by John Halkin
‘Oh, aren’t you pretty!’ she exclaimed happily yet with tears in her eyes at the thought of what might have been. She longed to hug them, but it would never do to get jam on those clothes. ‘I think it’s almost time to go, don’t you?’
Police Constable Chivers strolled along to the field next to the church where the All Saints Spring Fête was held every year without fail. This would be his fifteenth, he mused – a longer stint than anyone had ever expected. But then he knew everyone in the neighbourhood by now, ran the boys’ club and the football team, and felt no inclination to move. By his age in a big city force he’d have been retired, a prospect he certainly didn’t relish.
No, he thought as he approached the field, the longer he could still do the job, the better.
It was a good show this year too, by the look of it. An ornamental gateway had been constructed, bedecked with flags, and people were already queuing up to buy their tickets. One, two, three… One, two, three, testing! He recognised the vicar’s voice. Around the field were a good variety of decorated stalls including – the star attraction, as usual – the Church Tower Tombola which this year offered a quart bottle of whisky as first prize. Mrs Martinson had twice been along to the police house to complain about it. Then, a little away from the main field – the routes marked out by means of cardboard arrows pinned to the trees – he picked out the St John’s Ambulance tent, the Teas marquee and – one of the vicar’s innovations – the mobile toilets.
‘Guess how many sweets in the bottle!’ a wheezy male voice accosted him. ‘Come along, constable – ten p for one guess, twenty for three! Guess how many sweets in the bottle!’
‘Later, Jim. Later. We’re going to do well this year by the look of it. Remember last year’s rain?’
‘I’ll never forget that. Took me till Christmas to dry out.’
By eleven o’clock when the vicar took possession of the loudspeaker again to announce the play school group dancing there were more people on that field than he could ever remember. They must have come from villages and hamlets for miles around, some even from Lingford maybe. The neighbouring meadow set aside for parking was rapidly filling up. Perhaps in a couple of minutes he should go over there to take a look.
But first he stayed to watch the dancing. Knew all these, he did, as though they were his own, and they’d be disappointed if they didn’t see him there. He stood on the edge of the crowd nodding to Mrs Rendell the doctor’s wife, and to that young sister of hers who’d moved into old Mrs Beerston’s cottage.
Near the trees the little girls in their white dresses formed a ragged line, each faced by a boy in a dark waistcoat. They started a clapping dance, encouraged by the lady playgroup leader.
‘It’s on her dress, look! On that little girl’s dress! A caterpillar! Oh God, it’s one of those big caterpillars!’
Someone in the crowd screamed, he couldn’t see who; nor could he spot which girl they were talking about, but the dancing stopped in confusion.
‘Now calm down everyone!’ He pushed forward to gain control, using his best reassuring tone. ‘Nothing to get excited about. Now let’s have a look at the little girls.’
‘It’s on Caroline! The doctor’s girl!’
Mothers were already surging past him to rescue their children. He tried to keep them clear, but it was hopeless. While he begged them to hold back, a young man dodged around his outspread arm, knocked a couple of women aside, and somehow got to Caroline. Never touch them with your bare hands, the police instruction had come through earlier that same week, but the young man knew nothing about that.
Grasping the caterpillar between finger and thumb, he peeled it off Caroline’s white dress – it attempted to cling to the material – and carried it away. The crowd parted to let him through. He held the insect out in front of him, his face distorted with pain, until he reached the fence where he deliberately rubbed it hard against the creosoted slats until it disintegrated. Then he collapsed.
Someone started clapping, then others joined in until there was general applause. Not that the lad was aware of it, the constable thought grimly as he bent down to examine him. His fingers were swollen with red blotches where the sharp, defensive hairs had injected their poison, and there were raw patches too on the palm where the mandibles had bitten.
He signalled to the couple of St John’s Ambulance men who had come running up with a stretcher. They’d need to get him to hospital, and quickly.
‘Caterpillar bites,’ he started to explain briefly as they set the stretcher down, but he was stopped by an ear-piercing shriek from a group of three or four women standing near the secondhand book stall by the beeches.
