Eve of Infinity

© Tony Holkham 1971

The Manor was ugly. When approached from the East Drive it appeared, as it stood on the top of the hill which was always bare of trees, as a body, the dead body, of some old and fat man. The towers of the North Wing were his feet, the main part of the house was his paunch and the West Wing, which was newer than the remainder of the structure, represented the sunken face, the silhouette of the clock tower looking more like a nose than most human noses.

A young dog fox strutted proudly across the lawn in front of the West Wing, leaned back on his haunches and breathed in a lungful of cool night air. Then, with nostrils flared and head to the stars, he emitted a series of sharp barks, audible from a gret distance in the stillness. There was no reply. It was spring and so, in his own way, he was puzzled. It upset his instincts, for there should have been an answer. He repeated the call, but the only answer that came was the muffled hoot of the tawny owl from the direction of the farms that nestled in the valley, far below. The fox stood up and shook himself, his bushy coat spraying hair in all directions, and trotted across the lawn and down the sloping path that led to the river, and his winter quarters.

Three hours later, when the fox was fast asleep in his burrow, and the owl was tucking his beak into his ruffled chest feathers, the day dawned on a different world. This world was the world of light, of clear sounds and music and, occasionally, laughter. The shadows appeared as the sun crept up to turn the water from the fountain into a myriad diamonds cascading into the pond, there to float upon the surface. Little Jane, sleepy-eyed, still in her nightgown and clutching an almost bald teddy bear, strode into her parents' bedroom and announced that she had heard the same noises during the night that she had heard the previous week. She knew what it was - the 'woron' - but it still disturbed her, and her teddy bear, too. She was a little indignant, and complained, to no one in particular, that her Daddy ought to do something about it - at least to tell it to be a little more quiet. She wished, as she told her bear, that she had seen the 'woron' so that she could have told it herself, but it only seemed to come out at night while she was in bed, like the silly old fox that had barked again last night. She decided that if she heard 'foxy' barking again she would tell him about Mr West, who had shot the vixen. Mr West, from the farm in the valley, had shot the vixen three weeks previously, because she had tried to steal a chicken. Mr West's chickens were dying frequently enough, without the vixen wanting to kill more, Jane's father had told her, but he did not tell Jane why they were dying.

It was eight o'clock on a sunny Sunday morning. The house began to stir, as the clocks struck at different times during the next few minutes thoughout the house. John Baldwin got out of bed and went to the window as he did every morning. He looked across the lawn and down the valley, at the cottages and small nests of buildings around them. A few of the cottages had thin wisps of smoke rising from their chimney pots and it reassured him. Jane, clutching her teddy bear with one hand and rubbing her eyes with the other, joined him and took in the well-known view at a glance.

"The Browns aren't up this morning, Daddy," she said. "No, chicken." "Nor Uncle George." Uncle George was an old man who worked at the Manor, cutting the lawns, weeding the rose beds and sawing logs for the winter store. "But Uncle George never gets up until lunchtime on Sundays. You go and get dressed now." "All right." She trotted off, leaving the door open, her bare feet padding away across the landing. "Shut the door, Jane." "Sorry." She came back and did as she was told. Baldwin turned and smiled at her as she reached up to the big door handle. She grasped it and walked away, dragging the heavy door with her until it latched with a loud bang. He was going to call out and scold her for making such a loud noise as to wake her mother, but refrained when he heard a voice from the direction of the bed.

Eileen Baldwin heaved herself up on to her elbows. "Did you say the Browns?" "Yes, love. The Browns." "Oh, dear. I must go down in a minute." "I don't think you need hurry. Have some breakfast first. "Yes, I suppose you're right." She got out of bed and went to the bowl in the opposite corner of the bedroom, ran a little cold water in it and washed her face. She then dressed herself, quickly and quietly, and went out of the room past him, touching him on the shoulder as she went by. She said nothing, but the small gesture warmed him and he suddenly saw the sunshine outside in a different aspect. He saw it not merely as rays of light, but as fingers of warmth and comfort, putting a glow on the eartch as her touch had done to him.

He was still staring out of the window five minutes later when he heard his wife's soft, but firm, voice scolding Jane for not being dressed. He smiled as he heard his daughter stating logically that she had to dress her bear first, as he could not dress himself, and that she would be downstairs by the time the bacon was frizzling. Baldwin heard his wife's silvery laugh and it gave him the strength to turn away from the depressing sight of the Browns' lifeless cottage and apply himself to getting dressed. I too, he thought, will be downstairs by the time the bacon is frizzling.

