Dunswold--Part 4
Deborah’s period didn’t arrive when she thought it should. She checked her diary to make sure. Sometimes she might be a few days late, but recently she’d been very regular. She didn’t tell Martin. Not yet. What if it was a false alarm (something she doubted)? She could imagine him fussing and forbidding her to do this or that. Maybe even hiring another stranger to come into their house and ‘do’ for them. She didn’t want that. She would wait until she was positive.
One afternoon, someone came to the front door.
Christ, I hope it’s not Walter again, Deborah thought. But it wasn’t him. On the step stood a spry young man in a jumper that could have only been knitted for him by a matriarch of his own family.
“Hello, Mrs Mulcahey,” he said and held out his hand. “Dicky Armitage. You remember me from the garden party? We didn’t speak but I was there.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Deborah said. She did remember him. He was the tweedy man Martin had spent talking to all afternoon to avoid leaving him out. “Do come in. Martin mentioned you might be able to fix the radio.”
“I jolly well hope so.”
She took him into the sitting room and showed him the radio. “The Philips is a good receiver,” he said and turned on the radio. “Probably just one of the valves gone. I’ve bought a selection with me.”
She left him and made a cup of instant coffee for them both.
“Martin tells me you’re a bit of a wizard with radios,” she said when she handed him his coffee.
“That’s kind of him to say so. I like to tinker.” He brought out a screwdriver and started to open up the radio. “I’m going to have to take a look inside.”
The familiar sound of static filled the room.
“That’s all I’ve been able to get out of it,” Deborah said. “Mrs Haylock says she likes the sound of it—it got her through the war.”
“Does she? Personally, it would drive me up the wall.” He lifted off the wooden cover and exposed the innards of the radio. Glass tubes were glowing with a dull yellow light and there was the smell of hot electricity that reminded her of the toy train-set her little brother used to have at home. One of the tubes glowed emerald and flickered like a tiny green flame.
“Yep, it was as I thought. One of your valves has gone. I’ve got a spare in here.”
“Is that all it is?”
“I should think so.” He rummaged in the bag he’d brought in with him.
“I thought it might be something to do with the aerials at the base. Interference, or something.”
“No, shouldn’t be. We’ll see.”
Suddenly she sensed he was uncomfortable talking about the base, but because he was a civilian, he came across with awkwardness rather than with Martin’s professional deflection. He acted in exactly the way she might if she was ever entrusted with any secrets.
“Martin, Major Mulcahey, told me about the excitement you had last week. The big fish. Had the man from the Ministry of Agriculture down to look at it.”
Armitage was trying to fit the new tube in amongst a crowd of others, and it was proving difficult.
“In fact,” she went on. “I saw some creatures swimming a little way offshore at about that time. I wonder if they were the same things.”
“I very much doubt it,” Armitage said and then realised his mistake.
“Oh really? Why is that? Did you see it? Martin said it was all eyes and teeth—frightening.”
“Erm… well, yes. I didn’t see it, of course, but the men said it was something like that. I think you must have seen dolphins. They quite often swim in these waters. Or maybe seals. They look almost human in the water.”
“Do they? That’s probably what they were. Come to think of it, they did look a little like people.”
Armitage at last managed to slot in the new tube and turned the radio on once more. Almost immediately, he found a broadcast and turned the dial until the emerald-green eye flickered and bloomed into life. “Oh, well done,” Deborah said. Armitage replaced the wooden cover and tightened the screws.
“There you go,” he said. “It’s a good receiver, the Philips.”
“Yes, you said. I wanted a television, but Martin’s not keen.”
“It’s the future, if you ask me.”
He took off his wire-framed spectacles and cleaned them on the sleeve of his matriarchal jumper. Without his glasses he wasn’t handsome in the classical sense, but he wasn’t unattractive either. He must have been about Deborah’s own age and for a moment, she imagined her life if she had married someone like this—someone more like her, in fact; more introspective and thoughtful. He didn’t look like the sort of person that enjoyed going out that much or having to make small talk. They would live somewhere in the suburbs, away from the army types. He would have a small vegetable garden out the back, and she would go to evening classes in embroidery. They would play Bridge with friends once a week and have a holiday in the Lake District every year. Obviously, they would have a television.