Leaving the St John’s Ambulance men to get on with their own job, he sprinted over towards the women, only to hear more screaming from a different part of the field. He hesitated, puzzled as to what was happening. Then he saw them.
Thick, hairy green caterpillars were deliberately dropping from the overhanging branches on to the people below. Like pussy willow tails, only many times larger.
For a second he stared around, stupefied. Only a couple of minutes before this had been the scene of a happy, relaxed Spring Fête, people enjoying themselves, trying their luck at the stalls, 10p on the spin of a wheel, tossing a metal ring to win a can of hair spray, buying a homemade cake or a hot-dog; but now there was chaos and there was no one here to help him deal with it. People rushing for the exit clashed with others who wanted to get back in to avoid the thick belt of horsechestnuts lining that side of the field. Women thrashed about on the grass in agony as caterpillars crawled over them leaving trails of blood. A man charged through the crowd bellowing out his pain, his hands held high with clenched fists, until he collided with one of the stalls, bringing it down on top of him.
As an experienced police officer he was only too aware of what he had to do; as a man, he knew he could do nothing.
Staying clear of the trees, he clasped his personal radio in his hand and called up the sergeant in Lingford to give as clear and concise a report of the situation as he could manage with those panic-stricken people shouldering him out of their way every few seconds.
Then he made a start on attempting to get some order into the situation, hoping at least to get them to calm down and move off in a more reasonable fashion, or else stay to help with the casualties. It was useless from the word go.
‘Everybody in the middle of the field!’ he bawled out in his most stentorian manner, putting on a show of confidence he did not feel. ‘Everyone in the middle!’
But they simply brushed him aside.
Mrs Dorothy Martinson, JP, Colonel Martinson’s widow, an imposing woman even at sixty-nine, was coming out of the vestry when she heard yelling and screaming from the field. Alcohol was her first thought. She had told the vicar that he was asking for trouble permitting drink on the stalls, even as prizes. For as long as anyone could remember there had been a total ban on alcohol at the Fête.
She was half-way across the churchyard before she realised just how bad things were. Under the old beeches two women were actually rolling on the grass; nearby, some sort of fight seemed to be going on. Well, she’d soon put a stop to that!
‘Mrs Jones!’ she called out sharply as she hurried across. For months now she had suspected Mrs Jones of over-indulging her weakness for gin. ‘Stand up this moment! I want you on your feet right away!’
Her words had no effect, but it was not until she had reached the women that Mrs Martinson understood why. A fat, green caterpillar was creeping purposefully over Mrs Jones’s scrawny neck; another had already penetrated the solf pulp-flesh of her breast and only a gross, stubby tail was now visible. The second woman was in an even worse condition, with four or five of those hideous caterpillars burrowing into her exposed midriff.
Mrs Martinson stared at them horrified, her mouth dry, her stomach rising in protest.
A girl in jeans and a halter top reeled crazily in front of her, her shoulders a mass of raw wo
unds like battlefield craters; she fell across the first two and more caterpillars appeared, busily setting to work like bees gathering pollen.
Ignoring the clamour around her, Mrs Martinson marched directly to the Church Tower Tombola, requisitioned the quart of whisky, and twisted off the metal screw-top. She hadn’t been in the army for nothing, she thought grimly. No use standing and screaming when she could do something to help.
She seized the girl’s foot, dragged her clear on to the gravel path, rolled her over and proceeded to splash whisky over any caterpillars she could find, hoping it would kill them. Without waiting to see the result, she began to do the same to Mrs Jones but stopped when she realised the woman was dead.
Still, plenty of others needed help too, so she carried on like someone possessed until the bottle was empty. It was only then she became aware that none of the caterpillars had died after all but were still actively chewing into their victims like obscene, hairy maggots. At the sight of them she broke down and cried.
Useless. It had all been useless.
She fell to her knees beside the girl with the halter top, wanting to fold her in her arms and comfort her. Instead, she began concentratedly to pick the caterpillars off her, two or three at a time.
