Collected Stories (23 page)

She began to make plans.

From two to four o’clock in the afternoon would be best, for it was then that the family took their after-lunch nap. Mother undressed and went to bed; Father, weather permitting, stretched himself out on a garden hammock, or if wind or rain confined him to the house, he lay prostrate on the sitting-room sofa. Brian slept anywhere. Like an animal, he shut off his consciousness whenever his elders set the example. Without doubt the time to die was between two and four in the afternoon.

The situation was somewhat complicated by Mother suddenly relaxing her rule of silence and making overtures for peace. She actually smiled and said sweetly, “Good morning, dear,” before cracking her breakfast egg. “You’re looking quite pretty this morning,” she went on to remark, an obvious untruth, that suggested a desire to please. Julia was near despair. How could one die with an easy conscience when the enemy spiked their own guns and flew the white flag? Fortunately, Mother had a relapse with the cutting remark, “Pret-tiness without grace is like a wreath without flowers,” and instantly Julia’s resolve became a determination. She would die when the sun was high, take the fatal step in full daylight, and refuse to be diverted by smile or insult.

However, she made one last effort to contact Mr. Miss-One, creeping from room to room and searching the garden, praying that he might appear and acknowledge her existence with a smile. For she could not deny the unpalatable fact that on the one occasion when Mr. Miss-Offe had seen her in the bedroom, his reaction had been one of fear. At least this established him as an intelligent personality, instead of the mindless time image Father so glibly dismissed, but it was, to say the least, a little disconcerting to know one’s appearance inspired fear in a ghost. Of course, once she had assumed the same status, there would be no reason for him to fear her at all. Like would appeal to like. She waited with burning impatience for the hour of two.

At the lunch table, all signs indicated that normality had returned.

“Don’t slouch,” ordered Mother.

“Sit upright,” Father chimed in. “Try to be more like your mother.”

Brian displayed signs of budding brilliance.

“You’re not pretty, you’re not ugly. You’re pretty ugly.”

The fond parents smiled.

“He takes after me,” pronounced Mother. “I could always turn a phrase.”

Julia’s impatience to be gone grew and destroyed her last lingering doubts.

Father had intended to take his nap in the garden, but just before two o’clock the first cold needles of rain began to fall, so he retreated to the sitting room and was soon prostrate on the sofa. Mother climbed the stairs; the bedroom door slammed, and Julia murmured an inaudible good-bye. Brian lay down on the dining-room hearthrug and appeared to fall asleep, but Julia wondered if this was not a pretense put on for her benefit. Fortunately, the door had a key in the lock, so she turned it before leaving the house.

A rising wind drove a curtain of rain across the lawn. It forced proud trees to bend their heads in submission, and turned Julia’s dress into a wet shroud. She ran for the garage, water splashing up her legs, dripping down her nose and chin, but it did not feel cold or even wet and she marveled at the sense of well-being.

The garage doors were open and there was no time to consider why this was so, for there, standing in the gloomy interior, was a large red car. Julia stood within the entrance and stared at this stranger with wide-eyed astonishment. There should have been an ancient black family Austin; instead a sleek, rather vicious-looking red monster occupied the entire floor. A creation of highly polished red enamel, gleaming chromework, black tires and bulging mudguards, it seemed to be a thing of latent power, just waiting for the right finger to touch a switch, to send it hurling along straight roads, across the barriers of time and space into a million tomorrows.

The off-side door was open and Julia, her plans for self-destruction forgotten, slid onto the red, plastic-covered seat and feasted her eyes on the complicated switchboard, the black steering wheel, the gleaming gear levers. Curiosity turned to wonderment, then ripened into pure joy.

“A ghost car!”

It must be, of course. This was the vehicle Mr. Miss-One had been cleaning, only then it was invisible, due undoubtedly to the base thoughts of Mother, Father, and that little beast, Brian. Now she could see it, feel it, and heavens be praised, actually smell it. This must be the result of suffering, loving him with all her being. She giggled, clasped her hands, and waited with joyous anticipation.

Mr. Miss-One entered the garage limping, carrying a small overnight bag. He was plainly prepared for a journey. A terrible fear struck Julia: “Please don’t make it all disappear. Let me go with him—wherever he goes. Anywhere at all.”

