At half past six we started loading his gear into the car. There seemed to be a great deal of it. Numerous cases containing projector, resistance, amplifier, loud-speaker, a case of films, a tape-recorder so that his words should not be lost, all of them very heavy. By the time we had the lot in, and a stand microphone on top, it began to look as if he were starting on a lengthy safari rather than an evening’s talk.
Zellaby himself hovered round while we were at work, inspected, counted everything over, including the jar of bullseyes, and finally approved. He turned to Angela.
‘I’ve asked Gayford if he’ll drive me up there and help to unload the stuff,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’ He drew her to him, and kissed her.
‘Gordon -‘ she began. ‘Gordon -‘
Still with his left arm round her he caressed her face with his right hand, looking into her eyes. He shook his head, in gentle reproof.
‘But, Gordon, I’m afraid of the Children now … Suppose they – ?’
‘You don’t need to be anxious, my dear. I know what I’m doing,’ he told her.
Then he turned and got into the car, and we drove down the drive, with Angela standing on the steps, looking after us unhappily.
*
It was not entirely without misgiving that I drove up to the front door of The Grange. Nothing in its appearance, however, justified alarm. It was simply a large, rather ugly Victorian house, incongruously flanked by the new, industrial-looking wings that had been built as laboratories in Mr Crimm’s time. The lawn in front of it showed little sign of the battle of a couple of nights before, and though a number of the surrounding bushes had suffered, it was difficult to believe in what had actually taken place.
We had not arrived unobserved. Before I could open the car door to get out, the front door of the house was pulled violently back, and a dozen or more of the Children ran excitedly down the steps with a scattered chorus of ‘Hullo, Mr Zellaby.’ They had the rear doors open in a moment, and two of the boys began to hand things out for the others to carry. Two girls dashed back up the steps with the microphone, and the roller screen, another pounced with a cry of triumph on the jar of bullseyes, and hurried after them.
‘Hi, there,’ said Zellaby anxiously, as they came to the heavier cases, ‘that’s delicate stuff. Go gently with it.’
A boy grinned at him, and lifted out one of the black cases with exaggerated care to hand to another. There was nothing odd or mysterious about the Children now unless it was the suggestion of musical-comedy chorus work given by their similarity. For the first time since my return I was able to appreciate that the Children had ‘a small “c”, too’. Nor was there any doubt at all that Zellaby’s visit was a popular event. I watched him as he stood watching them with a kindly, half-wistful smile. It was impossible to associate the Children, as I saw them now, with danger. I had a confused feeling that these could not be the Children, at all; that the theories, fears, and threats we had discussed must have to do with some other group of Children. It was hard indeed to credit them with the deliquium of the vigorous Chief Constable that had shaken Bernard so badly. All but impossible to believe that they could have issued an ultimatum which was being taken seriously enough to be carried to the highest levels.
‘I hope there’ll be a good attendance,’ Zellaby said, in half-question.
‘Oh, yes, Mr Zellaby,’ one of the boys assured him. ‘Everybody – except Wilfred, of course. He’s in the sick-room.’
‘Oh, yes. How is he?’ Zellaby asked.
‘His back hurts still, but they’ve got all the pellets out, and the doctor says he’ll be quite all right,’ said the boy.
My feeling of schism went on increasing. I was finding it harder every moment to believe that we had not all of us been somehow deluded by a sweeping misunderstanding about the Children, and incredible that the Zellaby who stood beside me could be the same Zellaby who had spoken that morning of ‘grim, primeval danger’.
The last of the cases was lifted out of the car. I remembered that it had been in the car already when we loaded the rest. It was evidently heavy, because two of the boys carried it between them. Zellaby watched them up the steps a little anxiously, and then turned to me.
‘Thank you very much for your help,’ he said, as though dismissing me.
I was disappointed. This new aspect of the Children fascinated me; I had decided I would like to attend his talk, and study them when they were all relaxed, all together, and being children with a small ‘c’. Zellaby caught my expression.
‘I would ask you to join us,’ he explained. ‘But I must confess that Angela is considerably in my thoughts this evening. She is anxious, you know. She has always been uneasy about the Children, and these last few days have upset her more than she shows. She would, I think, be the better for company this evening. I was rather hoping that you, my dear fellow … It would be a great kindness …’
‘But of course,’ I told him. ‘How inconsiderate of me not to have thought of it. Of course.’ What else could one say?
He smiled, and held out his hand.
‘Excellent. I am most grateful, my dear fellow. I’m sure I can rely on you.’
Then he turned to three or four of the Children who still hovered near, and beamed on them.
‘They’ll be getting impatient,’ he remarked. ‘Lead on, Priscilla.’
‘I’m Helen, Mr Zellaby,’ she told him.
‘Ah, well. Never mind. Come along, my dear,’ said Zellaby, and they went up the steps together.
*
I got back into the car and drove off unhurriedly. On the way through the village I noticed that The Scythe and Stone seemed to be doing well, and was tempted to pause there to find out how local feeling was running now, but, with Zellaby’s request in mind, I resisted, and kept going. In the Kyle Manor drive I turned the car round and left it standing, ready to fetch him back later on, and went in.
In the main sitting-room Angela was sitting in front of the open windows, with the radio playing a Haydn quartet. She turned her head as I came in, and at the sight of her face I was glad Zellaby had asked me to come back.
‘An enthusiastic welcome,’ I told her, in answer to her unspoken question. ‘For all I could tell they might – apart from the bewildering feeling that one was seeing multiple – have been a crowd of decent schoolchildren anywhere. I’ve no doubt he’s right when he says they trust him.’
‘Perhaps,’ she allowed, ‘but I don’t trust them. I don’t think I have, ever since the time they forced their mothers back here. I managed not to let it worry me much until they killed Jim Pawle, but ever since then I’ve been afraid of them. Thank goodness I packed Michael off at once … There’s no telling what they might do at any time. Even Gordon admits that they are nervous and panicky. It’s nonsense for us to go on staying here, with our lives at the mercy of any childish fright or temper that comes over them …
‘Can you see anybody taking Colonel Westcott’s “ultimatum” seriously? I can’t. That means that the Children will have to do something to show that they must be listened to; they’ve got to convince important, hard-headed, and thick-headed people, and goodness knows how they may decide to do that. After what’s happened already, I’m frightened – I really am … They just don’t care what becomes of any of us …’
‘It wouldn’t do much good their making their demonstration here,’ I tried to console her. ‘They’ll have to do it where it counts. Go up to London with Bernard, as they threatened. If they treat a few big-wigs there as they treated the Chief Constable -‘
I broke off, interrupted by a bright flash, like lightning, and a sharp tremor that shook the house.
‘What – ?’ I began. But I got no further.
The blast that blew in through the open window almost carried me off my feet. The noise came, too, in a great, turbulent, shattering breaker of sound, while the house seemed to rock about us.
The overwhelming crash was followed by a clatter and tinkle of things falling, and then by an utter silence.
Without any conscious purpose I ran past Angela, huddled in her chair, through the open french windows, out on to the lawn. The sky was full of leaves torn from the trees, and still fluttering down. I turned, and looked at the house. Two great swatches of creeper had been pulled from the wall, and hung raggedly down. Every window in the west front gaped blankly back at me, without a pane of glass left. I looked the other way again, and through and above the trees there was a white and red glare. I had not a moment’s doubt what it meant …