He was, and so was Jane. He met her at the top of the stairs and they walked down to the kitchen together, hand in hand. Josie, their one and only servant, bent down with an extra special warmness to greet Jane, who ran over and kissed her and wished her good morning. "Hello, little Jane. I'm sorry, but I've got bad news again for you." The little girl's brown eyes moistened slightly, and Josie felt a small, trembling hand grasp her sleeve more tightly as she said the name. "It's Albert." Josie felt near to tears herself, partly in sympathy for the poor animal, and partly because she was a little upset that it was always her who had to tell Jane. Jane felt no grudge against Josie, though, for being the bringer of bad tidings. She was about to cry but, with a visible effort, stopped herself and turned to her father, who looked gravely into her eyes. He knew Jane well enough to be able to anticipate the question, and as she was struggling mentally with the wording of her query, he was forming the answer in his mind. However, as she began to speak, he abandoned his pre-formed answer in favour of telling the truth, as he usually did. "Jenny died on Thursday, William on Friday, Jenny's baby on Saturday - yesterday, and now poor old Albert today. Are they all going to die, Daddy?"

"Yes, chicken, I think so." "But why?" He hesitated. "Because of the war." Jane pondered for a moment, and then made another logical deduction. "Jock's an animal as well. Is he going to die, too?" Her own question seemed to frighten her when she realised the implication of it, and her father bent down to her and put his arms around her shoulders. He looked into her eyes, trying to read what lay behind them. "Yes," he said at last, "I think Jock will die, too. But you mustn't tell him, Jane." "No," she said quietly. "I won't tell him."

She wriggled free from her father's arms and, the tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks, went over to the big, black Labrador who lay in front of the fire, sat down beside him and put her arms fondly round his thick neck, pulling him to her. "I love you, Jock. I love you." So deep was the sincerity with which she said the words that Josie sat heavily in the nearest chair and began to weep, hopelessly. Baldwin put an arm across her trembling shoulders, but could do no more. Even Jock felt the sadness in the air, for he looked up into Jane's face and reassuringly licked it, an almost inaudible whine coming from the back of his throat.

Eileen Baldwin came into the kitchen about a minute later to find Jane still sitting beside the dog, and her husband filling the cups from the big, brown teapot. She saw Josie with her head buried in her hands and went over to her. "Don't cry, Josie, love. I've tried it and it doesn't seem to help much, somehow. Have a cup of tea." She pushed a cup of the steaming liquid towards her. Josie grasped the handle without a word, took a large gulp from it, and put it down again. "I'm not crying for myself," she whispered. "It's Jane. She doesn't understand. The fact that she doesn't understand makes it far worse for her." She sniffed. "Damn the silly, stupid people!" She began to weep again. "I'm sorry. Please excuse me for a moment." Josie left the kitchen. She knew that if she stayed in there she would have had them all in tears, so she ran to her room and cried there. … … …

"Has Mummy gone to the Browns?" Jane, by now, had connected the smokeless cottages with her mother's almost daily visits. "Yes, pet, eat your breakfast now. She won't be long." "I'm not very hungry, Josie, can I leave it, please?" "Eat the bacon, but you can leave the toast, if you like - why aren't you hungry, pet?" "I want to go and see the chickens. And take Jock for a walk, too." Josie, determined not to be upset any more, for Jane's sake, said nothing.

A few moments later, Jane scrambled down from her chair and called over to the dog, who was asleep. "Come along, Jock, going for a walk to see the chickens!" Jock jumped to his feet, and trotted eagerly to the back door. As Jane began to open the door, he pushed forward, smelling the fresh air wafting through the crack. "Wait! I've got to go first. Mummy says you mustn't push, or you'll knock me over." The dog pretended to be downcast by this reprimand, and Josie smiled at the little girl's authoritative manner over the big, black animal who was nearly as tall as her, and at least four times her weight. Jock's hurt look disappeared as soon as Jane was through the door and he bounded out, passed her, and tore madly across the lawn. There he sat on his haunches, in the same place the fox had done the night before, and scratched his right ear with vigour. He got up and bounded across the grass towards Jane, who was laughing at his enthusiastic greeting to the morning, but before he reached her the message that his nose had sent regarding the smell of a fox reached his brain and he stopped dead in a flurry of dew and crocus flowers. He went back and found the smell again after making several wide circles about the spot. Jane, running across the damp grass as fast as her short legs would carry her, caught up with him and grabbed him playfully.

