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‘Chris! Christine, where are you? Chris! Chris!’ Sometimes even now I hear my own voice of the past screaming through the cold house. ‘Christine! Chris! Where are you? Answer me! Chrrriiiiiss!’ Then: ‘Harry! Don’t take her away! Come back! Harry! Harry!’
Demented, I rushed out into the garden. The sun struck me like a hot blade. The roses glared whitely. The air was so still I seemed to stand in timelessness, placelessness. For a moment, I seemed very near to Christine, although I couldn’t see her. Then the roses danced before my eyes and turned red. The world turned red. Blood red. Wet red. I fell through redness to blackness to nothingness – to almost death.
For weeks I was in bed with sunstroke which turned to brain fever. During that time Jim and the police searched for Christine in vain. The futile search continued for months. The papers were full of the strange disappearance of the red-haired child. The teacher described the ‘brother’ who had called for her. There were newspaper stories of kidnapping, baby-snatching, child-murders.
Then the sensation died down. Just another unsolved mystery in police files.
And only two people knew what had happened. An old crazed woman living in a derelict house, and myself.
Years have passed. But I walk in fear.
Such ordinary things make me afraid. Sunshine. Sharp shadows on grass. White roses. Children with red hair. And the name – Harry. Such an ordinary name!
The Corner Shop
by Cynthia Asquith
Peter Wood’s executors found their task a very easy one. He had left his affairs in perfect order. The only surprise yielded by his methodical writing-table was a sealed envelope on which was written: ‘Not wishing to be bothered by well-meaning Research Societies, I have never shown the enclosed to anyone, but after my death all are welcome to read what, to the best of my knowledge, is a true story.’
The manuscript which bore a date three years previous to the death of the writer was as follows.
‘I have long wished to record an experience of my youth. I won’t attempt any explanations. I draw no conclusions. I merely narrate certain events.
‘One foggy evening, at the end of a day of enforced idleness in my chambers – I had just been called to the Bar – I was rather dejectedly walking back to my lodgings when my attention was drawn to the brightly lit window of a shop. Seeing the word “Antiques” on its sign-board, and remembering that I owed a wedding present to a lover of bric-à-brac, I grasped the handle of the green door. Opening with one of those cheerful jingle-jangle bells, it admitted me into large rambling premises, thickly crowded with all the traditional treasure and trash of a curiosity shop. Suits of armour, warming-pans, cracked, misted mirrors, church vestments, spinning-wheels, brass kettles, chandeliers, gongs, chess-men – furniture of every size and every period. Despite all the clutter, there was none of the dusty gloom one associates with such collections. Far from being dingy, the room was brightly lit and a crackling fire leaped up the chimney. In fact, the atmosphere was so warm and cheerful that after the cold dank fog outside it struck me as most agreeable.
‘At my entrance, a young woman and a girl – by their resemblance obviously sisters – rose from armchairs. Bright, bustling, gaily dressed, they were curiously unlike the type of people who usually preside over such wares. A flower or a cakeshop would have seemed a far more appropriate setting. Inwardly awarding them high marks for keeping the place so clean, I wished the sisters good evening. Their smiling faces and easy manners made a very pleasant impression on me; but though they were most obliging in showing me all their treasures and displayed considerable knowledge as well as appreciation, they seemed wholly indifferent as to whether or not I made any purchase.
‘I found a small piece of Sheffield plate very moderately priced and decided that this was the very present for my friend. Explaining that I was without sufficient cash, I asked the elder sister if she would take a cheque.
‘ “Certainly,” she answered, briskly producing pen and ink. “Will you please make it out to the ‘Corner Curio Shop’?”
‘It was with conscious reluctance that I left the cheerful precincts and plunged back into the saffron fog.
‘ “Good evening, sir. Always pleased to see you at any time,” rang out the elder sister’s pleasant voice, a voice
so engaging that I left almost with a sense of having made a friend.
‘I suppose it must have been a week later that, as I walked home one bitter cold evening – fine powdery snow brushing against my face, a cutting wind lashing down the streets – I remembered the welcoming warmth of the cheerful Corner Shop, and decided to revisit it. I found myself to be in the very street, and there – yes! – there was the very corner.
‘It was with a sense of disappointment out of all proportion to the event, that I found the shop wore that baffling, shut-eyed appearance, and read the uncompromising word CLOSED.
‘An icy gust of wind whistled round the corner; my wet trousers flapped dismally against my chapped ankles. Longing for the warmth and glow within, I felt annoyingly thwarted. Rather childishly – for I was certain the door was locked – I grasped the handle and shook it. To my surprise it turned in my hand, but not in answer to its pressure. The door was opened from within, and I found myself looking into the dimly lit countenance of a very old and extremely frail-looking little man.
‘ “Please to come in, sir,” said a gentle, rather tremulous voice, and feeble footsteps shuffled away ahead of me.
‘It is impossible to describe the altered aspect of the place. I suppose the electric light had fused, for the darkness of the large room was thinned only by two guttering candles, and in their wavering light, dark shapes of furniture, formerly brightly lit, now loomed towering and mysterious, casting weird, almost menacing shadows. The fire was out. Only one faintly glowing ember told that any had lately been alive. Other evidence there was none, for the grim cold of the atmosphere was such as I had never experienced. The phrase “it struck chill” is laughably inadequate. In retrospect the street seemed almost agreeable. At least its biting cold there had been bracing. One way and another the atmosphere of the shop was now as gloomy as it had been bright before. I felt a strong impulse to leave at once, but the surrounding darkness thinned, and I saw the old man busily lighting candles here and there.
‘ “Anything I can show you, sir?” he quavered, approaching, taper in hand. I now saw him comparatively distinctly. His appearance made an indescribable impression on me. As I stared, Rembrandt flitted through my mind. Who else could have given any idea of the weird shadows on that ravaged face? Tired is a word we use lightly. Never before had I known what it might mean. Such ineffable, patient weariness! Deep sunk in his withered face, the eyes seemed as extinct as the fire. And the wan frailty of the small tremulous bent frame!
‘The words “dust and ashes, dust and ashes,” strayed through my brain.
‘On my first visit, I had, you may remember, been surprised by the uncharacteristic cleanliness of the place. The queer fancy now struck me that this old man was like an accumulation of all the dust one might have expected to find distributed over such premises. In truth, he looked scarcely more solid than a mere conglomeration of dust and cobwebs that might be dispersed at a breath or a touch.
‘What a fantastic old creature to be employed by those well-to-do looking girls! He must, I thought, be some old retainer kept on out of charity.
‘ “Anything I can show you, sir?” repeated the old man. His voice had little more body than the tearing of a cobweb; but there was a curious, almost pleading insistence in it, and his eyes were fixed on me in a wan yet devouring stare. I wanted to leave, yes at once. The mere proximity of the poor old man distressed me – made me feel wretchedly dispirited; none the less, involuntarily murmuring, “Thank you, I’ll look round,” I found myself following his frail form, and absent-mindedly inspecting various objects temporarily illuminated by his trembling taper.
‘The chill silence broken only by the tired shuffle of his carpet slippers got on my nerves.