He opened the right-hand door, slung his bag onto the back seat, then climbed in. He closed the door, turned a key on the switchboard, and the engine roared with instant, pulsating life.

“Don’t let it all disappear. Let me go with him.”

The car slid out of the garage. The garden and house swept by the windows and Julia spared a thought for Mother, Father, and Brian, blissfully asleep, unaware that the despised one was passing out of their lives forever.

“It’s happening. I’m going out At last... Oh, merciful God—going out.”

The main gates, new, glossy with black paint, were open, and Mr. Miss-One swung the car out onto a country road.

They were away at last, speeding along under an arcade of trees, flashing by meadows, snarling past lovely, red-bricked houses, while windshield wipers made neat half-moons in the driving rain.

Mr. Miss-One suddenly reached over and opened a narrow flap in the switchboard. His hand was a bare inch from Julia’s breast, and she wanted to touch it, clasp the strong fingers, but was afraid that this wonderful dream might dispel. He took out a packet of cigarettes, adroitly popped one into his mouth, then replaced the carton and shut die flap. He lit the cigarette with a strange contraption from the switchboard, then inhaled, letting the smoke trickle down through his nose.

By the time they had reached the main bypass, the novelty was wearing off, and Julia permitted herself a measure of confidence. The dream, if such it was, displayed no signs of breaking down. The car was solid. She could feel the seat beneath her, hear the muted roar of the engine, smell the smoke from Mr. Miss-One’s cigarette, see the road sliding away under the car wheels.

The bypass was straight, a gray ribbon that stretched out into infinity as their speed built up. Sixty, seventy, eighty miles an hour. Julia watched the needle climb on the speedometer. Then she turned her head and looked at Mr. Miss-One.

Poor ghost, entirely oblivious in his ghost car, he did not know she was there. How was she to declare her presence and break through the wall that still separated them? She began to talk, spilling out her thoughts in a jumble of low spoken words.

“Mr. Miss-One—I’m sorry I don’t know your real name, but Brian, the horrible little beast, first called you Mr. Miss-One because of your limp. You sort of miss a step. Please, don’t think it’s meant unkindly, at least by me. In fact, the limp adds to your appearance; makes you more romantic. I guess that sounds silly, but I am silly—I can’t help it. I’ve been in love with you ever since that day when you first walked across the dining room and Mother went screaming under the table. She did look funny. I remember you took something we couldn’t see from the sideboard, then disappeared by the kitchen door. Can’t you see, or at least hear me?”

It might have been imagination, but Mr. Miss-One did appear to be a little uneasy. He slid down the window to throw away his half-consumed cigarette. Julia sighed.

“I wonder where we are going? Is this your world? Are the people out there wandering shadows left over from yesteryear, or are we racing, invisible, through today? Please try to see me.”

She could see his left wrist. His jacket sleeve had slid up and the wrist was bare. Sun-tanned, muscular, covered with fine hair. It was also covered with goose pimples. She gasped, then gave a little cry.

“Oh, you’re cold. My poor darling, you’re cold.”

She had not meant to touch him—not yet—but there was no controlling the automatic impulse. Her hand flew to his wrist. For a brief moment she touched warm flesh, actually felt the fast beating pulse, then the car swerved, and’ Mr. Miss-One jerked his head round and stared straight at her.

His face was a mask of pure, blood-chilling terror, and his mouth opened as he screamed. His hands clawed at the steering wheel, as though some part of his brain were trying to right the skid, and the scream erupted into isolated words, like black rocks crashing through a sheet of ice.

“Dead... family... burned... dead... fifty... years... dead... dead... dead...”

The screech of tortured rubber mingled with the screaming words. Outside the gray road was spinning around and around. A black shape came hurtling through the rain. There was a mighty, soul-uprooting crash, then for a brief second-nothing. A heartbeat of total oblivion.

Julia was standing by the roadside watching the car burn. Like a giant red beetle it lay on its back, while beautiful scarlet flames rose from its corpse, like poppies from a long-filled grave. The red enamel bubbled and drooled down the seething metal, as blood tears from the eyes of a dying man, and somewhere in the heart of the shrieking inferno, something moved.

