THE TERRACES OF NIGHT Page 23

  It seemed that the boy, for some obscure reason, must have climbed up on the heap of stones, reached for the hook and swung himself off into space, when, thank heaven, the hook giving way, he had fallen unhurt . . . but although Mr Towser made as light as possible of the whole affair when describing it to the harassed little father and mother, treating it as a mere boyish prank, it could not be denied that the prank bore a strange and sinister air. Closely questioned, the schoolmaster reluctantly admitted the ominous fact that he had found noosed about the boy’s throat a broken length of window cord . . . and the further still more ominous fact that the lad had strapped both his ankles firmly together, as if to prevent himself struggling, with a worn piece of greyish webbing! It almost seemed as if he had deliberately attempted to hang himself. . . .

  Mrs Bendigo shuddered wildly away from the hideous thought, and Mr Towser hastened to reassure her—endeavouring, in truth, to reassure his own considerably agitated mind at the same time. He was, not unnaturally, anxious to avoid even a hint of possible scandal, and if—as was, of course, possible—young Bendigo, who was admittedly a studious boy, had been working too hard, and in some overwrought moment attempted to commit suicide by hanging, the story would be anything but good for the school if it once got out. Therefore Mr Towser soothed and smiled and made light of the matter as far as possible, despite Mrs Bendigo’s anxious inquisition, advised (with the utmost sincerity, this last) a complete rest from books and school for a while, talked airily about ‘foolhardiness’, ‘venturesome lads’, and so on, and departed, leaving Mr Bendigo more or less satisfied—but not so Mrs Bendigo.

  Firstly, she knew that ‘venturesome’ or ‘foolhardy’ were the last words truly descriptive of the shy, bespectacled David, and as soon as she deemed it wise, she set to work to interrogate her son cautiously, tactfully, on the story of his mysterious collapse. But here she found herself up against a curious and unexpected difficulty. While David admitted at once that he remembered making up his mind to build a pile of stones at that particular corner of the playground, wait until his schoolmates trooped back into class, and then mount the pile, he could not explain the presence of the wrenched-out iron hook beside him, except that he ‘supposed he must have caught hold of it to steady himself’, but further than this he would not go, and indeed, quite obviously could not, since his memory of the incident seemed oddly blurred and muddled.

  The boy himself was both puzzled, frightened and angry at thus finding himself in a position he could neither understand, justify nor explain, owing to some odd clouding of memory. Mr Towser, on being appealed to, instantly explained that this was obviously due to his having received a knock on the head in falling, which had blurred all memories of what took place a few seconds before . . . for want of another, at last both David and his mother accepted his explanation, and weary with fruitless discussion and speculation, proceeded to endeavour to forget the episode.

  Overjoyed, as David got back his colour and energy again, Mrs Bendigo showered her ewe-lamb with ‘treats’, with little gifts of all sorts, while Mr Bendigo, filled with the same shamefaced desire to make much of his son, discovering that the satchel hitherto used by David to carry his school books was now so inadequate for his needs that it was supplemented perforce by an extra strapful of books, went down to the City one day and returned bearing a huge and magnificent satchel of shining brown leather. The discarded satchel and strap were promptly bestowed upon the grateful little servant, Daisy, the recipient of all the Bendigo cast-offs, and peace resumed its old sway at the little shop in Yeld Passage—but, alas, only for a time.

  It was less than two weeks afterwards that Mrs Bendigo had occasion to reprimand Daisy for listlessness, for idling over her work—the girl burst suddenly into tears half-way through the lecture, and startled, her kind-hearted mistress stopped at once.

  ‘Daisy—aren’t you well, my girl? What’s the matter?’

  Daisy sniffed dismally, mopping her streaming eyes. Between her sobs Mrs Bendigo managed to elicit the murmur that she ‘felt so bad—so tired. Couldn’t sleep, she dreamed so bad. . . .’ A curious cold chill ran down the listening woman’s back. Dreams—again? But this was, must be, a mere coincidence! Yet it was odd and somehow sinister, that David had, only a little while ago, talked so much of dreams, though since his accident he had said nothing about them, seemed quite normal again in every way. . . . What sort of dreams was Daisy having? With a curious sense of foreboding she heard the girl’s hesitating reply.

