‘Which part, my dear? You said a lot, you know.’
‘About my being glad and happy. Two days ago it was quite, quite true. I wanted the baby, yours and mine, so very much. Now I’m frightened about it – I’m frightened, Gordon.’
He tightened his arm round her shoulders. She rested her head against his, with a sigh.
‘My dear, my dear,’ he said, stroking her hair gently. ‘It’s going to be all right. We’ll look after you.’
‘Not to know,’ she exclaimed. ‘To know there’s something growing there – and not to be sure how, or what … It’s so – so abasing, Gordon. It makes me feel like an animal.’
He kissed her cheek softly, and went on stroking her hair.
‘You’re not to worry,’ he told her. ‘I’m prepared to bet that when he or she comes you’ll take one look and say: “Oh dear, there’s that Zellaby nose.” But, if not, we face it together. You’re not alone, my dear, you must never feel that you are alone. I’m here, and Willers is here. We’re here to help you, always, all the time.’
She turned her head, and kissed him.
‘Gordon, darling,’ she said. Then she pulled away and sat up. ‘I must get back,’ she announced.
Zellaby gazed after her a moment. Then he moved a chair closer to the unclosed door, lit a cigarette, and settled himself to listen critically to the mood of the village as it showed in its questions.
CHAPTER 10
Midwich Comes to Terms
THE task for January was to cushion the shock and steer the reactions, and thus to establish an attitude. The initiation meeting could be considered a success. It let the air in, and a lot of anxiety out; and the audience, tackled while it was still in a semi-stunned condition, had for the most part accepted the suggestion of communal solidarity and responsibility.
It was only to be expected that a few individuals should hold aloof, but they were no more anxious than the rest to have their private lives invaded and exposed, and their roads jammed with motor-coaches while goggling loads of sightseers peered in at their windows. Moreover, it was not difficult for the two or three who hankered for limelight to perceive that the village was in a mood to subdue any active non-cooperator by boycott. And if Mr Wilfred Williams thought a little wistfully at times of the trade that might have come to The Scythe and Stone, he proved a staunch supporter – and sensitive to the requirements of longer-term goodwill.
Once the bewilderment of the first impact had been succeeded by the feeling that there were capable hands at the helm; when the pendulum-swing among the young unmarried women from frightened wretchedness to smug bumptiousness had settled down; and when an air of readiness to turn-to, not vastly dissimilar from that which preceded the annual f�te and flower-show, began to be apparent, the self-appointed committee could feel that at least it had succeeded in getting things on to the right lines.
The original Committee of the Willers, the Leebodys, the Zellabys, and Nurse Daniels, had been augmented by ourselves, and also by Mr Arthur Crimm who had been co-opted to represent the interests of several indignant researchers at The Grange who now found themselves embroiled, willy-nilly, in the domestic life of Midwich.
But though the feeling at the committee meeting held some five days after the Village Hall meeting could be fairly summarized as ‘so far, so good’, members were well aware that the achievement could not be left to take care of itself. The attitude that had been successfully induced might, it was felt, slip back all too easily into normal conventional prejudices if it were not carefully tended. For some time, at least, it would have to be sustained and fortified.
‘What we need to produce,’ Angela summed up, ‘is something like the companionship of adversity, but without suggesting that it is an adversity – which, indeed, as far as we know, it is not.’
The sentiment gained the approval of everyone but Mrs Leebody, who looked doubtful.
‘But,’ she said hesitantly, ‘I think we ought to be honest, you know.’
The rest of us looked at her inquiringly. She went on:
‘Well, I mean, it is an adversity, isn’t it? After all, a thing like this wouldn’t happen to us for no reason, would it? There must be a reason; so isn’t it our duty to search for it?’
Angela regarded her with a small, puzzled frown.
‘I don’t think I quite understand …’ she said.
‘Well,’ explained Mrs Leebody, ‘when things – unusual things like this – suddenly happen to a community there is a reason. I mean, look at the plagues of Egypt, and Sodom and Gomorrah, and that kind of thing.’