Sound flickered, then ceased. Cars drew up, and the occupants climbed out; mouths opened, faces assumed expressions of horror, shock, or morbid excitement. But they were so many, silent, pathetic ghosts.

Julia turned and walked away.

Home was but a few steps away.

Over the grass verge, through a hedge, under some trees, and there were the gates—broken, rusty, one had lost a hinge and was reeling like a drunken man. Once back in the garden, sound returned. Birds sang, bees hummed, and the sun peeped through a broken cloud bank, making the rain-coated flowers glisten like colored fragments. Julia opened the front door and made her way to the dining room. The family was seated around the table, which was laid for tea.

“At last,” exclaimed Mother. “I called until my voice was hoarse. Honestly, I don’t know who you think you are.”

“It’s really too bad,” Father echoed. “Your mother was nearly out of her mind. Where have you been?”

Julia did not answer, but sank down, staring blankly at the tablecloth. Brian kicked her ankle.

“You locked me in.”

“I ask you,” Mother addressed the ceiling, “is that the action of a rational person? Locking your little brother in the dining room? Heavens above knows what might have happened. Well, don’t just sit there, we are waiting for an explanation.”

“Answer your mother,” Father instructed.

Julia took a deep breath.

“We’re dead. All of us—dead.”

The first shadows of night crept in through the long french window and the silence was coated with the dust of long-dead time. Julia looked up. They were watching her with blank, pale faces.

“Don’t you understand? We’re dead. We died fifty years ago in a fire. Brian did it. He set light to the bedroom curtains. The whole place went up in fire and smoke.”

The ticking of the mantelpiece clock seemed to grow louder; Brian stirred in his chair with a frantic denial.

“I didn’t.”

“You did.” Julia turned on him savagely. “You were told not to play with matches. It was you. You burned us all to death.”

“I didn’t I didn’t.”

He hammered the table with his small, clenched fists, while tears ran down his cheeks, then rose and ran to Father, who put his arms around the shaking body.

“Make her stop. I didn’t I didn’t play with matches.”

“It’s all right” Father whispered. “It’s all right Your sister isn’t well.”

Mother could not speak, could only stare at Julia with wide open eyes. Occasionally she shook her head as though in disbelief.

“Please,” Julia pleaded, “try to understand. We are all dead. Mr. Miss-One was the living. We were—we are—ghosts.’

“Go to your room, dear.” Father’s voice was unexpectedly gentle. “Go to bed, like a good girl. Well look after you. Don’t worry.”

“Yes.” Mother spoke at last “Please forgive me. I never knew. I’ll never say a cross word again—ever.”

Julia rose very slowly, and as she did so, understanding exploded in her brain.

“You think I’m mad.”

Mother shuddered and Father shook his head firmly.

“No—no, of course not dear. Just tired, ill maybe. But not mad. Dear God, not mad.”

Julia fled before their naked terror, and as always, took refuge in her room. She lay upon the bed and stared up at the ceiling, gradually allowing the veil to fall from the awful face of truth. She could never be happy again. She knew. Knowledge was brutal, knowledge destroyed the comforting curtain of doubt.

Father, clearly ill at ease, brought her some food on a tray, talked much too quickly of the healing virtues of sleep, plenty of good food, peace of mind, then departed. Julia heard the key turn in the lock.

Presently she sat by the window and watched the sun put the garden to bed. Shadows lengthened, flowers folded their petals, trees hung their heads, and the evening breeze went dancing across the lawn. For a while there was a great, healing peace.

Then a dark shape limped up the drive. At first Julia thought it might be Father, but as it drew nearer, she saw the black, charred face. The hands were shriveled, twisted; patches of white bone gleamed through the gaping, roasted flesh. Eyes still glittered in the naked skull, and they stared up at Julia’s window.

Julia tried to scream, but her vocal cords refused to function. The most she could make was a hoarse, croaking sound. But out of the heart of her all-demanding terror, a single rational thought ran across her brain like a ribbon of fire.

“Is this how I appear to him?”

All that remained of Mr. Miss-One limped up the front steps and disappeared from view. Julia knew her prayer had been answered. She would never be parted from him again.