Endless Night Read online

  “They come and cadge off you, don’t they? Borrow money off you, want favours. Want you to get them out of jams, that sort of thing. They’re at you, at you, at you!”

  “I suppose it’s quite natural,” said Ellie calmly, “but I’ve done with them all now. I’m coming to live here in England. I shan’t see much of them.”

  She was wrong there, of course, but she hadn’t grasped that fact yet. Stanford Lloyd came over later by himself. He brought a great many documents and papers and things for Ellie to sign and wanted her agreement on investments. He talked to her about investments and shares and property that she owned, and the disposal of trust funds. It was all Double Dutch to me. I couldn’t have helped her or advised her. I couldn’t have stopped Stanford Lloyd from cheating her, either. I hoped he wasn’t, but how could anyone ignorant like myself be sure?

  There was something about Stanford Lloyd that was almost too good to be true. He was a banker, and he looked like a banker. He was rather a handsome man though not young. He was very polite to me and thought dirt of me though he tried not to show it.

  “Well,” I said when he had finally taken his departure, “that’s the last of the bunch.”

  “You didn’t think much of any of them, did you?”

  “I think your stepmother, Cora, is a double-faced bitch if I ever knew one. Sorry, Ellie, perhaps I oughtn’t to say that.”

  “Why not, if that’s what you think? I expect you’re not far wrong.”

  “You must have been lonely, Ellie,” I said.

  “Yes, I was lonely. I knew girls of my own age. I went to a fashionable school but I was never really free. If I made friends with people, somehow or other they’d get me separated, push another girl at me instead. You know? Everything was governed by the social register. If I’d cared enough about anybody to make a fuss—but I never got far enough. There was never anybody I really cared for. Not until Greta came, and then everything was different. For the first time someone was really fond of me. It was wonderful.” Her face softened.

  “I wish,” I said, as I turned away towards the window.

  “What do you wish?”

  “Oh I don’t know…I wish perhaps that you weren’t—weren’t quite so dependent on Greta. It’s a bad thing to be as dependent as that on anyone.”

  “You don’t like her, Mike,” said Ellie.

  “I do,” I protested hurriedly. “Indeed I do. But you must realize, Ellie, that she is—well, she’s quite a stranger to me. I suppose, let’s face it, I’m a bit jealous of her. Jealous because she and you—well, I didn’t understand before—how linked together you were.”

  “Don’t be jealous. She’s the only person who was good to me, who cared about me—till I met you.”

  “But you have met me,” I said, “and you’ve married me.” Then I said again what I’d said before. “And we’re going to live happily ever afterwards.”

  Thirteen

  I’m trying as best I can, though that isn’t saying much, to paint a picture of the people who came into our lives, that is to say: who came into my life because, of course, they were in Ellie’s life already. Our mistake was that we thought they’d go out of Ellie’s life. But they didn’t. They’d no intention of doing so. However, we didn’t know that then.

  The English side of our life was the next thing that happened. Our house was finished, we had a telegram from Santonix. He’d asked us to keep away for about a week, then the telegram came. It said: “Come tomorrow.”

  We drove down there, and we arrived at sunset. Santonix heard the car and came out to meet us, standing in front of the house. When I saw our house, finished, something inside me leaped up, leaped up as though to burst out of my skin! It was my house—and I’d got it at last! I held Ellie’s arm very tight.

  “Like it?” said Santonix.

  “It’s the tops,” I said. A silly thing to say but he knew what I meant.

  “Yes,” he said, “it’s the best thing I’ve done…It’s cost you a mint of money and it’s worth every penny of it. I’ve exceeded my estimates all round. Come on, Mike,” he said, “pick her up and carry her over the threshold. That’s the thing to do when you enter into possession with your bride!”

  I flushed and then I picked up Ellie—she was quite a light weight—and carried her as Santonix had suggested, over the threshold. As I did so, I stumbled just a little and I saw Santonix frown.

  “There you are,” said Santonix, “be good to her, Mike. Take care of her. Don’t let harm come to her. She can’t take care of herself. She thinks she can.”

