Brian Aldiss - Greybeard

Leaping to his father’s defence, Algy said, “He won’t, because he can’t mend fences. He’s not a handyman at all. He’s completely useless.” Catching a clearer glimpse of her through the bushes, he said, “Gosh, you’re bald, what’s your name?”

“My name is Martha Jennifer Broughton, and my hair will all grow on again by the time I’m a big girl.”

He edged closer to the fence, dropping the stick to stare at her. She wore a jumper and a pleated skirt, both red, and her face was open and friendly; but the dome of her head was utterly naked.

“Gosh, you aren’t half bald!”

“Doctor MacMichael says my hair will grow again, and my dad says he’s the best doctor in the world.”

Algy was put on his mettle by small girls who claimed to be authorities on medical matters.

“I know that. We have Doctor MacMichael too. He had to come to see me every day because I’ve been at

Death’s Door.”

The girl came closer to her side of the fence.

“Did you actually see Death’s Door?”

“Jolly nearly. It was very boring on the whole. It uses up your resources.”

“Did Dr. MacMichael say that?”

“Yes. Often. That’s what happened to my brother Frank. His resources got used up. He went right through

Death’s Door.” They laughed together. In a mood for confidences, Martha said, “Aren’t Doctor MacMichael’s hands cold?”

“I didn’t mind. After all, I’m seven.”

“That’s funny, I’m seven too!”

“Lots of people are seven. I ought to tell you my name’s Algernon Timberlane, only you can call me Algy, and my father owns a factory where they make toys. Shall we have to play together when I come to live here? My brother Frank who got buried says girls are stupid.”

“What’s stupid about me? I can run so fast that nobody catches me.”

“Huh, I bet! I bet I could catch you!”

“I tell you what, then — I’ll come in your garden, ’cause it’s a good one; it hasn’t got flowers and things like ours has, and we’ll play Catch.”

She climbed through the broken fence, lifting her skirts daintily, and stood in his garden looking at him. He liked her face. He could smell the sweet smell of the afternoon; he saw the pattern of sunlight and shadow fall across her head, and was moved.

“I’m not supposed to run fast,” he said, “because I’ve been ill.”

“I thought you looked pretty awful. You ought to have some cream on your cheeks like I do. Let’s play hide-and-seek then. You’ve got a smashing old summer-house to hide in.”

She took his hand.

“Yes, let’s play hide-and-seek,” he said. “You can show me the summer-house, if you like.”

Patricia had finished measuring the windows for curtains, and Venice was smoking a cigarette and waiting to go.

“Here comes your devoted hubby,” she announced, catching sight of a car turning in at the drive.

“He promised he’d be here half an hour ago. Arthur’s always late these days. I want his advice on this primitive brute of a cooker. Is Keith driving him?”

“Your luck’s in, my girl: yes, he is. You go and let them in and I’ll slip out and collect Algernon. We really ought to be off.”

Venice let herself out of the back door and called Algy’s name. Her own children were older than the Timberlanes’, and had escaped most of the effects of the sickness; Gerald, in fact, had suffered no more than a seeming cold, which was all the external evidence of the sickness most adults showed.

Algy did not answer her call. As she walked over the unkept lawn, a little girl in a red outfit ran before her and disappeared behind a lilac tree. Half in fun, Venice ran after her; the girl wriggled through a gap in the fence and stood there gazing challengingly at Venice.

“I sha’n’t hurt you,” Venice said. She suppressed an exclamation at the sight of the child’s bald head. It was not the first she had met. “Have you been playing with Algy? Where is he? I can’t see him.”

“That’s because he drowned in the river,” the girl said, clasping her hands behind her back. “If you won’t be cross, I’ll come back and show you.”

She was trembling violently. Venice held out a hand to her.

“Come through quickly and show me what you’re talking about.”

The girl was back through the gap in an instant. Shyly, she took Venice’s hand, looking up to judge her reaction to the move.

“My nails weren’t affected, only my head,” she said, and led the way down to a landing stage that jutted into the river along the end of the garden. Here her courage failed her, and she broke into a storm of tears. For a while she could not speak, until from the barricade of Venice’s arms she pointed a finger at the dark stream.

“That’s just where Algy drowned. If you look, you can see his face looking up at you under the water.”

In alarm, Venice held the child tightly and peered down through the willow tree into the stream. Clinging round a root, half submerged and moving gently against the current, was something that did vaguely resemble a human face. It was a sheet of newspaper.

Patiently, she cajoled Martha into looking and seeing her mistake for herself. Even then, the girl continued to cry, for the shape of the paper was sinister.

“Now you run along home to tea,” Venice said. “Algy can’t be far away. I will find him — perhaps he ran round to the front garden and went indoors — and perhaps in a little while you will be able to play with him again. Would you like that?”

The girl looked into her face with immense swimming eyes, nodded, and dashed away towards the hole in the fence. As Venice straightened up and began to walk back towards the house, Patricia Timberlane came out of the back door with two men. One of the men was her husband, Arthur, a man who at forty-odd gave all the appearance of having forgotten his more youthful years. Venice, who liked him — but she was far less choosy than Patricia with her likes and dislikes, and tended to be friendly to anyone who seemed friendly to her — had to admit that Arthur cut a glum figure; he was a man saddled with troubles who had never decided to meet them either stoically or with a sense of defiance.

Patricia held her husband’s arm, but it was towards the other man that she most frequently glanced. Keith Barratt, Arthur Timberlane’s co-director, was a personable man with a too shallow jaw and tawny hair brushed back untidily. Keith was only five years younger than Arthur, but his manner — particularly his manner with Pat, Venice thought cattily — was more youthful, and he dressed more like a man about town.

As Venice went towards them, answering their greetings, she saw a glance like a bird of sweet ill-omen fly between Patricia and Keith. She saw in it — heavily, for there was pain enough — that trouble was nearer than she had thought.

“Venice likes the house, Arthur,” Patricia said.

“I’m afraid of damp with the river so close,” Arthur said to Venice. He put his hands in his trouser pockets and stared down towards the river as if expecting to see it rise and engulf them. It seemed to be with reluctance that he swung his eyes round to look at her as he asked, “Is Edgar getting back early tonight? Good. Why don’t you both come round for a drink with us? I’d like to hear what he makes of the situation in Australia. Things look very black, very black indeed.”

“Art, you old pessimist!” Keith said. He spoke in a tone of laughing reproach that pronounced his partner’s name Ah-ha-hart. “Come off it! A lovely afternoon like this and you talk like that. Wait till you get that MR report and see if things aren’t just as bad for everyone. Come Christmas, trade will improve.” In explanation, he said to Venice, “We’ve had Moxan, the market research people, in, to find out what exactly has hit our trade; their report should be with us tomorrow.” He pulled a funny face and slit his throat with a knife-edged forefinger.