OLD MAN'S BEARD

by H. R. Wakefield

  * * * * *

  He woke again just before seven and went out to dine. That was as a rule rather a lavish word to apply to the process of keeping body and soul together for the next ten hours at a cost not exceeding one shilling and ninepence, but it should be justified on this occasion. Before his father lost his last penny and retired to a better world from his bedroom in a nursing home, he had been an admirable judge of good food and the right things to drink with it, and Mr Frone had had his palate educated during his boyhood and had never quite forgotten how to read a menu, though extracting the utmost nourishment from an expenditure of two shillings (tip threepence) had not improved his taste.

  He would go to the Café Royal and spend thirty shillings of the six pounds in his possession on something worth eating for once, and something worth drinking for once, to celebrate the marvellous good fortune which had come to him that day.

  He chose nothing very epicurean, just bortsch, a sole, lamb cutlets, half a bottle of Meursault and a glass of good brandy. This programme was carried out, and at the end of it he felt almost gorged, and entirely exhilarated, but as the time approached for him to go to Waller’s flat he began to be very, very nervous. He got there punctually at nine. Mr Waller made him very welcome and poured him out a glass of port. Mr Waller was very fond of Mr Frone and till that day had been desperately sorry for him. Consequently he was feeling nervous too. But he efficiently disguised the fact and talked away about Fleet Street ‘shop’ till the clock showed it was 9:25, and then he turned the button of his wireless set to ‘on’. It was the tail-end of a ballad concert, and the grimly familiar strains of a venerable inanity by Tosti slushed through the loud-speaker, then mercifully ceased, and the announcer declared that the stage was set for one of Mr Reginald Stall’s famous talks on ‘Books of the Day’, and Mr Frone’s heart performed those funny — sometimes slightly frightening — tricks again.

  Mr Reginald Stall had ceased to think and formed himself into a company at the age of fifty-two. He had done everything in turns and nothing quite badly and nothing really well, for he was fundamentally superficial. He had once had four plays running simultaneously in London theatres, which fact had formed the text for more than one sermon on the decadence of the British Drama. He knew to a hair’s breadth how much sentimentality the public would stand. Though not entirely lacking in literary taste, save where his own work was concerned, he had raised himself by kowtowing, delicately disguised as criticising, to the status of an Oracle, and was paid large sums for not being too darned highbrow, for deeply respecting the half-baked susceptibilities of the half-educated. References to the Deity dripped from his pen. Enough of him! On this occasion he announced his intention of dealing in the short time at his disposal with what he might call the Autobiographical Novel, illustrating his thesis by certain specimens of that genre of fiction which he had recently perused. (This piece of information was highly reassuring to Mr Frone.) Mr Stall then proceeded to deliver himself of some rotund introductory platitudes. The Autobiographical Novel, in his opinion, was perhaps the most poignant of all, written as it often was in the very heart’s blood of its author. It was a cri de coeur, a cry from the heart, in many cases, something almost sacred, in the truest sense a Human Document, and it behoved the critic to deal tenderly — very tenderly — with such documents, when it was at once his duty and his pleasure to say a few words about them to such an exceptionally intelligent section of the community as that which through ear-phones and loud-speakers was doing him the honour of listening to his little talk that night. (There he paused and took a deep pull at a double Johnnie Walker and ‘Polly’.)

  The first novel of this type to which he proposed to draw their attention this evening was And Then There Were Two, by Lois Dunt, who, he understood, was a young woman. He would repeat that: And Then There Were Two, by Lois Dunt.