  “Why should any harm happen to me?” said Ellie.

  “Because it’s a bad world and there are bad people in it,” said Santonix, “and there are some bad people around you, my girl. I know. I’ve seen one or two of them. Seen them down here. They come nosing around, sniffing around like the rats they are. Excuse my French but somebody’s got to say it.”

  “They won’t bother us,” said Ellie, “they’ve all gone back to the States.”

  “Maybe,” said Santonix, “but it’s only a few hours by plane, you know.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders. They were very thin now, very white-looking. He looked terribly ill.

  “I’d look after you myself, child, if I could,” he said, “but I can’t. It won’t be long now. You’ll have to fend for yourself.”

  “Cut out the gipsy’s warning, Santonix,” I said, “and take us round the house. Every inch of it.”

  We went round the house. Some of the rooms were still empty but most of the things we’d bought, pictures and the furniture and the curtains, were there.

  “We haven’t got a name for it,” said Ellie suddenly. “We can’t call it The Towers, that was a ridiclous name. What was the other name for it that you told me once?” she said to me. “Gipsy’s Acre, wasn’t it?”

  “We won’t call it that,” I said sharply. “I don’t like that name.”

  “It’ll always be called that hereabouts,” said Santonix.

  “They’re a lot of silly superstitious people,” I said.

  And then we sat down on the terrace looking at the setting sun and the view, and we thought of names for the house. It was a kind of game. We started quite seriously and then we began to think of every silly name we possibly could. “Journey’s End,” “Heart’s Delight” and names like boarding-houses. “Seaview,” “Fairhome,” “The Pines.” Then suddenly it grew dark and cold, and we went indoors. We didn’t draw the curtains, just closed the windows. We’d brought down provisions with us. On the following day an expensively acquired domestic staff was coming.

  “They’ll probably hate it and say it’s lonely and they’ll all go away,” said Ellie.

  “And then you’ll give them double the money to stay on,” said Santonix.

  “You think,” said Ellie, “that everyone can be bought!” But she only said it laughingly.

  We had brought pâté en croûte with us and French bread and large red prawns. We sat round the table laughing and eating and talking. Even Santonix looked strong and animated, and there was a kind of wild excitement in his eyes.

  And then it happened suddenly. A stone crashed in through the window and dropped on the table. Smashed a wineglass too, and a sliver of glass slit Ellie’s cheek. For a moment we sat paralysed, then I sprang up, rushed to the window, unbolted it and went out on the terrace. There was no one to be seen. I came back into the room again.

  I picked up a paper napkin and bent over Ellie, wiping away a trickle of blood I saw coursing down her cheek.

  “It’s hurt you…There, dear, it’s nothing much. It’s just a wee cut from a sliver of glass.”

  My eyes met those of Santonix.

  “Why did anyone do it?” said Ellie. She looked bewildered.

  “Boys,” I said, “you know, young hooligans. They knew, perhaps, we were settling in. I dare say you were lucky that they only threw a stone. They might have had an air gun or something like that.”

/>   “But why should they do it to us? Why?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Just beastliness.”

  Ellie got up suddenly. She said:

  “I’m frightened. I’m afraid.”

  “We’ll find out tomorrow,” I said. “We don’t know enough about the people round here.”

  “Is it because we’re rich and they’re poor?” said Ellie. She asked it not of me but of Santonix as though he would know the answer to the question better than I did.

  “No,” said Santonix slowly, “I don’t think it’s that….”

  Ellie said:

  “It’s because they hate us…Hate Mike and hate me. Why? Because we’re happy?”

  Again Santonix shook his head.

  “No,” Ellie said, as though she were agreeing with him, “no, it’s something else. Something we don’t know about. Gipsy’s Acre. Anyone who lives here is going to be hated. Going to be persecuted. Perhaps they will succeed in the end in driving us away….”

  I poured out a glass of wine and gave it to her.

  “Don’t, Ellie,” I begged her. “Don’t say such things. Drink this. It’s a nasty thing to happen, but it was only silliness, crude horseplay.”