He put his glasses back on and passed her his empty coffee cup. “I should be going,” he said. “No rest for the wicked.”
“Does Martin work you very hard at the base?” she said.
“No, Mrs Mulcahey. Your husband is one of the best we’ve had. He’s a good man.”
Here was another one who said Martin was a good man. “Yes, he is, isn’t he.”.
***
When Armitage had gone, she went back and sat by the radio. Cleo came and joined her on her lap. Deborah moved the dial across the bands, and stations came and went in their turn. She found the Light Programme and sat and listened to music for an hour. A talking programme came on, and she moved the dial again. Voices came and went; some spoke in foreign languages, and some were just blasts of noise.
She found a blank space where there was silence, and yet the green eye glowed as though a strong signal was present. She lent forward towards the radio and listened. There was nothing to hear, only a faint hiss. The flutter in her tummy started up again, and the cat jumped off her lap as though she’d been startled.
“Sorry, Cleo.” Deborah said. She spun the dial away from the silent station and found some music to have on in the background whilst she washed the plates.
The cat looked at her through the banister rails on the stairs. “I’m sorry, Cleo. Did I squash you?” She reached out to stroke the cat, and it hissed at her and ran up the stairs.
“Suit yourself,” she said and turned back towards the kitchen. A deep scything pain swept through her lower abdomen. She dropped the coffee cup she was carrying, and it bounced on the carpet without breaking. She doubled over and went to her knees in the hallway, clutching at the wall for support. Then, as suddenly as the pain had begun, it left and all that remained was a dull ache and the fluttering, which continued for a little and then it too, stopped.
She sat up and felt her abdomen with her hand and caressed where she thought the fluttering had come from. “Don’t go,” she said.
***
Martin had had to send a report to the Ministry of Agriculture about the thing they’d found on the beach. The man that had examined it said it was a relative of the angler fish, although it clearly wasn’t. He said it in a way that implied, This is what we’re going to say if anyone asks. It was the latest in a sequence of disturbing events, with the increased activity of their Russian counterparts in Siberia and Kamchatka. They’d been intercepting more traffic than usual and the cryptographers were being kept busy.
In the middle of November, they had unexplained noise that the boffins couldn’t filter out. They had no idea where it was coming from. It was mooted that the Soviets had developed new electronic counter-measures. It was pointless trying to hear anything with all signals disrupted. When the noise cleared, it was quiet. Whatever the Soviets were planning, they’d finished, or it was called off.
The base returned to its normal routines. With any luck, it meant that they could relax until Christmas was over. Bob said that there would be a big Christmas ‘do’ in Ipswich. It was the highlight of the year, he assured him. The Ted Heath Orchestra would play for dancing—a strictly formal occasion.
Martin told himself that Deborah was making a little progress too. Had she become less introverted and more like she used to be? He did wonder whether she was thinking about them trying again, but he dare not broach the subject. He didn’t want to ruin anything. She’d come around in time. When he had made tentative conjugal advances, she’d rebuffed him kindly, and it wasn’t normally in his nature to assert himself in that respect (only that one time, and he’d felt horrible afterwards). Maybe Roger Bryant could advise him. He seemed to know how women thought—he gave the impression he did anyway. His driver could take him over to Aldeburgh, and they could go our for lunch. He started to make a phone call but stopped halfway through making the connection. If he was going to do it at all, better to approach on the quiet at the ‘do’ later that month. Roger was sure to be there. And anyway, the situation might right itself in the meantime. He didn’t really want to go gabbing about his problems to anyone else.
Something that would definitely please her was a television. He’d already made arrangements for them to come next week and put an aerial on the roof.
The wind was starting to blow up as he walked back along the shingle towards home that evening. The stronger gusts pulled at his overcoat. Perhaps he should start using the driver to take him in the car from now on. The stones of the beach crashed and rolled together in the waves, and far out to sea, lightning flashes lit the horizon. A storm was coming, even a land-lubber like himself could see the signs (he’d also read the met office briefing sent to them earlier in the day). He’d had the technical bods go out and check the rigging on the antennae, tighten it up where necessary and repair the door on the tool store that would definitely go AWOL as soon wind picked up.
