Read Online Midnight Sun by Ramsey Campbell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ramsey Campbell
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worn black handbag large enough to contain the cash register. It had proved to be an embroidered message, god is good, in a heavy wooden frame. "It's for Ben, my grandson," Charlotte had announced with a kind of grim pride.
The message had been surrounded by elaborate patterns which looked as if Charlotte had been trying to fix the meaning of the words for ever. To Mabel the patterning had seemed obsessive almost to the point of compulsion, the symmetry somehow discomforting. "Look at all the care you've taken," she said. "You must think a lot of your grandson. Are you pleased with how he's growing up?"
As Charlotte had stared at her Mabel had thought she'd presumed too much — and then Charlotte had gripped the edge of the counter and leaned so close that Mabel had smelled medicine on her breath. "His mother is," the old woman had whispered, "but not her sister."
It was clear which of them she agreed with. Before Mabel could think what to ask next, Charlotte had shoved herself away from the counter, sucking in her breath so hard that her lips had turned white. A moment later the shop door had opened to admit both of the Sterling men, pale nostrils flaring as they thrust their sharp faces forwards almost doglike, white eyebrows raised in identical expressions of mild reproof. "We were wondering where you'd wandered off to, Mother," the younger man had said.
"Come along now, Charlotte. You're always saying you don't like the cold. Let's get you back to bed. You'll be losing your sewing if you start taking it out of the house, and it's been doing you so much good."
As each man took hold of one of her arms, Charlotte had given Mabel a look which stopped just short of an appeal. The memory made her shiver and glance towards the window as if her thoughts might be overheard. There was nothing to see except the frost climbing the glass, the cold of the night rendered visible. She turned away and moved closer to the oven.
Perhaps Charlotte had been as confused and senile as the men had made her seem. Perhaps her own condition had been what she was afraid of, and her public image her defence against it. Mabel had dismissed the notion that the men had been putting on a show for her, but she'd wondered what sort of Christmas the little boy would have. Whenever the black car passed her cottage she'd watched for him, sitting bright-eyed and alert beside the driver, and she couldn't help thinking he looked starved of an ordinary childhood, though mustn't children always regard their own childhood as the norm? She'd considered inviting the Sterlings to her house over Christmas, and once she'd started up the track, but had felt so cold in the shadow of the forest that she'd turned back. Later that day she had been shocked to see the two men and the little boy disappearing into the pathless forest when it was almost dark. She'd watched for them to reappear, but she must have missed them. Surely they couldn't have been in there until after midnight, when she had gone to bed.
Early in January Charlotte had returned to the shop. She'd looked withered, exhausted, barely capable of supporting the weight of her overcoat. She'd stood at the counter, flicking her fingers irritably at locks of grey hair which wouldn't be contained by her scarf, until Mabel had said "Did your grandson like his present?"
The old lady had gripped the counter as if she might fall. "It isn't finished," she'd said.
Presumably she'd meant her embroidery, but why should that have caused her voice to shake? Mabel never knew, because at that moment she'd seen Ben's mother hurrying across the square. She'd thought of warning Charlotte, and then it had been too late. The old lady had started nervously as Ben's mother opened the door. "There you are, Charlotte. Carl and his father were worried about you."
Her face had looked fattened by Christmas and dull with suppressing emotion, with doing her duty as she saw it, and Mabel had instinctively disliked her. "You know
The message had been surrounded by elaborate patterns which looked as if Charlotte had been trying to fix the meaning of the words for ever. To Mabel the patterning had seemed obsessive almost to the point of compulsion, the symmetry somehow discomforting. "Look at all the care you've taken," she said. "You must think a lot of your grandson. Are you pleased with how he's growing up?"
As Charlotte had stared at her Mabel had thought she'd presumed too much — and then Charlotte had gripped the edge of the counter and leaned so close that Mabel had smelled medicine on her breath. "His mother is," the old woman had whispered, "but not her sister."
It was clear which of them she agreed with. Before Mabel could think what to ask next, Charlotte had shoved herself away from the counter, sucking in her breath so hard that her lips had turned white. A moment later the shop door had opened to admit both of the Sterling men, pale nostrils flaring as they thrust their sharp faces forwards almost doglike, white eyebrows raised in identical expressions of mild reproof. "We were wondering where you'd wandered off to, Mother," the younger man had said.
"Come along now, Charlotte. You're always saying you don't like the cold. Let's get you back to bed. You'll be losing your sewing if you start taking it out of the house, and it's been doing you so much good."
As each man took hold of one of her arms, Charlotte had given Mabel a look which stopped just short of an appeal. The memory made her shiver and glance towards the window as if her thoughts might be overheard. There was nothing to see except the frost climbing the glass, the cold of the night rendered visible. She turned away and moved closer to the oven.
Perhaps Charlotte had been as confused and senile as the men had made her seem. Perhaps her own condition had been what she was afraid of, and her public image her defence against it. Mabel had dismissed the notion that the men had been putting on a show for her, but she'd wondered what sort of Christmas the little boy would have. Whenever the black car passed her cottage she'd watched for him, sitting bright-eyed and alert beside the driver, and she couldn't help thinking he looked starved of an ordinary childhood, though mustn't children always regard their own childhood as the norm? She'd considered inviting the Sterlings to her house over Christmas, and once she'd started up the track, but had felt so cold in the shadow of the forest that she'd turned back. Later that day she had been shocked to see the two men and the little boy disappearing into the pathless forest when it was almost dark. She'd watched for them to reappear, but she must have missed them. Surely they couldn't have been in there until after midnight, when she had gone to bed.
Early in January Charlotte had returned to the shop. She'd looked withered, exhausted, barely capable of supporting the weight of her overcoat. She'd stood at the counter, flicking her fingers irritably at locks of grey hair which wouldn't be contained by her scarf, until Mabel had said "Did your grandson like his present?"
The old lady had gripped the counter as if she might fall. "It isn't finished," she'd said.
Presumably she'd meant her embroidery, but why should that have caused her voice to shake? Mabel never knew, because at that moment she'd seen Ben's mother hurrying across the square. She'd thought of warning Charlotte, and then it had been too late. The old lady had started nervously as Ben's mother opened the door. "There you are, Charlotte. Carl and his father were worried about you."
Her face had looked fattened by Christmas and dull with suppressing emotion, with doing her duty as she saw it, and Mabel had instinctively disliked her. "You know
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