  “I wonder,” said Ellie, “I wonder…” She looked hard at me. “Somebody is trying to drive us away, Mike. To drive us away from the house we’ve built, the house we love.”

  “We won’t let them drive us away,” I said. I added, “I’ll take care of you. Nothing shall hurt you.”

  She looked again at Santonix.

  “You should know,” she said, “you’ve been here while the house was building. Didn’t anyone ever say anything to you? Come and throw stones—interfere with the building of the house?”

  “One can imagine things,” said Santonix.

  “There were accidents, then?”

  “There are always a few accidents in the building of a house. Nothing serious or tragic. A man falls off a ladder, someone drops a load on his foot, someone gets a splinter in his thumb and it goes septic.”

  “Nothing more than that? Nothing that might have been meant?”

  “No,” said Santonix, “no. I swear to you, no!”

  Ellie turned to me.

  “You remember that gipsy woman, Mike. How queer she was that day, how she warned me not to come here.”

  “She’s just a bit crazy, a bit off her head.”

  “We’ve built on Gipsy’s Acre,” said Ellie. “We’ve done what she told us not to do.” Then she stamped her foot. “I won’t let them drive me away. I won’t let anyone drive me away!”

  “Nobody shall drive us away,” I said. “We’re going to be happy here.”

  We said it like a challenge to fate.

  Fourteen

  That’s how our life began at Gipsy’s Acre. We didn’t find another name for the house. That first evening fixed Gipsy’s Acre in our heads.

  “We’ll call it Gipsy’s Acre,” said Ellie, “just to show! A kind of challenge, don’t you think? It’s our Acre, and to hell with the gipsy’s warning.”

  She was her old gay self again the next day and soon we were busy getting ourselves settled in, and getting also to know the neighbourhood and the neighbours. Ellie and I walked down to the cottage where the gipsy woman lived. I felt it would be a good thing if we found her digging in her garden. The only time Ellie had seen her before was when she told our fortunes. If Ellie saw she was just an ordinary old woman—digging up potatoes—but we didn’t see her. The cottage was shut up. I asked if she were dead but the neighbour I asked shook her head.

  “She must have gone away,” she said. “She goes away from time to time, you know. She’s a gipsy really. That’s why she can’t stay in houses. She wanders away and comes back again.” She tapped her forehead. “Not quite right up here.”

  Presently she said, trying to mask curiosity, “You’ve come from the new house up there, haven’t you, the one on the top of the hill, that’s just been built?”

  “That’s right,” I said, “we moved in last night.”

  “Wonderful-looking place it is,” she said. “We’ve all been up to look at it while it was building. Makes a difference, doesn’t it, seeing a house like that where all those gloomy trees used to be?” She said to Ellie rather shyly, “You’re an American lady, aren’t you, so we heard?”

  “Yes,” said Ellie, “I’m American—or I was, but now I’m married to an Englishman so I’m an Englishwoman.”

  “And you’ve come here to settle down and live, haven’t you?”

  We said we had.

  “Well, I hope you’ll like it, I’m sure.” She sounded doubtful.

  “Why shouldn’t we?”

  “Oh well, it’s lonely up there, you know. People don’t always like living in a lonely place among a lot of trees.”

  “Gipsy’s Acre,” said Ellie.

  “Ah, you know the local name, do you? But the house that was there before was called The Towers. I don’t know why. It hadn’t any towers, at least not in my time.”

  “I think The Towers is a silly name,” said Ellie. “I think we’ll go on calling it Gipsy’s Acre.”

  “We’ll have to tell the post office if so,” I said, “or we shan’t get any letters.”

  “No, I suppose we shan’t.”

  “Though when I come to think of it,” I said, “would that matter, Ellie? Wouldn’t it be much nicer if we didn’t get any letters?”

  “It might cause a lot of complications,” said Ellie. “We shouldn’t even get our bills.”

  “That would be a splendid idea,” I said.

  “No, it wouldn’t,” said Ellie. “Bailiffs would come in and camp there. Anyway,” she said, “I wouldn’t like not to get any letters. I’d want to hear from Greta.”