There was a pause. Zellaby felt impelled to relieve the awkwardness.
‘For my part,’ he observed, ‘I regard the plagues of Egypt as an unedifying example of celestial bullying; a technique now known as power-politics. As for Sodom -‘ He broke off and subsided as he caught his wife’s eye.
‘Er -‘ said the vicar, since something seemed to be expected of him. ‘Er -‘
Angela came to his rescue.
‘I really don’t think you need worry about that, Mrs Leebody. Barrenness is, of course, a classical form of curse; but I really can’t remember any instance where retribution took the form of fruitfulness. After all, it scarcely seems reasonable, does it?’
‘That would depend on the fruit,’ Mrs Leebody said, darkly.
Another uneasy silence followed. Everybody, except Mr Leebody, regarded Mrs Leebody. Dr Willers’ eyes swivelled to catch those of Nurse Daniels, and then went back to Dora Leebody who showed no discomfort at being the centre of attention. She glanced round at all of us in an apologetic manner.
‘I am sorry, but I am afraid I am the cause of it all,’ she confided.
‘Mrs Leebody -‘ the doctor began.
She raised her hand reprovingly.
‘You are kind,’ she said. ‘I know you want to spare me. But there is a time for confession. I am a sinner, you see. If I had had my child twelve years ago, none of this would have happened. Now I must pay for my sin by bearing a child that is not my husband’s. It is all quite clear. I am very sorry to have brought this down on the rest of you. But it is a judgement, you see. Just like the plagues …’
The vicar, flushed and troubled, broke in before she could continue: ‘I think – er – perhaps if you will excuse us -‘
There was a general pushing back of chairs. Nurse Daniels crossed quietly to Mrs Leebody’s side, and began a conversation with her. Dr Willers watched them for a moment until he became aware of Mr Leebody beside him, mutely inquiring. He laid a hand reassuringly on the vicar’s shoulder.
‘It has been a shock to her. Not surprising at all. I fully expected a number of cases before this. I’ll get Nurse Daniels to see her home and give her a sedative. Very likely a good sleep will make all the difference. I’ll look in tomorrow morning.’
A few minutes later we dispersed, in a subdued and thoughtful mood.
*
The policy advocated by Angela Zellaby was carried out with considerable success. The latter part of January saw the introduction of such a programme of social activities and helpful neighbourliness as we felt would leave only the most determined non-cooperators with the isolation, or the time, to brood.
In late February I was able to report to Bernard that things were going, on the whole, smoothly – more smoothly, at any rate than we had dared to hope at first. There had been a few sags in the graph of local confidence, and would doubtless be others, but, so far, recoveries had been speedy. I gave him details of the happenings in the village since my last report, but information regarding the attitude and views prevailing at The Grange which he had asked for I could not supply. Either the researchers were of the opinion that the affair somehow came within the compass of their oaths of secrecy, or else they were of the opinion that it was safer to act as if it did.
Mr Crimm continued to be their only link with the village, and it seemed to me that to get any more information I must either have authority to reveal to him the official nature of my interest, or Bernard would have to tackle him himself. Bernard preferred the latter course, and a meeting was arranged for Mr Crimm’s next visit to London.
He called in on us on the way back, feeling at liberty to spill some of his troubles, which seemed to be largely concerned with his Establishments Section.
‘They do so worship tidiness,’ he complained. ‘I just don’t know what we are going to do when my six problems start to raise matters of allowances and absences, and make an undisguisable mess of their nice tidy leave-rosters. And then, too, there’ll be the effect on our work schedule. I put it to Colonel Westcott that if his Department really is seriously concerned to keep the matter quiet, they’ll only be able to do it by stepping in officially, at a high level. Otherwise, we shall have to give explanations before long. I think he sees my point there. But, for the life of me, I can’t see why that particular aspect should be of such interest to MI, can you?’