Wyndham, John (8 page)

The thing paused by the gatepost. One could have sworn that
it was listening. We sat perfectly still and quiet, Josella staring at it with
horror. I expected it to lash out at the car, but it didn’t. Probably the
muffling of our voices inside had misled it into thinking we were out of range.
The little bare stalks began abruptly to clatter against its stem. It swayed,
lumbered clumsily oft to the right, and disappeared into the next driveway.

Josella gave a sigh
of
relief.

“Oh, let’s get away before it comes back,” she implored. I
started the car, turned it round, and we drove off Londonward again.

Josella began to recover her self-possession. With the
deliberate and obvious intention of taking her mind off what lay behind us, she
asked:

“Where are we going now?”

“Clerkenwell first,” I told her. “After that we’ll see about
getting you same more clothes. Bond Street for them, if you like, but
Clerkenwell first.”

“But why Clerkenwell—? Good heavens!”

She might well exclaim. We bad turned a corner to see the
street seventy yards ahead of us filled with people. They were coming toward us
at a stumbling run, with their arms outstretched before them. A mingled crying
and screaming came from them. Even as we came into sight of them a woman at the
front tripped and fell; others tumbled over her, and she disappeared beneath a
kicking, struggling heap. Beyond the mob we had a glimpse of the cause of it
all: three dark-leaved stems swaying beyond the panic-stricken beads. I
accelerated and swung off into a byroad.

Josella turned a terrified face.

“Did—did you see what that
was?
They were
driving
them.”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s why we are going to Clerkenwell.
There’s a place there that makes the best triffid guns and masks in the world.”

We worked back again and picked up our intended route, but
we did not find the clear run I had hoped for. Near King’s Cross Station there
were many more people on the streets. Even with a hand on the horn it grew
increasingly difficult to get along. In front of the station itself it became
impossible. Why there should have been such crowds in that place, I don’t know.
All the people in the district seemed to have converged upon it. We could not
get through them, and a glance behind showed that it would be almost as
hopeless to fly to go back. Those we bad passed had already closed in on our
track.

“Get out, quick!” I said. “I think they’re after us.”

“But “ Josella began.

“Hurry!” I said shortly.

I blew a final blast on the horn and slipped out after her,
leaving the engine running. We were not many seconds too soon. A man found the
handle of the rear door. lie pulled
it
open and pawed inside. We were
all but pushed over by the pressure of others making for the car. There was a
shout of anger when somebody opened the front door and found the seats there
empty too. By that time we ourselves had safely become members of the crowd.
Somebody grabbed the man who had opened the rear door, under the impression
that it was he who had just got out. Around that the confusion began to thrive.
I took a firm grip of Josella’s hand, and
we
started to worm our way
along as unobviously as possible.

Clear of the crowd at last, we kept on foot for a while,
looking out for a suitable car. After a mile or so we found it— a station
wagon, likely to be more useful than an ordinary body
for
the plan that
was
beginning to form vaguely in my mind.

In Clerkenwell they had been accustomed for two or three
centuries to make fine, precise instruments. The small factory I had dealt
with professionally at times had adapted the old skill to new needs. I found it
with little difficulty, nor was it hard to break in. ‘When we set off again,
there was a comforting sense of support to be derived from several excellent
triffid guns, some thousands of little steel boomerangs for them, and some
wire-mesh helmets that we bad loaded into the back.

“And now—clothes?” suggested Josella as we started.

“Provisional plan, open to criticism and correction,” I told
her. “First, what you might call a
pied-A-verre;
i.e., somewhere to
pull ourselves together and discuss things.”

“Not another bar,” she protested. “I’ve had quite enough of
bars for one day.”

“Improbable though my friends might think it—with everything
free—so have I,” I agreed. “What I was thinking of was an empty apartment. That
shouldn’t be difficult to find. We could ease up there awhile, and settle the
rough plan of campaign. Also, it would be convenient for spending the night—or,
if you find that the trammels of convention still defy the peculiar
circumstances, well, maybe we could make it two apartments.”

“I think I’d be happier to know there was someone close at
hand.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “Then Operation Number Two will be ladies’
and gents’ outfitting. For that perhaps we had better go our separate ways—both
taking exceedingly good care not to forget which apartment it was that we
decided on,”

“Y-es,” she said, but a little doubtfully.