  Difficult to say, but dreams that made ’er feel cold and frightened—dreams as if someone was after ’er with a rope, or else as if she was goin’ to walk straight orf something! Straight orf-like, into nothing . . . and a funny feeling as if ’er ’ands and feet was tied fast, so’s she couldn’t move. With a sinking heart Mrs Bendigo put another question.

  ‘Have you got to dislike being on a height, Daisy? Cleaning the attic windows, for instance?’

  Daisy’s eyes widened in amazement.

  ‘Why, yes, that I ’ave, mum! Can’t abide cleaning them windows naow, and as for standing out on the leads to feed the sparrers like I used to do, I simply daren’t now—feel something’s going to take and push me orf. It’s nerves, I guess. . . .’

  Mrs Bendigo hastily agreed that it was nerves, and, promising to buy Daisy a bottle of the most nauseating nerve-tonic to be got, dismissed a rather gratified maid-servant to her duties—but it was a very sober little matron who resumed her own. She remained preoccupied and worried even when Mr Bendigo returned at eventide, from an expedition to Dorking, with an undoubted Early-Victorian whatnot triumphantly in tow. Indeed, her lack of interest in the bargain surprised and annoyed the little man not a little, and he ate his favourite supper of soused herrings, cheese, and cold apple-pie in a haughty silence that, to his further surprise, passed almost unnoticed by his absent mate.

  Supper over, the tables cleared, the ‘things’ washed up by David and his mother together—a time-honoured custom on Daisy’s nights-out; but tonight their customary laughter and joking was lacking; the atmosphere was curiously oppressive, heavy and chill as a Quaker Meeting House, despite the crackling fire and cheerful lamplight. For once in a while Mr Bendigo welcomed the raucous shrieks of the home-made wireless that was David’s passion, and they listened in solemn silence to a lecture on the habits of the ant, a series of gloomy part-songs and a would-be comic duologue that was even gloomier than the part-songs. Altogether, when ten o’clock struck, time for Daisy’s return and bed for all, the master of the house put down his paper and, glancing at the clock, announced in a tone of palpable relief that it was ‘time all good folk was in their cots!’

  Obediently, as always, Mrs Bendigo stuck her needles exactly together through the ball of scarlet and green wool out of which she was making a muffler for David—who, being fortunately colour-blind, cheerfully wore any and everything his devoted mother knitted for him—and rolling her work into a neat bundle, rose to her feet.

  ‘I’ll just make sure Daisy’s come in—she’s probably in the kitchen makin’ herself some cocoa as usual,’ she said.

  ‘She’s a good girl—generally in a little before time.’

  Glad, in some obscure way, to assure herself of the girl’s safety, she slipped from the room and ran down the few steps to the kitchen—but it was dark and silent, unoccupied. Mrs Bendigo hesitated a moment, chilled by curious nameless fear—then, shaking herself mentally for a silly fool, retraced her steps to the parlour to announce the non-return of the faithful Daisy. Mr Bendigo frowned, surprised as his wife. Daisy was rarely known to outstay her time, being so exceedingly plain of feature and homely of form to have failed entirely in attracting herself a swain. Picking up his paper, he settled himself once more in his chair.

  ‘You go to bed, Katie, and I’ll wait for Daisy—’tisn’t likely the girl ’ull be really late! You run along, young Dave, and don’t stay up reading—d’ye hear?’

  The door closed after the obedie
nt wife and son, and with a little sigh of comfortable satisfaction Mr Bendigo poured himself a fresh ‘nightcap’ of whisky and soda and settled down to a fresh perusal of his beloved News. Although it was late spring, the evenings were still so chilly that a fire was necessary, and it glowed peacefully, tranquilly on the little brick hearth, warming the tips of the dealer’s scuffed red leather slippers; shone on the smooth yellow fur of Tibbles, the cat, purring sleepily upon the black rag rug, and was reflected in the gleaming sides of sideboard and bookcase—and Mr Bendigo had travelled a long way and was tired. It was not surprising, therefore, that in a very short space of time the paper slipped from his hand to the carpet, and another sound mingled with the purring of Tibbles—the heavy breathing of a man deeply and comfortably asleep.