Their furry bodies stung her fingers as she touched them; their mean little heads swung around to bite through her wrinkled skin: but what else could she do? She couldn’t just let the girl die, could she?
Around her – she only vaguely noticed – screams were subsiding into moans. A voice shouted orders. A child sobbed hysterically. Yes, it was war again. It all had a puzzling familiarity. She was not surprised to feel that sharp pain in her upper arm, shooting through her armpit into her chest. Shrapnel, it had been that first time. Now caterpillars, eating a tunnel into her.
It was her voice screaming. Was she going to faint? You stupid cow, Dottie. Never could stand pain, could you?
What a boring husband Henry had turned out to be! If only she’d known in time! Riding on his tank when she first saw him, a modern Lancelot on a charger she’d thought. Angry, too. Yelled at her. As an ATS lieutenant with a signals unit she should never have been anywhere near the front line. Tell that to the Germans, she’d bawled back. Perhaps they don’t know the rules!
That sergeant, he’d have been more fun. Slipped a hard hand up her skirt one dark night behind the mess, regardless of rank. Took her by surprise. Wouldn’t get far these days, not with tights.
She giggled. Henry had never touched her outside the marital bedroom, and not often there.
‘Aa-aaah!’
The shrapnel shifted. Excruciating pain stabbed through her lung like a saw-edged bayonet. Was this it? Was there nothing more to life? After all those years?
Oh God, why did you curse me with Henry?
Why?
*
Ginny had really lost her temper when she heard that woman shouting that there was a caterpillar on one of the little girl’s dresses. Of all the stupid jokes! She’d swung around, searching the faces to discover who was responsible. Then she heard the second yell, ‘It’s on Caroline! The doctor’s girl!’ It was like a cold, clammy hand clutching her stomach.
‘Stay there!’ she shouted to Lesley, who had Frankie with her. ‘I’ll get her!’
‘Caroline!’ Lesley shrieked simultaneously, rushing forward despite her limp.
‘Lesley, let me get her!’
But everyone had the same idea, all wanting to snatch their own children to safety, only that idiot policeman stood in the way trying to stop them, actually holding out his arms as though directing traffic. Before Ginny could prevent it, her sister was caught up in the crowd. She was tripped or pushed – it was impossible to say which – and fell face down under their feet.
Then the rush stopped, everyone paralysed at the sight of the teenage boy cautiously lifting the giant caterpillar from Caroline’s dress and bearing it away. The sigh of relief was audible and followed by a sudden round of applause as he reached the wooden fence, then fainted.
‘You can stop crying, it’s all over now,’ she overheard a mother tell her weeping son.
If only it were, she thought grimly. She had a gut feeling it was only just beginning.
While Phuong helped Lesley to her feet again, Ginny elbowed through the crowd to collect Wendy and Caroline who were gazing wide-eyed about them, bewildered and frightened. The moment she reached them Caroline began to cry, but Ginny told her roughly to stop it. That was one complication she just couldn’t face.
‘We’re getting out of here,’ Ginny announced when she got back to Phuong and Lesley. By that time Frankie had joined them, clinging to her mother’s skirt. ‘Quietly now. No fuss.’
It was like one of those still periods before a storm. A holding of the breath.
‘Let’s all have a cup of tea!’ Lesley announced cheerily, forcing a smile. Her face was strained and there were traces of dirt on her cheek where someone’s shoe had grazed her. ‘They’re probably not serving yet, but I’m sure they’ll make an exception. And they’ve got lovely ice cream.’
Her words calmed the children down a little.
Ginny shepherded them towards the marquee, taking hold of Caroline’s hand while Phuong carried little Wendy. Frankie walked with her mother. Following the arrows would have led them past the old oak, but she deliberately made a detour to stay well clear of it.
A sudden fearful screaming started from the direction of the avenue of beeches near the churchyard wall. Lesley stopped and turned, clutching her arm.
‘What’s that?’ asked Frankie innocently.
‘Oh, they’re probably playing some game,’ Ginny answered hurriedly, glancing back. ‘Let’s find that ice cream before everybody wants some.’
