Thus, in three weeks the affair was nearly an historical incident. Even the new tombstones that marked it might – or, at any rate, quite half of them might – have been expected so to stand in a short time, from natural causes. The only newly created widow, Mrs Crankhart, rallied well, and showed no intention of letting her state depress her, nor indeed harden.
Midwich had, in fact, simply twitched – curiously, perhaps, but only very slightly – for the third or fourth time in its thousand-year doze.
*
And now I come to a technical difficulty, for this, as I have explained, is not my story; it is Midwich’s story. If I were to set down my information in the order it came to me I should be flitting back and forth in the account, producing an almost incomprehensible hotchpotch of incidents out of order, and effects preceding causes. Therefore it is necessary that I rearrange my information, disregarding entirely the dates and times when I acquired it, and put it into chronological order. If this method of approach should result in the suggestion of uncanny perception, or disquieting multi-science, in the writer, the reader must bear with it the assurance that it is entirely the product of hindsight.
It was, for instance, not current observation, but later inquiry which revealed that a little while after the village had seemingly returned to normal there began to be small swirls of localized uneasiness in its corporative peace; certain disquiets that were, as yet, isolated and unacknowledged. This would be somewhere about late November, even early December – though perhaps in some quarters slightly earlier. Approximately, that is, about the time that Miss Ferrelyn Zellaby mentioned in the course of her almost daily correspondence with Mr Hughes that a tenuous suspicion had perturbingly solidified.
In what appears to have been a not very coherent letter, she explained – or, perhaps one should say, intimated – that she did not see how it could be, and, in fact, according to all she had learnt, it couldn’t be, so she did not understand it at all, but the fact was that, in some mysterious way, she seemed to have started a baby – well, actually ‘seemed’ wasn’t quite the right word because she was pretty sure about it, really. So did he think he could manage a weekend leave, because one did rather feel that it was the sort of thing that needed some talking over …?
CHAPTER 7
Coming Events
IN point of fact, investigations have shown that Alan was not the first to hear Ferrelyn’s news. She had been worried and puzzled for some little time, and two or three days before she wrote to him had made up her mind that the time had come for the matter to be known in the family circle: for one thing, she badly needed advice and explanation that none of the books she consulted seemed able to give her; and, for another, it struck her as more dignified than just going on until somebody should guess. Angela, she decided, would be the best person to tell first – Mother, too, of course, but a little later on, when the organizing was already done; it looked like one of those occasions when Mother might get terribly executive about everything.
Decision, however, had been rather easier to take than action. On the Wednesday morning Ferrelyn’s mind was fully made up. At some time in that day, some relaxed hour, she would draw Angela quietly aside and explain how things were …
Unfortunately, there hadn’t seemed to be any part of Wednesday when people were really relaxed. Thursday morning did not feel suitable somehow, either, and in the afternoon Angela had had a Women’s Institute meeting which made her look tired in the evening. There was a moment on Friday afternoon that might have done – and yet it did not seem quite the kind of thing one could raise while Daddy showed his lunch visitor the garden, preparatory to bringing him back for tea. So, what with one thing and another, Ferrelyn arose on Saturday morning with her secret still unshared.
‘I’ll really have to tell her today – even if everything doesn’t seem absolutely right for it. A person could go on this way for weeks,’ she told herself firmly, as she finished dressing.
Gordon Zellaby was at the last stage of his breakfast when she reached the table. He accepted her good-morning kiss absent-mindedly, and presently took himself off to his routine – once briskly round the garden, then to the study, and the Work in progress.
Ferrelyn ate some cornflakes, drank some coffee, and accepted a fried egg and bacon. After two nibbles she pushed the plate away decisively enough to arouse Angela from her reflections.
‘What’s the matter?’ Angela inquired from her end of the table. ‘Isn’t it fresh?’
‘Oh, there’s nothing wrong with it,’ Ferrelyn told her. ‘I just don’t happen to feel eggy this morning, that’s all.’
Angela seemed uninterested, when one had half-hoped she would ask why. An inside voice seemed to prompt Ferrelyn: ‘Why not now? After all, it can’t really make much difference when, can it?’ So she took a breath. By way of introducing the matter gently she said:
‘As a matter of fact, Angela, I was sick this morning.’
‘Oh, indeed,’ said her stepmother, and paused while she helped herself to butter. In the act of raising her marmaladed toast, she added: ‘So was I. Horrid, isn’t it?’
Now she had taxied on to the runway, Ferrelyn was going through with it. She squashed the opportunity of diverting, forthwith:
‘I think,’ she said, steadily, ‘that mine was rather special kind of being sick. The sort,’ she added, in order that it should be perfectly clear, ‘that happens when a person might be going to have a baby, if you see what I mean.’
Angela regarded her for a moment with thoughtful interest, and nodded slowly.
‘I do,’ she agreed. With careful attention she buttered a further area of toast, and added marmalade. Then she looked up again.
‘So was mine,’ she said.
Ferrelyn’s mouth fell a little open as she stared. To her astonishment, and to her confusion, she found herself feeling slightly shocked … But … Well, after all, why not? Angela was only sixteen years older than herself, so it was all very natural really, only … well, somehow one just hadn’t expected it … It didn’t seem quite … After all, Daddy was a triple grandfather by his first marriage …
Besides, it was all so unexpected … It somehow hadn’t seemed likely … Not that Angela wasn’t a wonderful person, and one was very fond of her … but, sort, of as a capable elder sister … It needed a bit of readjusting to …
She went on staring at Angela, unable to find the right-sounding thing to say, because everything had somehow turned the wrong way round …
Angela was not seeing Ferrelyn. She was looking straight down the table, out of the window at something much further away than the bare, swaying branches of the chestnut. Her dark eyes were bright and shiny.
The shininess increased and sparkled into two drops sparkling on her lower lashes. They welled, overflowed, and ran down Angela’s cheeks.
A kind of paralysis still held Ferrelyn. She had never seen Angela cry. Angela wasn’t that kind of person …
Angela bent forward, and put her face in her hands. Ferrelyn jumped up as if she had been suddenly released. She ran to Angela, put her arms round her, and felt her trembling. She held her close, and stroked her hair, and made small, comforting sounds.
In the pause that followed Ferrelyn could not help feeling that a curious element of miscasting had intruded. It was not an exact reversal of roles, for she had had no intention of weeping on Angela’s shoulder; but it was near enough to it to make one wonder if one were fully awake.
Quite soon, however, Angela ceased to shake. She drew longer, calmer breaths, and presently sought for a handkerchief.
‘Phew!’ she said. ‘Sorry to be such a fool, but I’m so happy.’
‘Oh’ Ferrelyn responded, uncertainly.
Angela blew, blinked, and dabbed.
‘You see,’ she explained, ‘I’ve not really dared to believe it myself. Telling it to somebody else suddenly made it real. And I’ve always wanted to, so much, you see. But then nothing happened, and went on not happening, so I began to think -‘well, I’d just about decided I’d have to try to forget about it, and make the best of things. And now it’s really happening after all, I – I -‘ She began to weep again, quietly and comfortably.
A few minutes later she pulled herself together, gave a final pat with the bunched handkerchief, and decisively put it away.
‘There,’ she said, ‘that’s over. I never thought I was one to enjoy a good cry, but it does seem to help.’ She looked at Ferrelyn. ‘Makes one thoroughly selfish, too – I’m sorry, my dear.’