‘Now that is a pity,’ Janet told him. ‘One of our hopes when we heard that you were going to see him was that you might learn enough to enlighten us.’
*
Life appeared to be going on smoothly enough in Midwich for the present, but it was only a little later that one of the undercurrents broke surface, and gave us a flutter of anxiety.
After the committee meeting which she had brought to a premature close, Mrs Leebody ceased, not altogether surprisingly, to play any further active part in the promotion of village harmony. When she did reappear after a few days’ rest, she seemed to have recovered her balance by a decision to regard the whole unfortunate situation as a distasteful subject.
On one of the early days in March, however, the Vicar of St Mary’s, in Trayne, accompanied by his wife, brought her home in their car. They had found her, he reported to Mr Leebody, with some embarrassment, preaching in Trayne market, from an upturned box.
‘Er – preaching?’ said Mr Leebody, a new uneasiness mingling with his concern. ‘I – er – can you tell me what about?’
‘Oh, well – well quite fantastical, I’m afraid,’ the Vicar of St Mary’s told him, evasively.
‘But I think I ought to know. The doctor will be sure to ask about it when he arrives.’
‘Well – er – it was in the nature of a call to repentance; on a note of – er – revivalist doom. The people of Trayne must repent and pray forgiveness for fear of wrath, retribution, and hellfire. Rather nonconformist, I’m afraid. Lurid, you know. And, it seems, they must particularly avoid having anything to do with the people of Midwich who are already suffering under divine disapproval. If the Trayne people do not take heed, and mend their ways, punishment will inevitably descend on them, too.’
‘Oh,’ said Mr Leebody, keeping his tone level. ‘She did not say what form our suffering here is taking?’
‘A visitation,’ the Vicar of St Mary’s told him. ‘Specifically, the infliction of a plague of – er – babies. That, of course, was causing some degree of ribaldry. A lamentable business altogether. Of course, once my wife had drawn my attention to Mrs Leebody’s – er – condition, the matter became more intelligible, though still more distressing. I – oh, here is Dr Willers, now.’ He broke off with relief.
*
A week later, in the middle of the afternoon, Mrs Leebody took up a position on the lowest step of the War Memorial, and began to speak. She was dressed for the occasion in a garment of hessian, her feet were bare, and there was a smudge of ash on her forehead. Fortunately there were not many people about at the time, and she was persuaded home again by Mrs Brant before she had well begun. Word was all round the village in an hour, but her message, whatever it may have been, remained undelivered.
Midwich heard the quickly following news of Dr Willers’ recommendation to rest in a nursing-home with sympathy rather than surprise.
*
About mid-March Alan and Ferrelyn made their first visit since their marriage. With Ferrelyn putting in the time until Alan’s release in a small Scottish town entirely among strangers, Angela had been against causing her worry by attempting to explain the Midwich state of affairs in a letter; so, now, it had to be laid before them.
Alan’s expression of concern deepened as the predicament was explained. Ferrelyn listened without interruption, but with a swift glance now and then at Alan’s face. It was she who broke the silence that followed.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘I had a sort of feeling all along that there was something funny. I mean, it oughtn’t -‘ she broke off, struck apparently by an ancillary thought. ‘Oh, how dreadful! I kind of shot-gunned poor Alan. This probably makes it coercion, or undue influence, or something heinous. Could it be grounds for divorce? Oh, dear. Do you want a divorce, darling?’
Zellaby’s eyes crinkled a little at the corners as he watched his daughter.
Alan put his hand over hers.
‘I think we ought to wait a bit, don’t you?’ he told her.
‘Darling,’ said Ferrelyn, twining her fingers in his. Turning her head after a long look at him, she caught her father’s expression. Treating him to a determinedly unresponsive look, she turned to Angela, and asked for more details of the village’s reactions. Half an hour later they went out, leaving the two men alone together. Alan barely waited for the door to latch before he broke out.
‘I say, sir, this is a bit of a facer, isn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid it is,’ Zellaby agreed. ‘The best consolation I can offer is that we find the shock wears off. The most painful part is the opening assault on one’s prejudices – I speak for our sex, of course. For the women that is, unfortunately, only the first hurdle.’
Alan shook his head.
‘This is going to be a terrible blow for Ferrelyn, I’m afraid – as it must have been to Angela,’ he added, a little hurriedly. ‘Of course, one can’t expect her, Ferrelyn, I mean, to take in all the implications at once. A thing like this needs a bit of absorbing …’
‘My dear fellow,’ said Zellaby, ‘as Ferrelyn’s husband you have the right to think all sorts of things about her, but one of the things you must not do, for your own peace of mind, is to underestimate her. Ferrelyn, I assure you, was away ahead of you. I doubt whether she’s missed a trick. She was certainly far enough ahead to move in with a lightweight remark because she knew that if she seemed worried, you would worry about her.’
‘Oh, do you think so?’ said Alan, a little flatly.
‘I do,’ said Zellaby. ‘Furthermore, it was sensible of her. A fruitlessly worrying male is a nuisance. The best thing he can do is to disguise his worry, and stand staunchly by, impersonating a pillar of strength while performing certain practical and organizational services. I offer you the fruit of somewhat intensive experience.
‘Another thing he can do is represent Modern Knowledge and Commonsense – but tactfully. You can have no idea of the number of venerable saws, significant signs, old wives’ sooths, gipsies’ warnings, and general fiddle-faddle that has been thrown up by this in the village, lately. We have become a folklorist’s treasure-chest. Did you know that in our circumstances it is dangerous to pass under a lych-gate on a Friday? Practically suicide to wear green? Very unwise indeed to eat seed-cake? Are you aware that if a dropped knife, or needle, sticks point down in the floor it will be a boy? No? I thought you might not be. But never mind. I am assembling a bouquet of these cauliflowers of human wisdom in the hope that they may keep my publishers quiet.’
Alan inquired with belated politeness after the progress of the Current Work. Zellaby sighed sadly.
‘I am supposed to deliver the final draft of The British Twilight by the end of next month. So far I have written three chapters of this supposedly contemporary study. If I could remember what they deal with, I’ve no doubt I should find them obsolete by now. It ruins a man’s concentration to have a cr�che hanging over his head.’
‘What is amazing me as much as anything is that you’ve managed to keep it quiet. I’d have said you hadn’t a chance,’ Alan told him.
‘I did say it,’ Zellaby admitted. ‘And I’m still astonished. I think it must be a kind of variant on The Emperor’s Clothes theme – either that, or an inversion of the Hitler Big Lie – a truth too big to be believed. But, mind you, both Oppley and Stouch are saying unneighbourly things about some of us that they’ve noticed, though they appear to have no idea of the real scale. I’m told that there is a theory current in both of them that we have all been indulging in one of those fine old uninhibited rustic frenzies on Hallowe’en. Anyway, several of the inhabitants almost gather their skirts aside as we pass. I must say that our people have restrained themselves commendably, under some provocation.’
‘But do you mean that only a mile or two away they’ve no idea what’s really happened?’ Alan asked incredulously.
‘I’d not say that, so much as that they don’t want to believe it. They must have heard fairly fully I imagine, but they choose to believe that that is all a tale to cover up something more normal, but disgraceful. Willers was right when he said that a kind of self-protective reflex would defend the ordinary man and woman from disquieting beliefs – That is unless it should get into print. On the word of a newspaper, of course, eighty or ninety per cent would swing to the opposite extreme, and believe anything. The cynical attitude in the other villages really helps. It means that a newspaper is unlikely to get anything to go on unless it is directly informed by someone inside the village.