In the marquee the trays of sandwiches they had cut that morning were set out on long trestle tables, ready for the first stream of customers. One of the women serving, someone Ginny didn’t recognise, asked what on earth was going on with all that screaming. They made some answer and paused long enough to buy the children an ice cream each to keep them occupied before taking them out into the lane at the back which led directly up the hill to the doctor’s house.
It was then that Caroline – backed up by Wendy – demanded to know why they were going home already and when they were going to do their playgroup dance. Only Frankie seemed to grasp that something was seriously wrong.
Lesley bent down to talk to her. ‘You are going to be a big girl and help Mummy, aren’t you?’
She nodded, tight-lipped. From the field they could hear shrieks of terror, with men shouting and someone moaning gibberish over the loudspeaker.
Leaving Phuong and her sister to get the children back to the safety of the house, Ginny ran back through the marquee, heading for the field. The scene was indescribable, like some Hieronymous Bosch nightmare: a mother piteously clutching her small son whose face and neck were torn open by one long, raw wound; a girl of Ginny’s own age lying with her back unnaturally arched over the debris of a broken white elephant stall while fat green caterpillars explored her legs; the barman from the Plough in agonising convulsions on the grass, his face purple as he choked on the caterpillars eating into his throat; oh, and many others, the lucky ones dead already. One thin grey-haired woman was on her knees, holding up her hands clasped together in prayer in the midst of the carnage, her voice penetrating the din from the crazed people dashing about in search of escape: He hath put down the mighty from their seat and exalted the humble and meek; He hath filled the hungry with… The spot of blood on her blouse grew larger, spreading down her side. Her voice faltered. She sat back on her heels, a look of surprise on her face, then crumpled into death.
‘Get some gloves and lend a hand, will you?’
She recognised the woman from the Garden Centre, her thin, harassed face now streaked with blood. Probably she’d had those gardening gloves with her when she’d set up the potted plants stall. Leaning over one of the girl casualties, she
plucked the caterpillars off her – two which were already eating into her leg – and killed them.
‘Here, get her over to the First Aid tent,’ she instructed crisply. ‘Make yourself useful.’
Ginny picked her up, staggering under her weight though the girl could be no more than twelve years of age, and carried her back to the St John’s Ambulance tent, only to find it in a shambles with one of the uniformed men dead and another moaning on the ground among the spilled equipment. She went on to the marquee.
Laying the girl carefully on one of the tables and leaving it to the tea servers to try and staunch the bleeding, she dashed through the back of the marquee to the washing-up area to find some household gloves. She was in luck, spotting two or three new pairs in a helper’s shopping bag.
She pulled a pair of them on, then sprinted back to the field praying they’d be strong enough to deter the caterpillars. On the way she passed the local policeman grimly carrying an injured woman over his shoulder, his shirt drenched with sweat and blood.
‘In the marquee!’ she yelled at him. ‘We’re putting them in the marquee!’
How many they managed to rescue between them she’d no idea. The work seemed endless, the sun burned fiercely in a pure white sky and for every caterpillar they killed, more appeared from nowhere. At one point, pausing to snatch in some deep breaths, she counted five or six helpers, not including the constable; but the numbers varied. Ginny herself concentrated on the children, even those on the point of death; she knew she’d never be able to carry anyone heavier.
Then she spotted Mrs Martinson lying spreadeagled across a heap of bodies, but still alive. Her face looked almost angelically young. Ginny lifted her bleeding arm, searching for the caterpillars.
‘Don’t waste your time there!’ the Garden Centre person snapped, just behind her. ‘She’s half-way through the pearly gates already – can’t you see? Stick to those we can save. That’s all we can hope to do.’
But how many were there yet, she thought desperately. Over by the lucky dip lay the vicar, his face distorted into a hideous death mask, his throat torn open. Why did they so often go for the throat, as though they knew that was where humans were vulnerable? Then, a few yards away, she heard the terrible trumpeting voice of a man caught in the very extremes of pain and fear. Reaching him, she almost fainted with shock at what she saw.