“It’ll be all right,” I assured her. “Make a rule for
yourself not to speak to anyone, and nobody’s going to guess you can see. It
was only being quite unprepared that landed you in that mess before. ‘In the
country of the blind the one-eyed man is king.’

“Oh yes—Wells said that, didn’t he? Only in the story it
turned out not to be true.”

“The crux of the difference lies in what you mean by the
word ‘country’—patria in the original,” I said.
“Caecorum in patria luscus
rex imperat omnis—a
classical gentleman called Fullonius said that: it’s
all anyone seems to remember about him. But there’s no organized
patria,
no
state, here—only chaos, Wells imagined a people who had adapted themselves to
blindness. I don’t think that is going to happen here—I don’t see how it can.

“What do you think
is
going to happen?”

“My guess would be no better than yours. And soon we shall
begin to know, anyway. Better get back to matters in hand. Where were we?”

“Choosing clothes.”

“Oh yes. Well, it’s simply a matter of slipping into a shop,
adopting a few trifles, and slipping out again. You’ll not meet any triffids in
central London—at least, not yet.”

“You talk so lightly about taking things,” she said.

“I don’t feel quite so lightly about it,” I admitted. “But
I’m not sure that that’s virtue—it’s more likely merely habit. And an obstinate
refusal to face facts isn’t going to bring anything back, or help us at all. I
think we’ll have to try to see ourselves not as the robbers of all this but
more as—well, the unwilling heirs to it.”

‘Yes. I suppose it is—something like that,” she agreed in a
qualified way.

She was silent for a time. When she spoke again she reverted
to the earlier question.

“And after the clothes?” she asked.

“Operation Number Three,” I told her, “is, quite definitely,
dinner.”

There was, as I had expected, no great difficulty about the
apartment. We left the car locked up in the middle of the road in front of an
opulent-looking block and climbed to the third story. Quite why we chose the
third I can’t say, except that it seemed a bit more out of the way. The process
of selection was simple. We knocked or we rang, and if anyone answered, we
passed on. After we had passed on three times we found a door where there was
no response. The socket of the rim lock tore off to one good heft of the
shoulder, and we were in.

I myself had not been one of those addicted to living in an
apartment with a rent of some two thousand pounds a year, but I found that
there were decidedly things to be said in favor of it, The interior decorators
had been, I guessed, elegant young men with just that ingenious gift for
combining taste with advanced topicality which is so expensive. Consciousness
of fashion was the mainspring of the place. Here and there were certain
unmistakable
derniers cris,
some of them undoubtedly destined—had the world
pursued its expected course—to become the rage of tomorrow; others, I would
say, a dead loss from their very inception. The overall effect was Trade Fair
in its neglect of human foibles—a book left a few inches out of place or with
the wrong color on its jacket would ruin the whole carefully considered balance
and tone—so, too, would the person thoughtless enough to wear the wrong clothes
when sitting upon the wrong luxurious chair or sofa. I turned to Josella, who
was staring wide-eyed at it all.

“Will this little shack serve—or do we go farther?” I asked.

“Oh, I guess we’ll make out,” she said. And together we
waded through the delicate cream carpet to explore.

It was quite uncalculated, but I could scarcely have hit
upon a more satisfactory method of taking her mind off the events of the day.
Our tour was punctuated with a series of exclamations in which admiration,
envy, delight, contempt, and, one must confess, malice all played their parts.
Josella paused on the threshold of a room rampant with all the most aggressive
manifestations of femininity.

“I’ll sleep here,” she said.

“My God!” I remarked. “Well, each to her taste.”

“Don’t be nasty. I probably won’t have another chance to be
decadent. Besides, don’t you know there’s a bit of the dumbest film star in
every girl? So I’ll let it have its final fling.”

“You shall,” I said. “But I hope they keep something quieter
around here, Heaven preserve mc from having to sleep in a bed with a mirror set
in the ceiling over it.”

“There’s one above the bath too,” she said, looking into an
adjoining room.

“I don’t know whether that would be the zenith or nadir of
decadence,” I said. “But anyway, you’ll not be using it. No hot water.”

