Authors: Stephen Curran
“I cannot say what you heard, Miss Morley, but I can assure you the voices did not originate from my room. I was sound asleep before eleven thirty, much as usual, and heard nothing.”
“I thought it best to make sure.”
“Someone must have been talking on the square. It is normal to hear activity there after dark: people coming home from the theatre, that kind of thing. I have been woken by it myself on occasion.”
“Well, I thought it best. Never mind.”
“Or perhaps you were dreaming. This is equally possible. Now, please bring me a pot of green tea. I have a good deal of work I intend to complete tonight and I have lost enough time already.”
“Certainly, Doctor Renfield. If you want those trousers mending remember to leave them out for me.”
After she had brought up my drink and returned to the ground floor I changed my clothes - careful to keep from touching what was left of the revolting stain - and took them out to soak. Returning to my room I felt compelled to sit on the edge of the bed. My heart was racing. Putting my hands to my face I closed my eyes, feeling the bandage press against my cheek. Before long the strong, chestnut-like aroma of the green tea penetrated the gaps between my fingers. Finding it suddenly repellent I carried the pot to the bathroom where my trousers lay submerged and poured the steaming liquid down the sink.
Flying Ants
I had taken a bench on the Broad Walk in Regent's Park, opposite the fountains where I first set eyes on the lady with the runaway parasol. It was early in the day – the park gates had only recently been unlocked – and the air was cool and still. By my side the flowerbeds were dense with irises.
We had seen each other on numerous occasions since the day we first met, acknowledging one another with a simple nod of the head or a smile, then later with a familiar 'good morning'. Her cordiality helped convince me that my attempt to rescue her parasol had been welcome, and my blunderous balancing act had not made me appear too foolish.
These encounters caused me to ponder the nature of her relationship with the child in the pram. At first I naturally assumed she was its mother but the more I thought about it the more convinced I became she must be its nanny. If she wore a wedding band, for example, I had failed to notice it. In order to resolve the mystery I determined to check her ring finger next time we met.
A sparrow settled amongst the flowers. Keeping quite still I watched it pecking through the soil, skipping and fluttering about. My hand throbbed. Despite my regular attentions the wound refused to heal. It would soon be necessary to visit the chemist to replenish my supply of lint.
Listening to the bees murmur drowsily between the blooms my mind began to wander, as it was recently prone to do. The sounds and smells of spring had once again brought forth memories of my childhood trips to the old bridge.
Although we didn't know it at the time it was our final summer together. I had changed a good deal since the year before, the natural ageing process and my commitment to out-of-door sports having made me physically robust, expanding my chest and giving me powerful, muscular limbs. People frequently mistook me to be much older than I actually was: I was easily the tallest boy in my school. Greeting me at the end of my driveway Oscar patted my back and remarked that living with Uncle Patrick was clearly having a positive influence on me. If Magdalene noticed my improved physique she made no comment, merely smiling quietly from her seat.
Patrick Renfield's enthusiasm for athletic pursuits was well known around the county, even after his sudden decline in health. Before his wife's death he had been a champion of the Volunteer movement, putting his every effort into promoting public sports with such enthusiasm his name was even painted above the door of the local drill-shed. It was his firm belief that a game of football or cricket was conducive not only to physical well-being but also moral health. A man's body was a gift from God, intended to be trained to its highest ability, for use as tool in the protection of the weak and the advance of religious causes.
The rapidity with which he passed into the state of a chronic invalid dismayed everyone who witnessed it. I had been under his care for a mere two months when a night spent under the stars during a weekend walking expedition triggered a near fatal attack of rheumatic fever from which was never to recover. Confined to his home he found himself no longer able to set an example to Yorkshire's sporting youth, reduced to wondering the corridors of his home in his dressing gown and cane, his body withering and his vitality lost. It was fortunate that I arrived in his life in time to provide a focus for his passions, giving him someone to coach and encourage. I believe we both benefited from the relationship, even if I occasionally felt he was driving me too fiercely.
Although the activity had begun to feel childish, Magdalene and I still checked off the journey’s familiar landmarks as they passed by: the valley, the post box, the row of shops. That morning the whitewashed cottages reflected the dazzling and all-pervading sunlight so vividly it was necessary to squint to look at them. It was I who first noticed the flying ants, when one flew through the gap in the window and landed on my shirt cuff. I held it up to my face to examine it more closely. It moved around on the landscape of white cotton, testing the surface with its tiny legs. That ants even possessed wings was a revelation to me.
Oscar explained, in that distracted way of his, tugging his beard as if his mind was on higher things: “Some are winged, most are not. The winged ants remain inside the parent colony for almost all of their lives, which is why they're not a familiar sight.”
Now we had spotted one flying ant we saw them everywhere, tiny specks darting through the summer air, swarming at intervals along the road. Considering myself an expert in matters entomological, it was humiliating to have this crucial gap in my knowledge exposed. My companions, I decided, must think me laughably ignorant. I flicked our uninvited passenger back out of the window.
Magdalene asked what they were doing: why had they left the protection of their colonies. Her accent had altered slightly since the previous year - a result of her spending the spring in the Scottish Highlands – and her voice sounded loud in the confines of the carriage.
“In order to mate,” said Oscar.
Instantly my face flushed. It was embarrassing to hear such indelicate matters discussed openly.
“How do they know to launch all at once? It's like magic.”
“I'm sorry to admit I have no idea. Something to do with weather conditions, perhaps. After all, they couldn't very well fly about in the rain, could they? I'll endeavour to find out and let you know. Even better: why don't you find out and tell me?”
Soon we had disembarked and were strolling across the grassy field towards the bridge, the occasional ant flying past us or landing on our clothes. The weather was perfect, the sky was bright and cloudless and the air agreeably fresh. With a flourish Oscar unfurled his woollen blanket.