  Mr Bendigo awoke at last with a jerk and that faint sense of guilt that always companions one who falls asleep in a chair instead of in his respectable couch. Staring at the clock, he rose to his feet, startled. Twelve o’clock, and no Daisy! What in the world— Treading softly so as not to awake his sleeping wife, he went down to the kitchen, to find it still dark, still empty! Puzzled, he retraced his steps through into the shop—though not in all her long association with the Bendigo family had Daisy even been known to enter the shop, Mr Bendigo rightly distrusting her ruthless wielding of broom and duster among antique glass, priceless Chelsea china and delicate chairs and tables. But the shop was empty as the kitchen, and Mr Bendigo scratched his chin, confounded. Twelve o’clock—unless she had a dam’ good explanation there was a rod in pickle for Miss Daisy Higgins tomorrow morning! Could there have been an accident, or the girl been took ill? Vaguely Mr Bendigo remembered some recent comment of his wife’s on the girl’s paleness and listlessness . . . but, anyway, there was no use wasting time waiting up any longer. In fact, Mr Bendigo was hanged if he did—she could wait till the morning now, and he’d talk to her. Firmly locking and bolting the outer doors, Mr Bendigo raked out the last red embers of the parlour fire, and yawning, stumped his way up to bed.

  Pausing, with his hand on the doorknob of the little first-floor room that had known his entire married life, he glanced up the narrow breakneck stairs that led to the second floor—‘the attics’, indeed, where the hope of the house of Bendigo, young David, lay sleeping in the little room next to that which should these two hours have been sheltering the recalcitrant Daisy. Dave would be sleeping now, unless he was lying reading by the light of a candle one of those books that were his passion—a passion outwardly railed at and secretly admired by his parent. But the boy had not been well—his eyes were none too strong, even with the thick-lensed glasses he habitually wore, and this reading in bed was a pernicious habit for the young. On the whole, it might be as well to assure oneself that things were quite as they should be. Mr Bendigo, treading with even greater caution than usual, aware that the attic stairs creaked like protesting axle-pins, ascended the steep flight and, finding his son’s door ajar, peeped cautiously in.

  Through the dimness he could see the boy lying peacefully sleeping, a stray shaft of moonlight from the uncurtained window lying across the coverlet. Mr Bendigo had an old-fashioned dread of sleeping in the moonlight, and he glanced longingly at the window, wondering whether he dared risk waking the boy by crossing the creaking floor to draw the blind. But as he looked, all thought of drawing curtains, creaking floors—all but sheer astonishment—fled from his mind! Opposite the back of the Bendigo house rose the sheer wall of an old tenement building, unbroken by window or grating, and against this dull red background stood out a bright patch of colour—the reflection of the window of Daisy’s lighted room, a brilliant square of orange flung upon the blank wall as a moving picture is flung upon the screen. Staring, Mr Bendigo caught his breath in sudden incredulous amazement—then the baggage had been in all the time! But how? She must have come in and gone upstairs while he was sleeping, though that argued a stealthy type of entrance that did not appeal to Mr Bendigo’s imagination at all. As he stared at the patch of light, puzzled, indignant, something moved against it—and at the sight Mr Bendigo gasped aloud and stood still, rooted to the spot.

  Something—a long black shadow—swung across the square of orange light! Swung and swung again, to and fro, like a giant pendulum, a shadow like a grotesque puppet of stuffed rag, hanging doll-like by the neck, its tousled head lolling horribly. To and fro it swung, gently, lazily, as if moving in some devilish breeze. Realisation struck, cold and sudden, at the very roots of Mr Bendigo’s soul, and forgetting David, his wife, all but the immediate and ghastly truth, he rushed wildly down the stairs . . . and in a moment the silence of Yeld Passage was rudely broken by a frantic voice that yelled, the clatter of running feet.

  ‘Police, police—our Daisy’s ’anged ’erself!’