Josie turned from the window as they disappeared round the side of the house, running rings around each other, and began to collect the breakfast plates, all of which contained some left-over food. "She loves that dog so much, daft as he is." Josie turned to look at Jane's father. He was looking out of the window, at Jane and the dog playing on the lawn again. "Oh, they're back." Josie turned back to the sink. "I thought they'd gone to see the chickens." "They did, but I've shut up the house. There's only five left now, and I don't want to upset her any more." … … …

Later, in the evening of that same day, Baldwin and his wife sat round, or rather in front of a blazing log fire in the drawing room. Her head was on his shoulder and his arm held her closely to him; they watched the fire intently as the red sparks flew, with monotonous regularity, up the chimney. It crackled and flared, every now and then, as a log settled in the ashes of its predecessor, giving off a cloud of sparks, as if in protest of being burnt; and every now and then, in between the crackles of the fire, there could be heard soft thuds in the distance. Jane and Josie had both gone to bed, Jane out of sheer tiredness, and Josie because she had a headache. The Baldwins were alone for the first time that day, but they were silent for many minutes. When an extra loud 'thump' came to their ears, he spoke, more to himself than to his wife. "I really don't know why they bother. There surely cannot be any point any more." "Don't let's talk about it, darling." She kissed him on the cheek, and he held her more tightly for a moment, then leaned back his head and closed his eyes. "The trouble is, you can't talk about anything any more without it having something to do with it." He suddenly felt a bitterness, cold and resentful towards those who were doing him a grievous wrong, welling inside him. "When there's no future, you can't talk about it, can you? It's simply a question of…"

"Then let's talk about the past." And so they did. They talked about all the past that they had known together, and even found the strength occasionally to laugh at some fond memory. They talked long into the night, pausing, at intervals, to replenish their wine glasses, or to look into the fire, or to kiss, or just to look into one another's eyes and find a certain amount of peace and comfort in doing so.

In the night, Jane cried out, awakened by some ghastly nightmare. "Jock!" she was shouting at the top of her voice, "Jock, wait!" She went to sleep at last, sobbing quietly in her mother's arms. In the morning, Josie was sick. She lay back in her bed, breathing with difficulty, her face as white as the pillow on which it rested.

Apart from that forewarning of things to come, the day started as usual. Mr West's cottage showed no sign of life, and neither did the Tompkins' at the far end of the valley. Eileen was out for a little longer that morning, and Jane did not eat all of her breakfast.

John Baldwin took his gun with him when he went to look at the chickens, and as 'Uncle' George made his way up the hill towards the Manor, he heard two shots. They met at the front of the house a few minutes later. "Hello, George, just killed the last two chickens. Couldn't stand the way they look at me every morning, waiting for me to come for them." "Know how you feel, John." "What've you been doing over the weekend, then, George?" Baldwin was careful not to ask him how he was. No one did that any more. It was implying a morbid curiosity. Nor did anyone talk about the weather any more; to say that it was a beautiful day implied that it was good to be alive, which was doubtful. "Well, do you know, John, I read a book. Something I haven't done in years. 'Gone with the Wind' it was. Heck of a thing to get through, but I managed to finish it off this morning, over breakfast. What about you?" "Strangely enough, we did something I don't think we've done for years; we sat up half the night and talked, just talked. It's strangely refreshing, you know, sometimes, to just talk."

He hesitated before continuing. "Josie's sick this morning." "Oh, no! Poor old Josie." George called everyone 'old' - Josie was only nineteen. "I must go and see her." "Go ahead, George, take your time, there's not much to do this morning. There was, actually, nothing to do, but George looked at his friend and employer, smiled his sincere thanks, and went into the house. He met Jane at the bottom of the stairs and she seemed pleased to see him. "Hello, Uncle George, have you come to see Josie? She's not very well this morning." "Hello, little Jane. Yes, I've come to see Josie." "I'll take you." She grasped his hand. When they were half way up the stairs, she stopped, looking up into the old man's face. "Jenny's baby died on Saturday, and Albert yesterday, and Mollie and Fred today, Uncle George, and there's only poor little Rupert left, now. He's all on his own, and I feel very sad for him." George bent down to her and took both her hands in his rough ones. "I feel sad too, little Jane, but you mustn't feel too sad, you know; all animals go to Heaven." "And Jock?" "Especially Jock, little Jane. Come on, let's go and see Josie."

A little later, George was alone with Josie. He had asked Jane to go and tell her father that Gorge would be down in a minute to help him with the potatoes. Josie was the bravest person that he knew, braver than anyone he had heard of, even, but he said it just the same, more to reassure himself that he would be brave when his time came, than to reassure her. "Be brave, Josie, be brave, my dear. She took one of his hands and held it tightly. "You're a good man, George, thank you for coming to see me." She managed a smile. "There's room in Heaven for you, George, make sure you be there." "There's room in Heaven for all of us, if we but knew it." He bent down and kissed her cheek. He hadn't kissed many women in his life - just his mother, and one or two girls when he'd been a lad - and he suddenly wished that he were forty years younger; but then it wouldn't have made any difference. "Goodbye, George," said Josie in no more than a whisper, "and good luck.