  To Mr Frone’s stretched and aching consciousness this work seemed to be chiefly of obstetric interest, and apparently the description of the heroine’s extremely protracted, painful, but eventually successful attempts to increase the population was a magnificent piece of nervous prose, and the situation lost nothing of its poignancy from the fact that the masculine responsibility for the event might have been laid equally justly at the door of any one of a platoon of possibles. So ‘noteworthy’ and ‘arresting’ Mr Stall found this ‘gripping’ presentment of so original and ‘striking’ a theme that it was 9:35 before he had said his last word upon it. Half-time! By now there was just the trace of tension in Mr Waller’s sitting-room. He himself was smoking rather quickly. Mr Frone was deliberately keeping his eyes away from him. Then Mr Stall metaphorically picked up another volume, equally in his opinion a ‘human document’, though in every case he would remind listeners it was only his intuition that told him these works were autobiographical, a necessary warning he wished most emphatically to emphasise; he ought to have done so earlier in his ‘little talk’.

  But by this time Mr Frone could not endure to listen, but could only realise that this torrent of pontifical journalese was most sharply connected with the movements of the hands of a clock which terribly soon reached 9:40. And then Mr Stall — his time he found ‘running short’ — drew attention to another cri de coeur entitled Badinage, but Mr Frone was finding it harder and harder to concentrate upon these observations. For one thing his heart was not making it easy to do so. At one moment it seemed that he had no pulse and that he was already dying, and then ‘Thump’, ‘Thud’, a horrid broken rhythm the menace of which made it so very difficult to listen. For Mr Stall’s time was almost up. And — and — and then to the dimming consciousness of Mr Frone came a vast beast with tentacles and fins, and up went those tentacles to shelves and pulled down books, and then, as though from a vast distance, he heard Mr Stall’s voice remarking, ‘There was another work of this type to which I had intended to introduce you tonight, but I see I have already exceeded my time.’ And then Mr Frone sent a curious, twisted glance over to Mr Waller, which Mr Waller could not meet — a smile of sorts. And then Mr Frone tottered to his feet, swayed for a moment, and crashed down. As he fell his head struck the wireless set and brought it with him to the floor, and this in falling jerked at the cord connecting it with the loud-speaker, which swayed a moment and then toppled over and dropped on to Mr Frone’s head, hatting him most fantastically. The effect of this must have been displeasing, for Mr Waller, even before he attempted to succour Mr Frone, clenched his fist and crashed the loud-speaker into a corner of the room, where it crumpled sharply.

  Blind Man’s Buff

  ‘WELL, THANK HEAVENS that yokel seemed to know the place,’ said Mr Cort to himself. ‘ “First to the right, second to the left, black gates.” I hope the oaf in Wendover who sent me six miles out of my way will freeze to death. It’s not often like this in England — cold as the penny in a dead man’s eye.’ He’d barely reach the place before dusk. He let the car out over the rasping, frozen roads. ‘ “First to the right” — must be this — “second to the left” — must be this’ — and there were the black gates. He got out, swung them open, and drove cautiously up a narrow, twisting drive, his headlights peering suspiciously round the bends. Those hedges wanted clipping, he thought, and this lane would have to be remetalled — full of holes. Nasty drive up on a bad night; would cost some money, though.

  The car began to climb steeply and swing to the right, and presently the high hedges ended abruptly, and Mr Cort pulled up in front of Lorn Manor. He got out of the car, rubbed his hands, stamped his feet, and looked about him.

  Lorn Manor was embedded half-way up a Chiltern spur and, as the agent had observed, ‘commanded extensive vistas’. The place looked its age, Mr Cort decided, or rather ages, for the double Georgian brick chimneys warred with the Queen Anne left front. He could just make out the date, 1703, at the base of the nearest chimney. All that wing must have been added later. ‘Big place, marvellous bargain at seven thousand, can’t understand it. How those windows with thei
r little curved eyebrows seem to frown down on one!’ And then he turned and examined the ‘vistas’. The trees were tinted exquisitely to an uncertain glory as the great red sinking sun flashed its rays on their crystal mantle. The vale of Aylesbury was drowsing beneath a slowly deepening shroud of mist. Above it the hills, their crests rounded and shaded by silver and rose coppices, seemed to have set in them great smoky eyes of flame where the last rays burned in them.