  * * * * *

  The coroner declared, somewhat discontentedly, that it was a curious case. Here was a young woman living in a nice home with kindly people—apparently quite contented, since she had been with them four years or more. Not engaged or anything of that sort, so presumably no love troubles—an orphan, so without a family to worry her! Yet on this particular evening, instead of taking her night off as usual, she shuts herself up in her own room, and is subsequently found hanging from a hook in the ceiling—one of those hooks presumably originally intended to support a birdcage—having apparently jumped off the seat of a chair, after having made a noose of the belt of one of her own cotton frocks! A determined suicide too, since she had strapped her ankles together with a piece of webbing before jumping off the chair. The act must have taken place just before Mr Bendigo entered his son’s room, since he states the body was still swinging when he saw it. The police confirm this, their report being that the body, when cut down, was still warm. Verdict, ‘temporarily insane’.

  It was a very subdued little family that trailed sadly back to Yeld Passage after the inquest was over—but true to her motherly instinct, on arrival home to the familiar parlour, with its cosy fire and waiting arm-chairs, Mrs Bendigo made a valiant effort to throw off the air of depression that the tragic death of poor Daisy had inevitably cast over the house, and hurried to set out the most tempting meal she could think of, to try and cheer her two silent and oppressed companions.

  Under the influence of fried fish and chips, bottled beer, and a Welsh rarebit made with Worcester sauce—a speciality of Mrs Bendigo’s own—the gloom about the table lightened gradually, and towards the end of the meal the little group, albeit still somewhat subdued, found themselves talking much after their usual fashion. Inevitably the conversation turned upon the recent tragedy, the inquest, the coroner’s remarks upon the case; although Mrs Bendigo, fearing its effects upon her beloved boy’s nerves, tried in vain to divert it—but despite her endeavours David returned again and again to the subject.

  Awakened by his father’s shouts, the boy had huddled on a dressing-gown and followed him downstairs, not thinking, in his hurry, of looking out of the window, so that the memory of that gruesome swinging shadow on the wall was spared him . . . thank heaven, thought Mr Bendigo with a shudder at the recollection.

  David had not been allowed—greatly to his annoyance—to assist his father and the two policemen who speedily arrived, to force the lock of the attic door, nor to see the body. Mrs Bendigo, shivering with fright, had locked the door of her bedroom, with the chafing David inside it with her, as the body was carried downstairs; and subsequently, with the usual desire of keeping, as far as possible, all horrors and tragedies from their ewe-lamb’s ears, both parents subsequently refused to discuss the tragedy with him, despite his eager questions; therefore, until the inquest, the boy really knew nothing beyond the bare fact of the tragedy, and now he pounced upon one point, the point Mr Bendigo had desperately hoped might escape him, with the instant astuteness of youth.

  ‘Father! What was that about Daisy strappin’ her ankles together before she did it?’

  It was useless to lie. Mr Bendigo nodded soberly.

 
‘Yes, they was strapped. With that bit of webbing you used to carry your books with, too. . . .’

  Mrs Bendigo’s nudge came too late. David sat up, alert, his eyes staring at his father through their thick-lensed glasses.

  ‘That strap? Now what do I sort of remember about that strap? It’s coming back to me, in bits.’ His eyes lit up with sudden excitement. ‘That strap—why, I done it too, father. Tried to hang myself, I mean. I remember now, perfectly! Didn’t I do it—that time I come over queer at school, and old Towser brought me back?’

  ‘Oh, David, darling, don’t talk about it—it’s all too dreadful to speak of!’ wailed Mrs Bendigo desperately, but David was too hot on the track of memory to heed her.

  ‘Of course I did—I remember now perfectly well! I had a sort of feeling—remember the dreams I used to get, dreams about stepping of a high place into the air? They kept on coming, till I got to wondering and wondering what it would feel like—to step clear off into nothing, to feel oneself swing loose, free!—till it fascinated me, and then one day, all of a sudden, something seemed to whisper to me: “Try it!” I waited till the other chaps went in, and then I piled up stones and things, and undid me collar and tie, and wound a piece of webbing round my ankles so’s I couldn’t save myself . . . dad, where’s that bit of webbing?’

  ‘It’s still ’ere, as far as I know,’ said Mr Bendigo doubtfully. ‘Towser brought it back round your books that day. You give it to Daisy with your old satchel—remember? It’s prob’ly chucked daown in the pore girl’s room.’