Two events occurred during the afternoon. The first was Rupert's death, just after lunch. The little hamster, exhausted from running round on his wheel, and pining for his companions, curled up in his bed and went to sleep for ever. It was Jane who found him, but though she said she was sad, her mother prevented her from being too upset by saying that he would actually be happier now, as he would be with his friends and relations in Heaven. "Will I go to Heaven, Mummy?" "If you are good, darling, yes." "Is being sad good?" "Yes, if you are sad truthfully. If you pretend to be sad, that is not being truthful, and not being truthful is not good." I don't know if she understands, thought Eileen Baldwin, but I don't think I can explain it better than that. Jane understood, and it gave her something to think about, which took her mind off her hamsters.

The other thing which happened was that Jane's father told her an outright lie - something which he did not like to do, but which, in this case, was necessary. "Josie's gone to hospital, chicken, for a while. She says she's sorry that she couldn't say goodbye to you, because she's very poorly, but I expect we'll be able to go to see her quite soon." Jane's answer disturbed and surprised him, for he did not know whether she had made a very clever deduction, or whether she just had immortality on her mind at that time. "Will Josie go to Heaven?" "Yes, chicken, I think she will, when God is ready." "Good." She seemed to lose herself in her own private daydream after that, and John Baldwin kept a close eye on her for the rest of the day.

Something seemed to go out of them all on that Monday evening. As George left them, he said to John, "If you don't mind, I'll not come up tomorrow." He had been thinking about what to say all day, but now the time had arrived, the words came easily. It was almost natural for Eileen to kiss him. "We never thank you for all the help you give us." She used the present tense, tactfully, and for Jane's benefit. "We thank you now, from the bottom of our hearts." "And mine, too." "Thank you, little Jane. Goodnight, and sleep well. Say good night to Jock for me." He smiled broadly to her and turned from the doorway to look at John Baldwin, who was standing outside. "I'll walk to the lane with you, George, and tell you about the potatoes."

At the end of the drive, the two men looked up at the evening star, already high in the sky. It was as big and bright as usual. "Three old men saw a star like that once before, John. Do you think there's time for any more miracles?" "That depends if He thinks it's worth it, I suppose." They said no more to each other. They touched each other briefly on the shoulders, and George turned away.

When George had turned the corner, John Baldwin turned and walked slowly back towards the Manor. The silhouette of the Manor - the old, fat, dead man - stayed vividly in his mind until he reached the bright light of the kitchen. "Tonight," he said simply to his wife, while Jane was saying her goodnight to Jock. "Yes." He wiped the dust off the small bottle, unscrewed the cap, and tipped out the five green pills on to the table. He put one back and put the bottle back on to the top shelf of the cupboard. He gave one to Jock, who ate it with relish. "I don't feel very well, Mummy," he heard Jane say, as she and her mother climbed the stairs. "I've got a headache." "I'll give you an aspirin for it, darling."

A few minutes later, they sat on the edge of Jane's bed. Baldwin saw his wife's eyes glistening as a little voice, with sincerity, said, "God bless Josie." "Goodnight, Daddy." They were the last words that she spoke to him, but her heart flew to him across the space between them, and he loved her very much. "Goodnight, chicken." "Goodnight, Mummy." "Goodnight, darling." They left the room just in time. Eileen did not want to disturb the child, and as soon as they had closed the door, she broke down. "They didn't think up a word to describe this feeling." Her eyes were dry, but on her face were etched deep lines of anguish.

The Baldwins did not go to bed. Instead they sat, as they had done the previous night, and talked about the past, and watched the sparks in the fire, and kissed, and drank wine. A little later, they lay back across the sofa for more comfort. The fire was burning down, and the sparks were not so many. He remembered the last words that Jane had said to him. "Goodnight, darling," he said. After a while, she asked if he wanted another log on the fire. He did not answer her. She buried her face in the open neck of his shirt and smile to herself. The fire burned lower, a mass of embers and white ash, the occasional wisp of smoke rising from an extinguished spark. "Goodnight, darling."

Not long before the sun was due to rise, the dog fox, on his starlight round, caught the scent of death in the air and, hesitating for only a moment, he turned and walked slowly back in the direction of the river.

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