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Authors: Barbara Comyns
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pity to waste it. And the Courier had been really pleased with it, and wanted anything he could write about the epidemic.
“Francis, you can’t think what it is like to be earning money after all these years. To be working again. Do you know I keep touching wood—and it has to be real wood, not painted. The end of the pencil does quite well. I haven’t told my mother yet because I know somehow she would put a stop to it; you see, she likes to have me under her thumb. Francis, I’m sorry about it causing panic in the village, but it would have leaked out eventually; this inquest would have drawn attention to it, for one thing!” And the doctor had to agree that this was true, and suddenly gave Ebin one of his dazzling smiles, and they left the assembly rooms together.
Grandmother Willoweed sat in the morning-room eating a honeycomb out of a bowl on her lap. As she licked the wooden frame with her tongue, she bitterly regretted the day she had announced that she would not cross ground that was not her property. At the time she had wondered if she was making a mistake; but it had appeared such a grand gesture and it had seemed unlikely then that she would ever particularly wish to enter the village again. She had a very good view of the main street from the boot-room window with its coloured windowpanes of glass. She spent many an amusing half-hour in there with the galoshes and old black boots for company.
But now she felt unhappy. For one thing the honey had become mixed up in her chins and she felt miserably sticky; and she was disturbed by Ebin’s behaviour since the catastrophe of the butcher. He had told her so little about it, in fact he had hardly spoken to her for days and had become strangely independent, sitting up in his room typing away; now he had been asked to attend the inquest, and when he returned would he tell his mother anything about it? she wondered. He was undoubtedly becoming conceited and out of hand. The old lady picked some beeswax out of her teeth as she pondered on ways of putting her son in his place and brightened up a little when she decided to put the maids on to spring cleaning his room. He couldn’t sit up there in haughty isolation under those conditions. She chuckled to herself and felt happier. But if only she had been free to wander in the village and hear the screams coming out of cottage windows and perhaps even help nurse one of the unfortunate afflicted. She would dearly love to see someone who believed they were being pursued by monsters. So far there had only been five cases, but there would be more; she was confident there would be more. One of the maids might become a victim, or even Old Ives. The thought of Old Ives being devoured by imaginary monsters cheered her up considerably, and she trotted off to the potting-shed to see if he looked at all queer; but she found him looking very well, sorting out some seeds he had been drying. She wasn’t very pleased with the way he looked at her and asked how she was feeling.
It was Norah’s afternoon off, and she was wearing her shiny new blue dress to visit Fig’s mother; and she knew that if he was free in time Fig would see her home. He would not say very much except to remark on the crops as they passed them in the fields; but he would take her arm, and she would be filled with pride and happiness. It was an acknowledged fact now in the village that they were walking out. It had been one of the chief topics of conversation, combined with the doctor’s yellow car; but now the only subject of interest seemed to be the madness that had descended upon them. As Nora passed the Assembly Rooms, the people who had attended the inquest surged out into the street; and then when she crossed the bridge she passed the spot where the poor butcher had committed suicide and saw the sand which still covered his blood. When she reached the cottage, Mrs. Fig, as the village layer-out, could talk of nothing else.
“Mind you, I love a
“Francis, you can’t think what it is like to be earning money after all these years. To be working again. Do you know I keep touching wood—and it has to be real wood, not painted. The end of the pencil does quite well. I haven’t told my mother yet because I know somehow she would put a stop to it; you see, she likes to have me under her thumb. Francis, I’m sorry about it causing panic in the village, but it would have leaked out eventually; this inquest would have drawn attention to it, for one thing!” And the doctor had to agree that this was true, and suddenly gave Ebin one of his dazzling smiles, and they left the assembly rooms together.
Grandmother Willoweed sat in the morning-room eating a honeycomb out of a bowl on her lap. As she licked the wooden frame with her tongue, she bitterly regretted the day she had announced that she would not cross ground that was not her property. At the time she had wondered if she was making a mistake; but it had appeared such a grand gesture and it had seemed unlikely then that she would ever particularly wish to enter the village again. She had a very good view of the main street from the boot-room window with its coloured windowpanes of glass. She spent many an amusing half-hour in there with the galoshes and old black boots for company.
But now she felt unhappy. For one thing the honey had become mixed up in her chins and she felt miserably sticky; and she was disturbed by Ebin’s behaviour since the catastrophe of the butcher. He had told her so little about it, in fact he had hardly spoken to her for days and had become strangely independent, sitting up in his room typing away; now he had been asked to attend the inquest, and when he returned would he tell his mother anything about it? she wondered. He was undoubtedly becoming conceited and out of hand. The old lady picked some beeswax out of her teeth as she pondered on ways of putting her son in his place and brightened up a little when she decided to put the maids on to spring cleaning his room. He couldn’t sit up there in haughty isolation under those conditions. She chuckled to herself and felt happier. But if only she had been free to wander in the village and hear the screams coming out of cottage windows and perhaps even help nurse one of the unfortunate afflicted. She would dearly love to see someone who believed they were being pursued by monsters. So far there had only been five cases, but there would be more; she was confident there would be more. One of the maids might become a victim, or even Old Ives. The thought of Old Ives being devoured by imaginary monsters cheered her up considerably, and she trotted off to the potting-shed to see if he looked at all queer; but she found him looking very well, sorting out some seeds he had been drying. She wasn’t very pleased with the way he looked at her and asked how she was feeling.
It was Norah’s afternoon off, and she was wearing her shiny new blue dress to visit Fig’s mother; and she knew that if he was free in time Fig would see her home. He would not say very much except to remark on the crops as they passed them in the fields; but he would take her arm, and she would be filled with pride and happiness. It was an acknowledged fact now in the village that they were walking out. It had been one of the chief topics of conversation, combined with the doctor’s yellow car; but now the only subject of interest seemed to be the madness that had descended upon them. As Nora passed the Assembly Rooms, the people who had attended the inquest surged out into the street; and then when she crossed the bridge she passed the spot where the poor butcher had committed suicide and saw the sand which still covered his blood. When she reached the cottage, Mrs. Fig, as the village layer-out, could talk of nothing else.
“Mind you, I love a
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