He was relieved to turn onto the pontoon bridge at last and leave the blustery coast behind him. If the wind was going to be storm force 10 (the met office said it might be) then he had to expect the base to take some minor damage, not to mention the town. Several of the older and less well-maintained properties might lose part of their roofs.
Deborah had a visitor in the sitting room. He didn’t hear what was being said, but whoever it was stopped talking when he stepped into the hallway and announced he was home.
“We’re in here,” Deborah called out.
There was no evidence that his dinner was in the process of being prepared, and already he bore a slight grudge against whoever the visitor was. The grudge grew when he saw Ada Haylock sitting there, a cup of tea in her hand. The woman did more tea drinking than cleaning—and today wasn’t even one of the days she came over. Surely Deborah wasn’t developing a friendship with her.
“Hello, Martin. Mrs Haylock just popped in to warn us that there’s going to be a storm this evening. She thought we should know.”
“How kind of you, Mrs Haylock. Batten down the hatches, eh?”
“I remember the flooding of ‘53’,” she said. “Terrible, it was.”
“Well, I don’t think this storm will be as bad. I had a briefing from the met office about it this morning.” That shut her up for a moment.
“You can’t be too careful, nevertheless,” she said. She put her tea cup down on the table. “I should be going. Walter and Mr Haylock will be wanting their tea, I dare say.”
“Of course, Don’t let us keep you, Mrs Haylock. I’d hurry home before it starts to really pick up out there.”
He saw her to the door. Outside, the wind was already lashing at the branches of the cherry tree in the front garden. “Why was Mrs Haylock here?” he said when he’d closed the door behind her. “It’s not one of her days is it?”
“No. She came to tell us about the storm.”
“Very public-spirited of her.” He took off his overcoat and hung it on the end of the banisters.
“Not everyone is entitled to briefings from the met office. She thought she might be doing us a favour, that’s all.” Deborah went into the kitchen and put the light on. “It’ll have to be reheated Shepherd’s Pie. Is that alright?”
“That’s fine. I’m almost too tired to eat. I’ve got a nice little surprise for you.”
“Do tell,” she said and took out the cold Shepherd’s Pie from the fridge.
She didn’t seem that intrigued by his news. He ploughed on regardless. “I’ve ordered a television for you. Just a rental one to begin with. The man will come Monday next week to fix up the aerial. I was just thinking that it was a good job he didn’t come this week.”
“Why?” She’d put the dish in the oven and lit the gas with a match.
“The storm, Deborah. You know, what we’ve just been talking about. Are you alright?”
She was doing it again. Why didn’t she just tell him if something was wrong? Why did he always have to guess what it was, his every attempt proving to her how little he really understood?
“Yes, Martin. I’m fine. That’s wonderful—about the television. I can’t wait.”
“Good. I thought you’d like it.”
“Yes, of course I’ll like it, silly. Thank you, Darling.”
She came over to him and kissed him on the cheek, then busied herself with setting two places at the kitchen table where they ate their meals. “We’re keeping up with the Joneses now.”
It was play-acting. She’d never been any good at it, but there was no point in pushing it further.
When they were sat down eating, he said, “What else did Mrs Haylock say?”
“Nothing really. Nothing that I remember.”
“You made her a cup of tea. You must have talked about something else other than that there was a storm coming. Any gossip from the village?”
“Since when did you indulge in gossip, Martin? You always say that it’s corrosive.”
“Divisive. I always say it’s divisive, but it’s corrosive too.”
“Anyway, the tea was already made, I just offered her a cup. Tell me, when will the television arrive?”
“Sometime next week, I suppose.”
Now she was trying to change the subject. The old bat had said something and now Deborah was dwelling on things again. He wished people would just leave her alone. No one had bothered to offer him any pearls of wisdom afterwards, unless he could count his father saying, “Rotten show, old chap. Better luck next time.”
Perhaps Laura would take her down to London for the day to go Christmas shopping. He’d ask Bob about it. No good would come of making friends with the locals.
“I’ll make sure I buy the Radio Times, shall I?”
“What? Oh, yes. Make sure you do.”