A delightful afternoon passed, taken up with us throwing a ball around and exploring the outer reaches of the field. Sitting with his legs crossed Magdalene's father read to us from Coleridge's
To the River Otter.
Finally dusk fell and the sky turned orange and purple then dark blue. Oscar, packing up the remains of the picnic ready for our departure, explained that on such nights, when the moon was shining with particular intensity, there was an observable increase in spiritual activity: hysterics became agitated, dreams became more vivid, those with a tendency towards nervousness found themselves upset and confused.
“Its influence on living things should not be underestimated. Did you know that many plants and vegetables grow more quickly when the moon is at its fullest? Cucumbers, leeks, radishes: they all seem to draw sustenance from the rays. Not onions, though. I don't know why.”
As I stood admiring the bright white disc I was surprised by a black object flashing by at great speed some twenty yards away. I insisted my companions stop loading the hamper so they could watch. Another shape darted in the opposite direction, cutting a swift arc over the bridge.
“Bats,” exclaimed Oscar. “They must be picking off the last of the ants.”
It was impossible to say how many there were in total: they were too fast to count. All we could do, we agreed, was select a spot on which to focus our gaze and wait for them to flit by. At times it seemed as if many dozens were criss-crossing the sky above us, their wings beating so fast they were almost invisible.
Entranced by this display I was startled to feel Magdalene's hand searching for my own. She was close by my side while her father stood looking away from us on the blanket with his head raised and his hands on his hips. Eagerly I reached out and took hold of it, still looking at the sky despite my immediate loss of interest in the bat's evening feast. Her palm felt soft against my own. After few moments standing like this she leant over, placed her thumb on my chin and kissed my lips, clumsily and quickly so that our teeth knocked together. Resuming her previous position she turned her face upwards as if nothing had happened. Keen to communicate my lack of objection I gave her hand a squeeze.
When she was suitably confident her father was still transfixed by the bats she took the opportunity to turn around and kiss me again, with tenderness this time and risking a few seconds more. I remember thinking her lips were colder than I imagined lips would be and the breath from her nostrils felt strange on my skin.
“Remarkable, no?” said Oscar, looking over his shoulder. Our hands unlocked and Magdalene jumped back, but it was too late. We had been caught.
Making no remark he turned away. A period of strained silence followed as we all watched the bats, then: “Let's pack the rest of this up and get back to the coach, shall we? We don't want to worry your uncle.”
The sparrow launched and suddenly I was back in Regent's Park. Half a worm hung from the tiny bird's beak while the other remained poking up from the soil. Mist from the distant fountains drifted like a procession of phantoms across the promenade. There was still no sign of the nanny.
The park was beginning to fill up, people taking morning strolls or pacing purposefully to work. The previous evening it occurred to me that, now I had exchanged so many greetings with my new acquaintance, failing to strike up a proper conversation might be considered rude. It was for this reason I had arrived in the park so much earlier than usual and taken up my spot on the bench. If she happened to pass my way I would ask how she was and perhaps remark on the prettiness of the baby. Any exchange we shared would not need to be rushed or cut short. Consulting my pocket watch I resolved to stay where I was until it became absolutely necessary for me to leave to catch my train.
Incident of the Letter
THAT night my sleep was once more disturbed, this time not by night terrors or strange hallucinations but by a dream so brightly lit and lifelike I became bewildered, unsure whether I was sleeping or awake.
I imagined myself strolling through the grounds of Devon County Asylum, following the fence along the edge of the neighbouring farmer's field. From the direction of the orchard an indistinct figure approached, pushing a pram through the mud with remarkable ease. As she drew closer I recognised her as the young woman from the park. That she might be here – in a different time and a different place – did not strike me as in any way odd. Once we were close to speak enough she stopped and enquired after my health, suggesting we might stroll together for a while.
Some way down the track she spotted an injured hare by the foot of a wooden stile, twitching strangely and not quite dead. She asked if I thought there was any way we could help.
“No,” I said. “It's time in this world is over.”
“So sad.”
I nodded and we carried on. Shortly we found ourselves approaching the old bridge over the River Esk in Yorkshire. It being a hot day I suggested we take a paddle to cool ourselves off. As we climbed down to the water's edge and removed our footwear I asked her name: “I can't imagine why I never thought to find it out before.”
“How strange! Elise. My name is Elise.”
“It suits you.”
We waded in until the cold water was around our knees. A light breeze shook the trees on the far bank and blossoms spun through the summer air.
“It's been so many years since I was last here,” I said. “I used to come here all the time. I can't think why I stopped. It hasn't changed at all.”
The moment I finished speaking a stunning phosphorescence ignited over the water. Standing in awed silence we watched it slowly drift by. Then suddenly light was building all around us, playing around our bodies and above our heads. Lifting our arms we laughed as it looped and swirled over and under our limbs. Countless shimmering minnows gathered and danced at our feet. Mingling and becoming one with the drifting blossoms the luminescence reflected from the river so dazzlingly I was forced to shut my eyes...
When I woke it was disorienting find myself back in my dreary London bedroom. Taking the dream to be a blessing and a sign I tried to keep it in my mind so I could remember it forever, but by the time I had dressed for work some of the smaller details were already starting to fade. I was sure someone else had been with us, for example, perhaps in the trees beyond the far bank, but I could not remember who.
Miss Morley was waiting for me in the hallway, absent-mindedly wringing her hands: “Is your injury healing, Doctor Renfield?”
I had once again applied fresh bandages but saw no sign of improvement: “It's coming along very well, thank you. Is there something you wanted?”
She jolted, as if emerging from a trance: “Oh, yes. Yes: a letter for you.”
Thanking her I left, waiting until I was on the train before I unsealed the registered envelope. It was from Mrs Utterson.