  ‘It is like some dream world,’ thought Mr Cort. ‘It is curious how, wherever the sun strikes, it seems to make an eye, and each one fixed on me; those hills, even those windows. But, judging from that mist, I shall have a slow journey home; I’d better have a quick look inside, though I have already taken a prejudice against the place — I hardly know why. Too lonely and isolated, perhaps.’ And then the eyes blinked and closed, and it was dark. He took a key from his pocket and went up three steps and thrust it into the key-hole of the massive oak door. The next moment he looked forward into absolute blackness, and the door swung to and closed behind him. This, of course, must be the ‘palatial panelled hall’ which the agent described. He must strike a match and find the light-switch. He fumbled in his pockets without success, and then he went through them again. He thought for a moment. ‘I must have left them on the seat in the car,’ he decided, ‘I’ll go and fetch them. The door must be just behind me here.’

  He turned and groped his way back, and then drew himself up sharply, for it had seemed that something had slipped past him, and then he put out his hands — to touch the back of a chair, brocaded, he judged. He moved to the left of it and walked into a wall, changed his direction, went back past the chair, and found the wall again. He went back to the chair, sat down, and went through his pockets again, more thoroughly and carefully this time. Well, there was nothing to get fussed about; he was bound to find the door sooner or later. Now, let him think. When he came in he had gone straight forward, three yards perhaps; but he couldn’t have gone straight back, because he’d stumbled into this chair. The door must be a little to the left or the right of it. He’d try each in turn. He turned to the left first, and found himself going down a little narrow passage; he could feel its sides when he stretched out his hands. Well, then, he’d try the right. He did so, and walked into a wall. He groped his way along it, and again it seemed as if something slipped past him. ‘I wonder if there’s a bat in here?’ he asked himself, and then found himself back at the chair.

  How Rachel would laugh if she could see him now. Surely he had a stray match somewhere. He took off his overcoat and ran his hands round the seam of every pocket, and then he did the same to the coat and waistcoat of his suit. And then he put them on again. Well, he’d try again. He’d follow the wall along. He did so, and found himself in a little narrow passage. Suddenly he shot out his right hand, for he had the impression that something had brushed his face very lightly. ‘I’m beginning to get a little bored with that bat, and with this blasted room generally,’ he said to himself. ‘I could imagine a more nervous person than myself getting a little fussed and panicky; but that’s the one thing not to do.’ Ah, here was that chair again. ‘Now, I’ll try the wall the other side.’ Well, that seemed to go on forever, so he retraced his steps till he found the chair, and sat down again. He whistled a little snatch resignedly. What an echo! The little tune had been flung back at him so fiercely, almost menacingly. Menacingly: that was just the feeble, panicky word a nervous person would use. Well, he’d go to the left again this time.

  As he got up, a quick spurt of cold air fanned his face. ‘Is anyone there?’ he said. He had purposely not raised his voice — there was no need to shout. Of course, no one answered. Who could there have been to answer since the caretaker was away? Now let him think it out. When he came in he must have gone straight forward and then swerved slightly on the way back; therefore — no, he was getting confused. At that moment he heard the whistle of a train, and felt reassured. The line from Wendover to Aylesbury ran half-left from the front door, so it should be about there — he pointed with his finger, got up, groped his way forward, and found himself in a little narrow passage. Well, he must turn back and go to the right this time. He did so, and something seemed to slip just past him, and then he scratched his finger slightly on the brocade of the chair. ‘Talk about a maze,’ he thought to himself, ‘it’s nothing to this.’ And then he said to himself, under his breath, ‘Curse this vile, god-forsaken place!’ A silly, panicky thing to do he realized — almost as bad as shouting aloud. Well, it was obviously no use trying to find the door, he couldn’t find it — couldn’t. He’d sit in the chair till the light came. He sat down.