When they went to bed she was asleep almost immediately after kissing him goodnight. That was usually his trick, but tonight sleep wouldn’t come, even though he was worn out. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, listening to the steady breathing of Deborah next to him. How could she sleep on her back like that? He always woke himself up with his snores if he tried it. Although the wind had quieted for a while, the rain had increased. Deborah’s measured breathing and the susurrus of the falling rain gradually faded into a dream.
He was in the base, in the receiving room, and the sound was coming out of the small monitor speaker they had there. Dicky Armitage was looking grave as he fiddled with several large black dials, one of which was labelled Unthink. None of the other personnel were about, and the room was bathed in dim sickly green light. Something was wrong, but Martin wasn’t sure what it was and Dicky didn’t seem about to tell him. He gestured at Dicky to do something.
“I’m sorry,” Dicky said. “There’s nothing we can do about this. Levels are now too high.”
Although Martin didn’t appear to be able to speak in this dream, he knew he wanted to tell Dicky that he had to do something. He pointed at the Unthink dial, that was the key, but Dicky just shook his head and said, “I’m sorry, can’t be done.”
How did he know it couldn’t be done? Had he tried it? Martin wasn’t able to move his hands in the direction he wanted them to go and now the sound from the speaker was becoming louder until it filled the room. Martin went towards the armoured steel door to go outside.
“No, Martin,” Dicky scolded. “You can’t get out. There’s nothing out there any more. All gone now. Come over here and we’ll watch television.” He didn’t want to watch television. He never wanted to watch television. But, in the way dreams often happened, he was suddenly sitting in a chair watching television.
The screen was the same green as the light, and showed only the vaguest flickering of something moving in a grotesque and horrible way. The rest was a confusion of noise. Dicky lent forward and adjusted the tuning dial. Martin wanted to tell him to stop; that he didn’t want to see the thing writhing in that monstrous way on the shingle, but of course, he couldn’t make a coherent sound and his body wouldn’t follow his commands. “Let’s see if I can just…” Dicky said. “Ah, there we are.”
Martin woke with a barely suppressed scream in his throat. He hadn’t seen the thing on the screen—he’d woken just in time.
Deborah was asleep but had turned on her side away from him. Outside, the weather was worse and the wind was blowing hard now, lashing the rain against the window. The cat was on the end of the bed. It raised its head to look at him, and then it too, went back to sleep.
He fumbled for his watch on the bedside table and peered at the radium dial. Only an hour had passed. It would be a long night.
***
She heard Martin wake from a nightmare. For several minutes he’d been mumbling in his sleep as the wind and rain had picked up outside. He woke with the gasp of a drowning man taking a last gulp of air. She stayed facing away from him, and hoped that he’d find sleep again quickly, but he didn’t.
“What was it?” she said and turned onto her back.
“Nothing. I can’t remember. Go back to sleep.”
“Sounded like a nightmare.”
“Probably. I don’t remember. Don’t you worry about it.”
“I can make you a warm milk, if you’d like.”
“Deborah, please don’t fuss. I’m not a child. I’ll be fine.” He turned onto his side once more and pulled the cover up over his shoulder where it had slipped down. If she let him climb on top of her, he would surely go to sleep afterwards. She reached out to touch his back but hesitated. The fluttering inside her told her ‘no’. She didn’t want to hurt it, whatever it might be.
***
Laura came over during the week just as Mrs Haylock was on her way out. “I’m glad she’s gone,” she confided in Deborah as they waved to Mrs Haylock from the front door. “She always makes me feel as though she’s sizing me up for something.”
“She was kind to me when we first came here,” Deborah said.
“Oh well, I didn’t mean to cast aspersions, it’s only the impression I get from her—probably my fault. I’ve never really fitted in here. Not that I’ve made much of an effort, you understand.”
“No, I know. It’s difficult.”
It wasn’t as if she held Mrs Haylock in high regard beyond all others, but she’d been perceptive enough to know about the baby when the officers’ wives in London were too involved in themselves to offer a kind word. They had treated it as a bit of an embarrassment—imagine carrying it for nearly seven months, and then to lose it. Very careless. Laura was much friendlier than those others, but she hadn’t intuited anything either. Not that it mattered. Why should anyone intuit anything? Mrs Haylock was countrywoman, maybe a bit fay, as her mother would have said. That was all.
