relaxed. Two weeks away from the constant necessity to be creative. Two weeks away from pencils and paintbrushes. Two weeks away from deadlines. Nothing to think about but us—the family.
Because of the very tender age of Matthew, we didn’t attempt any long visit away from home, but just took the children off for short day-trips—to the coast and to areas surrounding the village, going off on little jaunts, wherever and whenever we felt like it. And it was good. The children enjoyed themselves, and so did we. And all the while the sun shone down, bleaching Kate’s hair bright gold in the highlights, and adding to the freckles across Lucy’s nose.
Towards the end of my second week we decided to go again to a lake about a mile from the house. Once a clay pit—though long since disused—the lake was a favourite picnic spot with us, and also an ideal retreat where the children could run and climb to their hearts’ content—they had sufficient room for this in our own garden and orchard, but for them, of course, homeground just wasn’t exciting enough.
It wouldn’t hurt us to walk there, Kate said, so we left the car behind and set off, straggling down the lane in an untidy group—Davie, Lucy and I, then Sam, and then Kate pushing Matthew in his old pram. We had left the late-breakfast dishes soaking in the sink—what Kate called getting one’s priorities right.
At the end of the lane Sam threw his ball into the hedge, and as I struggled with the brambles Kate and Lucy went on ahead. By the time I had retrieved it they were some distance away, and we had to hurry to catch them up. When I called out to them to wait they pretended—much to the boys’ delight—to treat us as though we were absolute strangers. Kate’s face took on the most hammy haughty expression as she turned round to glare at us, sending Lucy into peals of laughter and getting loud chuckles from Davie and Sam.
“Who on earth are those awfully rough people?” Kate asked in a voice not her own. She sounded like some comic dowager, her tone rising and falling a complete octave within the space of words. “I hope they’re not going to bother us!” And she hurried on, her hips swinging in exaggerated style, while beside her Lucy giggled, unable to contribute more than a token “Humph” before collapsing into laughter.
Kate looked so absurdly young, I thought, watching as she swung away. Her fair hair, straight but curling up at the ends, bounced on her shoulders. Her figure looked so slim, and yet so femininely rounded. I wanted to rush up, put my arms about her waist and kiss the back of her neck where her hair fell parted. But instead I contented myself with a couple of loud comments about the “strange-looking woman up ahead,” setting the boys off in chorus with me. And so we made our way to the lake.
We saw the girl sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, silent, looking out across the water. Her figure was large, swollen with her unborn child. Her hands lay peaceful on the swell of her stomach, her eyes cool, unmoving. She seemed very solitary.
After the first glance neither Kate nor I would have taken any more notice of her—had it not been for Sam. Sam, friendly Sam, went to her, holding out his scraps of bread. He stood there, reaching up, dropping crumbs over her dress and chattering away as he was always ready to do with strangers. Kate gave a theatrical sigh, released a hand from Matthew’s pram and beckoned, calling.
“Don’t bother the lady. She doesn’t want your bits of bread. They’re meant for the ducks . . .” Apologetically she smiled, and the young woman smiled back. It was all warmth, openness, all so very ordinary.
Sam went on talking, and in the end Kate went over to him, pushing the pram, with Lucy tagging along. I stayed where I was, waiting for them to rejoin me. But Kate hovered, and I smiled inwardly as I saw her drawn into conversation. It would become Woman’s Talk, I was sure, and probably about babies. I couldn’t hear their words, only a low murmur that drifted across to me, but I saw the growing impatience in Lucy’s sagging pose as she became eager to move on.
Of our four children Lucy, at six, was the eldest. Next to her came Davie—five years old, then Sam who was three, and last of all, Matthew, a mere six weeks. Kate, I know, had been hoping for another girl, but if she had felt any disappointment at the birth of a third son she had certainly never shown it.
“Daddy, look at Sam . . .”
Davie was tugging at my hand and pointing to his younger brother. Sam, having wandered off on his own, now stood some distance away at the water’s edge, leaning precariously over the bank.
“Be careful!” I yelled, and hurried towards him.
“Watch me!”
Shouting, he proudly tossed his small offerings to the hungry ducks, his uncoordinated movements almost throwing him off balance. I saw a look of momentary fear on his face as he fought to regain his equilibrium. I grabbed his shirt.
“Yes! You’re a clever boy.” I swung him off the ground and perched him on my shoulders, his legs straddling my neck. “But you must be careful.”