“Oh, I’d forgotten that. What a shame!” she exclaimed
disappointedly.

We completed our tour of the premises, finding the rest less
sensational. Then she went out to deal with the matter of clothes. I made an
inspection of the apartment’s resources and limitations and then set out on an
expedition of my own.

As I stepped outside, another door farther down the passage
opened. I stopped, and stood still where I was. A young man came out, leading a
fair-haired girl by the hand. As she stepped over the threshold he released his
grasp.

“Wait just a minute, darling,” he said.

He took three or four steps on the silencing carpet. His
outstretched hands found the window which ended the passage. His fingers went
straight to the catch and opened it. I had a glimpse of a low-railed,
ornamental balcony outside.

“What are you doing, Jimmy?” she asked.

“Just making sure,” he said, stepping quickly back to her
and feeling for her hand again. “Come along, darling.”

She hung back.

“Jimmy—I don’t like leaving here. At least we know where we
are in our own apartment. How are we going to feed? How are we going to live?”

In the apartment, darling, we shan’t feed at all—and
therefore not live long. Come along, sweetheart. Don’t be afraid.”

But I am. Jimmy—I am.”

She clung to him, and he put one arm round her.

“We’ll be all right, darling.
Come along.

“But, Jimmy, that’s the wrong
way— You’ve got it twisted round, dear. It’s the right way.”

“Jimmy—I’m so frightened. Let’s
go back.”

“It’s too late, darling.”

By the window be paused. With one hand he felt his position
very carefully. Then he put both arms round her, holding her to him.

“Too wonderful to last, perhaps,” he said softly. “I love
you, my sweet. I love you so very, very much.”

She tilted her lips up to be kissed.

As he lifted her he turned, and stepped out of the window.

“You’ve got to grow a hide,” I told myself.
“Got to.
Its
either that or stay permanently drunk. Things like that must be happening all
around. They’ll go on happening. You can’t help it. Suppose you’d given them
food to keep them alive for another few days? What after that? You’ve got to
learn to take it, and come to terms with it. There’s nothing else but the
alcoholic funk hole. If you don’t fight to live your own life in spite of it,
there won’t be
any
survival. . . . Only those who can make their minds
tough enough to stick it are going to get through ...”

It took me longer than I had expected to collect what I
wanted. Something like two hours had passed before I got back. I dropped one or
two things from my armful in negotiating the door. Josella’s voice called,
with a trace of nervousness, from that overfeminine room.

“Only me,” I reassured her as I advanced down the passage
with the load.

I dumped the things in the kitchen and went back for those
I’d dropped. Outside her door I paused.

“You can’t come in.” she said.

“That wasn’t quite my intended angle,” I protested. “What I
want to know is, can you cook?”

“Boiled-egg standard,” said her muffled voice.

“I was afraid of that. There’s an awful lot of things we’re
going to have to learn,” I told her.

I went back to the kitchen. I erected the kerosene stove I
had brought on top of the useless electric cooker and got busy.

When I’d finished laying the places at the small table in
the sitting room the effect seemed to me fairly good. I fetched a few candles
and candlesticks to complete it, and set them ready. Of Josella there was still
no visible sign, though there had been sounds of running water some little time
ago. I called her.

“Just coming,” she answered.

I wandered across to the window and looked out. Quite
consciously I began saying good-by to it all. The sun was low. Towers, spires,
and facades of Portland stone were white or pink against the dimming sky. More
fires had broken out here and there. The smoke climbed in big black smudges,
sometimes with a lick of flame at the bottom of them. Quite likely, I told
myself, I would never in my life again see any of these familiar buildings
after tomorrow. There might be a time when one would be able to come back—but
not to the same place. Fires and weather would have worked on it; it would be
visibly dead and abandoned. But now, at a distance, it could still masquerade
as a living city.

My father once told me that before Hitler’s war he used to
go round London with his eyes more widely open than ever before, seeing the
beauties of buildings that be had never noticed before—and saying good-by to
them. And now I had a similar feeling. But this was something worse. Much more
than anyone could have hoped for had survived that war— but this was an enemy
they would not survive, it was not wanton smashing and willful burning that
they waited for this time: it was simply the long, slow, inevitable course of
decay and collapse.