  How very silent it was; his hands began searching in his pockets once more. Except for that sort of whispering sound over on the left somewhere — except for that, it was absolutely silent — except for that. What could it be? The caretaker was away. He turned his head slightly and listened intently. It was almost as if there were several people whispering together. One got curious sounds in old houses. How absurd it was! The chair couldn’t be more than three or four yards from the door. There was no doubt about that. It must be slightly to one side or the other. He’d try the left once more. He got up, and something lightly brushed his face. ‘Is anyone there?’ he said, and this time he knew he had shouted. ‘Who touched me? Who’s whispering? Where’s the door?’ What a nervous fool he was to shout like that; yet someone outside might have heard him. He went groping forward again, and touched a wall. He followed along it, touching it with his finger-tips, and there was an opening.

  The door, the door, it must be! And he found himself going down a little narrow passage. He turned and ran back. And then he remembered! He had put a match-booklet in his note-case! What a fool to have forgotten it, and made such an exhibition of himself. Yes, there it was; but his hands were trembling, and the booklet slipped through his fingers. He fell to his knees, and began searching about on the floor. ‘It must be just here, it can’t be far’ — and then something icy-cold and damp was pressed against his forehead. He flung himself forward to seize it, but there was nothing there. And then he leapt to his feet, and with tears streaming down his face, cried, ‘Who is there? Save me! Save me!’ And then he began to run round and round, his arms outstretched. At last he stumbled against something, the chair — and something touched him as it slipped past. And then he ran screaming round the room; and suddenly his screams slashed back at him, for he was in a little narrow passage.

  * * * * *

  ‘Now, Mr Runt,’ said the coroner, ‘you say you heard screaming coming from the direction of the Manor. Why didn’t you go to find out what was the matter?’

  ‘None of us chaps goes to Manor after sundown,’ said Mr Runt.

  ‘Oh, I know there’s some absurd superstition about the house; but you haven’t answered the question. There were screams, obviously coming from someone who wanted help. Why didn’t you go to see what was the matter, instead of running away?’

  ‘None of us chaps goes to Manor after sundown,’ said Mr Runt.

  ‘Don’t fence with the question. Let me remind you that the doctor said Mr Cort must have had a seizure of some kind, but that had help been quickly forthcoming, his life might have been saved. Do you mean to tell me that, even if you had known this, you would still have acted in so cowardly a way?’

  Mr Runt fixed his eyes on the ground and fingered his cap.

  ‘None of us chaps go to Manor after sundown,’ he repeated.

  A Coincidence at Hunton

  ‘AND HOW ARE ALL the placid and pleasant denizens of East Bucks?’ asked Brent. ‘Not all quite as placid as they seem, so far as I remember.’

  ‘Extremely flourishing,’ replied Lumley. ‘We have increased the population here and there, and watched with coy excitement some mild and invariably unconsummated infidelities. It was a hot summer, and some of us felt a little experimental. But all is peace again — a little patched up here and there. But our moral standards are high and w
e make the way of the waverer very hard.’

  ‘Does that apply to your local lady-killer?’ asked Brent.

  ‘It applies to me, certainly.’

  ‘I said lady,’ replied Brent. ‘I mean a fellow who somehow curiously appealed to me, whose tennis attracted me much more than his painting. One on whom even your imperturbably chaste wives found it hard to resist smiling, and upon whom all those “Sappery” White Men, their husbands, were inclined to frown.’

  ‘I take it you mean Bob Harriday.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the fellow.’

  ‘Well, he’s dead.’

  ‘Dead! How did he die?’

  ‘He was drowned in Hunton Reservoir in November. He went through a hole in the ice.’

  ‘And I daresay some of you rather unattractive married men were not overwhelmed with grief. When I last stayed with you in June — just before I sailed — he looked like being hooked by a very plain but affluent maiden whose figure almost made one forget her face.’

  ‘You mean Brenda Vandelaar,’ said Lumley. ‘Yes, he did get engaged to her.’