‘We all tried to think that,’ said Zellaby. ‘We used to show one another evidence that it was happening – but it wasn’t.’
‘But you’re still no nearer to knowing how it is done – the compulsion, I mean?’
‘No. It seems just to amount to asking how any personality dominates another. We all know individuals who seem to dominate any assembly they attend; it would appear that the Children have this quality greatly developed by cooperation, and can direct it as they wish. But that tells us nothing about how it is done.’
*
Angela Zellaby, looking very little changed since I had last seen her, emerged from the house on to the veranda a few minutes later. She was so clearly preoccupied that her attention was only brought to bear on us with a visible effort, and after a brief lobbing back and forth of civilities it showed signs of wavering again. A touch of awkwardness was relieved by the arrival of the tea tray. Zellaby bestirred himself to prevent the situation congealing.
‘Richard and the Colonel were at the inquest, too,’ he said. ‘It was the expected verdict, of course. I suppose you’ve heard?’
Angela nodded. ‘Yes, I was at Dacre Farm, with Mrs Pawle. Mr Pawle brought the news. The poor woman’s quite beside herself. She adored Jim. It was difficult to keep her from going to the inquest herself. She wanted to go there and denounce the Children – make a public accusation. Mr Leebody and I managed between us to persuade her not to, and that she’d only get herself and her family into a lot of trouble, and do no good to anybody. So we stayed to keep her company while it was on.’
‘The other Pawle boy, David, was there,’ Zellaby told her. ‘He looked as if he were on the point of coming out with it more than once, but his father stopped him.’
‘Now I’m wondering whether it wouldn’t have been better if someone had, after all,’ Angela said. ‘It ought to come out. It will have to some time. It isn’t just a matter of a dog, or a bull, any more.’
‘A dog and a bull. I’ve not heard of them,’ I put in.
‘The dog bit one of them on the hand; a minute or two later it dashed in front of a tractor, and was killed. The bull chased a party of them; then it suddenly turned aside, charged through two fences, and got itself drowned in the mill pond,’ Zellaby explained, with unusual economy.
‘But this,’ said Angela, ‘is murder.’
‘Oh, I don’t say they meant it that way. Very likely they were frightened and angry, and it was their way of hitting out blindly when one of them was hurt. But it was murder, all the same. The whole village knows it, and now everybody can see that they are going to get away with it. We simply can’t afford to let it rest there. They don’t even show any sign of compunction. None at all. That’s what frightens me most. They just did it, and that’s that. And now, after this afternoon, they know that, as far as they are concerned, murder carries no penalty. What is going to happen to anyone who seriously opposes them later on?’
Zellaby sipped his tea thoughtfully.
‘You know, my dear, while it’s proper for us to be concerned, the responsibility for a remedy isn’t ours. If it ever was, and that is highly questionable, the authorities took it away from us a long time ago. Here’s the Colonel representing some of them – for heaven knows what reason. And The Grange staff cannot be ignorant of what all the village knows. They will have made their report, so, in spite of the verdict, the authorities are aware of the true state of affairs – though just what they will be able to do about it, within the law and hampered by “the reasonable man”, I’m bothered if I know. We must wait and see how they move.
‘Above all, my dear, I do implore you most seriously not to do anything that will bring you into conflict with the Children.’
‘I shan’t, dear,’ Angela shook her head. ‘I’ve a cowardly respect for them.’
‘The dove is not a coward to fear the hawk; it is simply wise,’ said Zellaby, and proceeded to steer the conversation on to more general lines.
*
My intention had been to look in on the Leebodys and one or two others, but by the time we got up to leave it was clear that, unless we were going to be back in London much later than we had intended, any further calls would have to be postponed until another visit.
I did not know how Bernard felt when we had made our farewells and were running down the drive – he had, in fact, talked very little since we had reached the village, and revealed scarcely anything of his own views – but, for my part, I had a pleasantly relaxing sensation of being on my way back to the normal world. Midwich values gave a feeling of having only a finger-tip touch with reality. One had a sense of being several stages in the rear. While I was back at the difficulties of reconciling myself to the Children’s existence, and boggling at what I was told of them, the Zellabys had long ago left all that behind. For them, the improbable element had become submerged. They accepted the Children, and that, for good or ill, they were on their hands; their anxieties now were of a social nature over whether such a modus vivendi as had been contrived was going to collapse. The sense of uneasiness which I had caught from the tension in the Village Hall had been with me ever since.
Nor, I think, was Bernard unaffected by it. I had the impression that he drove with more than usual caution through the village and past the scene of the Pawle boy’s accident. He began to increase his speed a little as we rounded the corner on to the Oppley Road, and then we caught sight of four figures approaching. Even at a distance they were unmistakably a quartet of the Children. On an impulse I said:
‘Will you pull up, Bernard? I’d like the chance of a better look at them.’
He slowed again, and we came to a stop almost at the foot of Hickham Lane.
The Children came on towards us. There was a touch of institutionalism in their dress – the boys in blue cotton shirts and grey flannel trousers, the girls in short, pleated grey skirts and pale yellow shirts. So far I had only set eyes on the pair outside the Hall, and seen little of them but a glimpse of their faces, and then their backs.
As they approached I found the likeness between them even greater than I had expected. All four had the same browned complexions. The curious lucency of the skin that had been noticeable in them as babies had been greatly subdued by the sunburn, yet enough trace of it remained to attract one’s notice. They shared the same dark-golden hair, straight, narrow noses, and rather small mouths. The way the eyes were set was perhaps more responsible than anything for a suggestion of ‘foreigners’, but it was an abstract foreignness, not calling to mind any particular race, or region. I could not see anything to distinguish one boy from the other; and, indeed, I doubted whether, had it not been for the cut of the hair, I could have told the boys’ faces from the girls’, with certainty.
Soon I was able to see the eyes themselves. I had forgotten how striking they were in the babies, and remembered them as yellow. But they were more than that: they had a quality of glowing gold. Strange indeed, but, if one could disregard the strangeness, with a singular beauty. They looked like living, semi-precious stones.
I went on watching, fascinated, as they drew level with us. They took no more notice of us than to give the car a brief, unembarrassed glance, and then turned into Hickham Lane.
At close quarters I found them disturbing in a way I could not quite account for, but it became less surprising to me that a number of the village homes had been unprotestingly willing for them to go and live at The Grange.
We watched them a few yards up the lane, then Bernard reached for the starter.
A sudden explosion close by made us both jump. I jerked my head round just in time to see one of the boys collapse, and fall face down on the road. The other three Children stood petrified …
Bernard opened the door, and started to get out. The standing boy turned, and looked at us. His golden eyes were hard, and bright. I felt as if a sudden gust of confusion and weakness were sweeping through me … Then the boy’s eyes left ours, and his head turned further.