“Why?”
I had no answer for that—his stock answer—and let it pass. Davie and Lucy had joined us now, and I turned and looked back to where Kate stood by the fallen tree. Lucy saw my glance and said, “They’re gossiping, Daddy. Shall we go on?”
“Yes,” I said. “We’ll find a good spot to make our camp.”
I particularly recall our meandering way around the perimeter of the lake. In some way it seems almost to encapsulate the whole summer—as it was up till that time. Now, still, in my mind’s eye I can see Lucy and Sam skirting the water’s edge, following in the wake of Davie who walked some yards ahead. They emerge laughing from patches of deep shaded green into warm flowered areas of yellow sunlight. I see them standing dappled by brightness and shadow, patterned by the over-hanging leaves, cupping their hands to their mouths, calling out to each other in their young, enthusiastic voices. I see Davie, his sharp grey eyes following the movements of minnows that dart in the shallows, and hear, still, the cries of delight and surprise: “Look at this!” “Hey, look at that . . .” For them, non-stop explorers, there was no limit to the discoveries to be made.
When at last we came out onto more open ground I called a halt and lounged in the long soft grass. “Let’s wait here,” I said, stretching out my legs. “Mummy will join us when she’s ready. I hope.”
Kate was in our view again now. I could see her through the screen of willows. She was sitting by this time. I waved to her but there was no answering gesture: she and the girl were obviously still deep in conversation. I lay back again, closing my eyes against the sun. “She’ll find us,” I said.
I must have dozed off. I came back to reality at the sound of Kate’s voice as she came to us along the footpath. Somebody—it had to be Sam—had taken off my sandals and covered my feet with blades of torn-up grass. I sat up and looked at my watch.
“I haven’t been that long,” Kate said, forestalling any comment I might be about to make.
“Did I say anything?” I asked.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s find another spot—with some room to play. We’ll have a game or two and then get lunch.”
Magic words. The last bits of grass were brushed from my feet and we moved on. Looking across the lake I saw the girl wave to us as she sat watching our progress. Like well-rehearsed actors we all waved back.
“Have her join us if you’d like to,” I said.
“Oh, no, no,” Kate said. “We’re all right as we are.”
Between us we chose a large grassy bank back from the water and partly shaded by the leaves of an oak. Being a weekday, the lake area was fairly quiet. We could be sure of relative seclusion—no footballs thudding into our backs or transistor radios pounding in our ears. I spread out a large tartan blanket on the grass, and Kate sat down on it with Matthew in her arms. He was hungry, and after a quick look to ensure that there were no strangers about, she undid the buttons of her faded denim shirt and let him feed. I watched them. I loved the simplicity of it. I loved her totally unselfconscious acceptance of her role. Behind us in the thicket the oth
ers played, unconcerned. The little scene held no interest for them, they had seen it all before.
“Why are you smiling?” Kate asked me, looking up and meeting my eyes.
“You,” I said. “You look so pretty.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure.” As if to lend absurdity to my remark, she pulled a face, picked a yellow flower from the grass near her feet and put it into her hair. I moved across the intervening space between us and kissed her.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m okay.”
She gave me a warm, close smile. Between our bodies Matthew, replete, fell asleep, impervious to everything around him, quite undisturbed by the children’s shouts and squeals that rang through the trees and bounced off the water. A dragon-fly darted, hovered and darted, close to the bank. Flies hummed in the warm air. The flower in Kate’s hair slipped, tilted, and I reached up and secured it. I kissed her again, lightly. Now, I thought, now—just as it is; I wanted nothing to change.
“Are you happy?” I said.
“What a question.” She was doing up the buttons on her shirt.
“Tell me.”
“With all I’ve got,” she said, “who wouldn’t be.”
Later, as I built a fire for the cooking of the sausages, I said:
“Did you have a good natter?”
“Mmm?”
“That young woman. By the lake.”
“Oh, her . . .” Kate frowned. “She was . . . funny.”
“Funny?”
“Not funny . . . just . . . strange. There was something—odd about her . . .”
“How do you mean?”
She paused, considering her words. “Sad. There’s something—sad—about her. Different in some way.” She shook her head. “It’s hard to explain. I don’t know . . .”
“Sad . . .”
“Yes.”
I sat back on my heels. “It couldn’t just be you, could it? With your soft heart for strays . . .”
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