  “Never mind Greta,” I said. “Let’s go on exploring.”

  So we explored Kingston Bishop. It was a nice village, nice people in the shops. There was nothing sinister about the place. Our domestic help didn’t take to it much, but we soon arranged that hired cars should take them into the nearest seaside town or into Market Chadwell on their days out. They were not enthusiastic about the location of the house, but it was not superstition that worried them. I pointed out to Ellie nobody could say the house was haunted because it had been just built.

  “No,” Ellie agreed, “it’s not the house. There’s nothing wrong with the house. It’s outside. It’s that road where it curves round through the trees and that bit of rather gloomy wood where that woman stood and made me jump so that day.”

  “Well, next year,” I said, “we might cut down those trees and plant a lot of rhododendrons or something like that.”

  We went on making plans.

  Greta came and stayed with us for a weekend. She was enthusiastic about the house, and congratulated us on all our furnishings and pictures and colour schemes. She was very tactful. After the weekend she said she wouldn’t disturb the honeymooners any longer, and anyway she’d got to get back to her job.

  Ellie enjoyed showing her the house. I could see how fond Ellie was of her. I tried to behave very sensibly and pleasantly but I was glad when Greta went back to London, because her staying there had been a strain on me.

  When we’d been there a couple of weeks we were accepted locally and made the acquaintance of God. He came one afternoon to call upon us. Ellie and I were arguing about where we’d have a flower border when our correct, to me slightly phoney-looking, manservant came out from the house to announce that Major Phillpot was in the drawing room. It was then that I said in a whisper to Ellie: “God!” Ellie asked me what I meant.

  “Well, the locals treat him like that,” I said.

  So we went in and there was Major Phillpot. He was just a pleasant, nondescript man of close on sixty. He was wearing country clothes, rather shabby, he had grey hair going a little thin on top and a short bristly moustache. He apologized for his wife not being able to come and call on us. She was something of an invalid, he said. He
sat down and chatted with us. Nothing he said was remarkable or particularly interesting. He had the knack of making people feel at their ease. He touched quite lightly on a variety of subjects. He didn’t ask any direct questions, but he soon got it into his head where our particular interests lay. He talked to me about racing and to Ellie about making a garden and what things did well in this particular soil. He had been to the States once or twice. He found out that though Ellie didn’t care much for race meetings, she was fond of riding. He told her that if she was going to keep horses she could go up a particular track through the pine woods and she would come out on a good stretch of moor where she could have a gallop. Then we came to the subject of our house and the stories about Gipsy’s Acre.

  “I see you know the local name,” he said, “and all the local superstitions, too, I expect.”

  “Gipsies’ warnings in profusion,” I said. “Far too many of them. Mostly old Mrs. Lee.”

  “Oh dear,” said Phillpot. “Poor old Esther: she’s been a nuisance, has she?”

  “Is she a bit dotty?” I asked.

  “Not so much as she likes to make out. I feel more or less responsible for her. I settled her in that cottage,” he said, “not that she’s grateful for it. I’m fond of the old thing though she can be a nuisance sometimes.”

  “Fortune-telling?”

  “No, not particularly. Why, has she told your fortune?”

  “I don’t know if you can call it a fortune,” said Ellie. “It was more a warning to us against coming here.”

  “That seems rather odd to me.” Major Phillpot’s rather bristly eyebrows rose. “She’s usually got a honeyed tongue in fortunes. Handsome stranger, marriage bells, six children and a heap of good fortune and money in your hand, pretty lady.” He imitated rather unexpectedly the gipsy whine of her voice. “The gipsies used to camp here a lot when I was a boy,” he said. “I suppose I got fond of them then, though they were a thieving lot, of course. But I’ve always been attracted to them. As long as you don’t expect them to be law-abiding, they’re all right. Many a tin mug of gipsy stew I’ve had as a schoolboy. We felt the family owed Mrs. Lee something, she saved the life of a brother of mine when he was a child. Fished him out of a pond when he’d gone through the ice.”