“I wanted to ask if you’d like to come down to London,” Laura said when they were sat in the kitchen. “We could do a bit of Christmas shopping—you know; Selfridges, Harrods, Gamages. Wherever you want. We’ll go on the train from Ipswich. It’ll be fun. What do you think? Might be nice to go back to civilisation for a day.”
“Oh well, yes, I suppose so.”
A couple of months ago she would have jumped at the chance, but now, it might be too much for her, a whole day, and all that walking and standing about in shops. If she didn’t go, she’d have to tell Laura her secret. To do otherwise would be rude and ungracious. Her mother’s morbid fear of appearing uncouth or vulgar seemed to be hereditary. But if she didn’t go, why would Laura ever bother with her again?
“Not keen?” Laura said. “The thought of all that travelling?”
“No, it’s not that. I may as well tell you. I feel as though I’m pregnant.”
“Oh, I see. Congratulations. That’s wonderful—isn’t it?”
“Yes, It is wonderful, but I haven’t been to the doctor yet.”
“But why ever not? Doctor Morgan is very good. Most discrete.”
“Yes, yes, I will go. But if I go to the doctor it’s all official and there’s no going back.”
“There’s no going back anyway.”
“No, but Martin will worry, and I think he’s worried enough as it is.”
“Martin is tougher than you give him credit for. He’ll be fine. And anyway, you should think about yourself for once.” Laura had become serious. “I’ll take you to Doctor Morgan. I know him quite well, what with the children.”
It was the way her mother would react: taking over, telling her what to do.
“I’ll go after Christmas,” she said. “In the new year. It will be more obvious one way or the other in a couple of weeks. I don’t have any other symptoms yet. No morning sickness. And listen, Laura. Please don’t tell anyone, not even Bob. I want to keep it to myself until we know for sure.”
“So it’s just a feeling? Nothing concrete?”
“Intuition. Yes, a feeling.”
“Well there you are,” Laura said. “If you’ve got a feeling, that’s it. I’ve never had a ‘feeling’ and not been right about it.”
“Even so, I’d rather wait until after the festivities. There’s always enough to do, isn’t there, without worrying about a baby. First thing in the new year, you can take me down to Dr Morgan’s.”
“I’ll hold you to it,” Laura said.
She finished her tea and made her excuses to leave.
Deborah didn’t want to believe it, but she suspected that Laura might be cut from the same cloth as those other officers’ wives in London; if you weren’t considered useful any more, then you were discarded. She hoped she was wrong, but it was just another ‘feeling’ she had. She accompanied Laura to the door, and watched as she walked down the garden path. Laura turned briefly at the gate and waved. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Deborah wondered. Her hand strayed down to her abdomen, and in response the wriggling thing inside her fluttered and squirmed at her touch.
***
The television arrived on Saturday, Martin’s day off. The man from the rental shop installed it spent some time fiddling with the aerial to obtain the best picture.
In the evening they watched something called ‘Dr Who’ which Martin had never heard of before. It was a bit silly, but Deborah liked it. Pure escapism. It was really meant for children. He soon became bored. The rest of the programmes weren’t much better.
The image of the thing on the shingle, squirming in its agony kept interposing itself no matter how many times he pushed the thought away. How could he take the trivial offerings on the television with any seriousness after that? He took consolation in the fact that time blunted even the most disturbing visions eventually, leaving only a worn out fossil that one tried not to linger on.
After dinner, they sat and watched the television until gone eleven when the close-down came. Martin got up and went out and washed the dinner things. The television had induced a sort of stupor in him. It can’t be good for one. He’d make sure they didn’t watch too much of it. When he went back into the parlour, Deborah was still staring at the screen, only now there was only static. The broadcast signal had finished for the day.
“Deborah,” he said gently. “It’s time to go to bed.” He turned off the television.
She started up as though woken from a dream. “Is it?” she said. “I forgot where I was.” Her hand rested on her stomach, caressing it. “Gosh, look at the time.”
“Is everything alright?” he asked her. “Do you feel well?”
She turned to look at him. “Yes, Martin. I’m fine. Let’s go to bed.”
He turned the lights off and followed her up the stairs, not entirely convinced she was telling the truth.