Short Fiction

yawning cave; the table a gigantic toad; the chairs were stunted dwarfs.

If only Nanny would come up; if only she could get out of this terrible room into the kind, warm Day Nursery, flooded with electric light.

What if snakes came down the chimney⁠—long, black, wriggling snakes⁠—and glided along the floor and coiled themselves round the bedposts?

The floor became thick with bodies of dead cats⁠—she had seen one in a gutter once⁠—grey, furry cats; and mice, thousands of headless mice⁠ ⁠…

Bridget began to cry, and the sound of her crying frightened her.

The Things had heard; they were all coming near her. The priests bowed, the witches waved, the animals crept quietly, quietly⁠ ⁠…

The air suddenly became thick with stifling blankets; she was going to be suffocated, the ceiling was sinking down upon her. With a strangled scream Bridget climbed out of bed, she stumbled across the floor and flung herself panting against the door. “Nanny, Nanny, come quickly!”

They were all coming nearer her, long, distorted shapes grinned at her, large crooked hands thrust themselves forward to grasp her.

Above her hung great gaping mouths.

Her feet stood in a pool of blood⁠ ⁠… She was lying on the floor now, screaming into the carpet.

Then the door opened, and someone turned on the light.

It was Nanny. Bridget flung herself upon her, sobbing hysterically.

“Nanny, Nanny, take me away; don’t let them get at me; I’m so frightened, don’t go away! Oh! save me!”

The nurse shook her crossly. She was irritated at having to come upstairs from her cup of cocoa in the kitchen, but Bridget’s screams had alarmed her and she was afraid there might be a fire.

“What do you mean by making all that noise?” she said sharply. “You ought to be fast asleep hours ago instead of shouting and screaming. I should be ashamed if I were you. I won’t have any nonsense, do you hear me?”

Bridget’s screams rose higher and higher; she begged and pleaded to be taken downstairs; she clutched on to the nurse with clammy, wet fingers; she grovelled on the floor; she almost licked her hand.

“You stop where you are; do you understand?”

Bridget was picked up and thrust back in her bed.

“Will you be quiet at once?”

Nurse was gone in an instant, and the light was put out.

The door closed behind her, and there was a sound of retreating footsteps.

For a moment the child was too amazed to think. Then came realisation⁠—she was alone.

Long shadows crept across the floor⁠ ⁠…

A Difference in Temperament

He leant against the mantelpiece, nervously jingling the change in his pockets. He supposed there would be another scene. It was so unreasonable the way she minded him going out without her. She never seemed to realise that he just had to get away sometimes⁠—for no particular reason, but because it gave him a sense of freedom. He loved to slam the front door behind him, and to walk along the street to a bus, swinging a stick. There was something about the feeling of being alone he could not explain to anyone, not even to her. The delicious sense of utter irresponsibility, of complete selfishness. Not to have to look at his watch and remember, “I promised to be back at four,” but at four to be doing something quite different that she would not know. The feeblest thing. Even driving in a taxi she had never seen; to have the sensation of leaning back and smoking a cigarette without turning his head and being aware of her beside him. He would come back in the evening and tell her about it; they would sit in front of the fire and laugh; but at least it would have been his afternoon⁠—not theirs, but his alone.

This was what she resented, though; she wanted to share everything. She could never imagine doing things apart from him. She had an uncanny way of reading his thoughts, too. If he was thinking of something that had no connection with her, she would know it at once. Only she exaggerated it in her mind. She would immediately think he was bored with her, that he did not like her any more. It wasn’t that, of course; it wasn’t that at all. Naturally, he loved her more than anyone in the world; in fact, there literally did not exist anyone but her. Why did she not realise this and be thankful? Why must she chain him to her, his mind, his body, his soul, without allowing the smallest part in him to stray, even for a little distance? She should understand that he would never go far, he would never go out of her sight⁠—metaphorically; but surely just to the top of that hill, to see what was on the other side. No, even this she must share with him.

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“Don’t you see,” she would explain, “that when I see anything or do anything there is no joy in keeping it to myself? I want to give everything to you. If I am alone and I see a picture that I love, or I read some passage from a book, I think to myself there is no meaning in this unless he knows it too. You are such a part of me that to stand alone leaves me dumb, without speech, without eyes. A tree with hatched branches, like someone with no hands. Life is valueless unless I can share everything with you⁠—beauty, ugliness, pain. There must be no shadows between us, no quiet corners in our hearts.”

Funny!⁠—yes, he saw what she meant, but he could not feel like this. They were on different planes. In the universe they were two stars, she far higher, burning with a steady light, but he flickering, unsteadily, always a little ahead⁠—and in the end falling to earth, a momentary streak in the sky.

He turned to her abruptly.

“I guess I’d better go and have lunch in Town today, after all. I promised that chap I’d see him again before he leaves, and I don’t want to