Джон Пристли - Benighted

"Tell me, Philip," Margaret said, "why these lights are so jumpy. They're getting on my nerves. They make everything look so unreal."

"Evidently they make their own light here," he told her, pleasantly matter-of-fact. "And there's something wrong with the batteries or the wiring. You can't be surprised, a night like this, whatever they do. So don't be alarmed if they go out altogether."

Margaret nodded in silence. The thought of being left in total darkness filled her mind. Her skin tightened and shrank again from a clammy touch. If those lights did go out, she wouldn't move a yard from the fire and Philip until morning.

Mr. Femm, who had exchanged a remark with Penderel, now remembered his duties as a host and stretched a hand towards the dish of potatoes.

"Stop!" screamed his sister, making them all jump. "What are you doing? We're not all heathens."

He brought back his hand, folded his arms, and looked across at her with a sneer on his face. Then he glanced at the others and spoke to them in a voice that was out of reach of her ears. "I had forgotten that my sister, who is nothing if not a good Christian, would want to ask a blessing. We shall enjoy our food so much more once she has called the attention of her tribal deity to us."

"Horace Femm," she cried across the table, "you're blaspheming. If I can't hear, I can see. There's blasphemy written across your face."

He leaned forward and used that curious hissing voice which they had noticed before. "My dear Rebecca, I was merely telling your guests, who were wondering why they were not being served, that you were about to ask a blessing, to thank God for His bounty and His mercy, for this ample and delectable supper – - "

"That will do," she screamed at him. "I know your mocking, lying tongue."

" – - For the health and prosperity and happiness granted to this family, for these years of peace and plenty, for all our pleasant days and quiet nights. Thank Him not only for yourself but for me, and for Roderick, and for Saul – - "

"Stop, you fool!" She threw out her hand as she yelled and glared at him across the table, and immediately the spirit, which had made his voice drop wormwood, died out of him. He looked confused and frightened, and sank back into his chair. There followed a moment's silence. They were all little frozen figures. Then Miss Femm bent her head and gabbled a grace.

"You think you're safe now, Horace, and you've had something to drink." She was busy filling the plates at her side with slices of beef, and she spoke more quietly. "And now you think you can afford to let that bad tongue of yours wag again. You'll be sorry you didn't keep it still."

He roused himself. "I am sorry I have had a hand in this ridiculous scene," he told her. Then he turned to Margaret and showed her the ghost of a smile. "I must apologise for these exhibitions of – what shall I say? – rural eccentricities. We have lived so long alone here that we have forgotten how to behave in front of visitors. Even I, who only returned here during the War and have known the world, have forgotten my manners. We are old and rusty mountain hermits. You must excuse us."

This was as embarrassing as the rest of it, and Margaret was glad to busy herself with the potatoes that he somewhat fantastically proffered with his apology. Philip and Penderel, having exchanged glances across the width of the table, said nothing but tried to be bustling with plates and slices of bread and the cruet. Good old eating, thought Penderel, it'll carry anything off. Not that he minded these little family quarrels of the Femms, he told himself; he rather enjoyed them. They were like a passage from a new kind of morality play; a short scene for the sneering bone and the screaming flesh.

Nobody spoke. It was one of those silences not easily broken; their strength is tested by a tap or two of words tried over in the mind, and then they are left alone. Margaret bent over her plate. Philip was idly watching Miss Femm, who was heaping red meat on the plate that Morgan held out to her. The man looked so huge and savage that it seemed strange to see him with a plate at all. He ought to have taken the joint itself in his hairy hands and retired mumbling into a corner to gnaw it. Philip turned to his supper, and wondered who would speak next.

In another moment he was answered. The whole world spoke next. What happened was the last thing that any of them expected to happen. They all jumped and looked towards the door, now clamourous with repeated and urgent rappings.

"What's that?" cried Miss Femm. "The door?"

"Yes," roared Penderel, enjoying the sound of his own voice. "There's someone outside."

"They can't come in," she shrieked.

"Who can it be?" Mr. Femm looked from one to the other and his voice quavered.

Penderel answered him. "More visitors. Benighted, like us." He looked across at Waverton and grinned.

"They can't come in," Miss Femm shrieked again.

This angered Philip and he found his voice. "That's what they are, I expect," he told Mr. Femm. "You'll have to let them in, of course. It's probably dangerous to be out now."

The knocking had stopped now. There was a faint sound of voices. Mr. Femm glanced rapidly from Philip to his sister. Then the knocking began again.

Penderel stood up. "The poor beggars must be half drowned. We can't keep them waiting there."

"No, we shall have to let them in." Mr. Femm bent forward and looked at his sister. "Of course they will have to come in, if they want shelter. Morgan, go and open the door."

Miss Femm pushed back her chair and looked up at Morgan. "Go on then," she cried, pointing to the door. "And I'll come with you and see who they are." Morgan lumbered forward and very slowly drew back the bolts. When he had opened the door an inch or two so that Miss Femm might peer out, it was unexpectedly thrown wide open and someone came in, pushing past the two at the door. It was a girl, all wet and muddy. She came further into the room, stopped to draw a long breath, then threw herself into the nearest chair and cried: "My God! What a night!"

She was followed by a bulky middle-aged man, equally wet and muddy. For a moment he stood there looking about him and gasping for breath. Then he removed his dripping hat and showed them a ruddy face with a heavy shaven jowl. "Thought you were never going to open that door. Never knew such a night. There's a reservoir burst or something and a big landslide. Smashed my car and only just got away with our lives. Doubt if you're safe here. Phew!" He mopped his face and then looked from one to another of them. "Sorry to barge in like this, but you see how it is. Who's the owner here?"

Philip suddenly recognised the man. "Why," he cried, stepping forward, "surely you're Sir William Porterhouse? I thought so. I'm Waverton, of Treffield and Waverton, architects. You once called to see us about something."

"So I did." Sir William extended a hand. "I remember you now. This your place?"

Philip explained the situation and everybody was introduced. The girl was presented to them as Miss Gladys Du Cane. She had now taken off her hat and coat and stood revealed as a very pretty girl in her early twenties. She was slightly below medium height (an inch or two shorter than Margaret) and squarely though finely built. Her hair was thick and dark and crisp, and she had full hazel eyes, and a wide-lipped scarlet mouth setting off a rather pale face. Margaret decided at once that the girl belonged to a type that she detested. It was curious to see her here, so far from Shaftesbury Avenue and the lights and the dance bands and the theatres and the film agencies that were her obvious background. It was just as if an electric sign had found its way into the room. But these two people, insufferable though they might be in other circumstances, were not unwelcome. They made everything seem less fantastic and mysterious and unbearable.