Brian Aldiss - Walcot

The two of you stood there, silenced by the grim spectacle. Of Gary Furbank and the French pilot there was no sign. They had either been consumed in the fire or feral dogs had devoured their remains.

‘Seen enough?’ Palfrey asked, with a sneer.

But you rooted about to see what could be retrieved. Not everything had been consumed by the blaze. You found a box of ammunition, still sealed, miraculously intact, overturned in rough grass. You insisted that Palfrey and you dragged it back to your lair.

There was still, you considered, a war to be fought.

There was some mercy in the restriction of your awareness to your immediate circumstances. You never thought of your home. I will tell you briefly of something going on there. Are you prepared?

Yes .

Mary Fielding was having the room she called her lounge redecorated. Two decorators in overalls were hanging the new wallpaper. She stood watching them. She had moved her goldfish into the kitchen for safety.

‘War or no war, we’ve got to have the place looking smart,’ she said. ‘People may call.’ The men agreed. They had voted for Martin Fielding in the previous by-election.

Mary was restless. She looked out into the garden. Unable to think of anything else to say, she retreated and went into the kitchen. Martin had left the house early for a meeting at work. Theirs was hardly a marriage, she told herself. Steve was gone. Of course, there was Sonia … but Sonia was away at acting school. The home was so dull without Sonia.

She retreated to Valerie, the ghost eternally at her side. Valerie would have stayed with her, would have found her interesting. Valerie. She would be quite a big girl by now. She wore little frilly dresses, with frilly petticoats beneath. She had ribbons in her hair. She was always smiling and happy – as good as gold.

Mary acknowledged to herself now that Valerie was dead, had never lived, was a fantasy; yet it was a fantasy that consoled her, as far as she could be consoled. Not just dead even, but had never had life, except in the shelter of her womb. Perhaps, after all, Valerie was better out of it, out of the world.

She went back to watch the men working. Valerie followed, meek, but faint.

Someone was ringing the front door bell.

As Mary left the room, the older decorator straightened up and eased his back. He worked with his son. This youth was a poor droopy thing with a bad case of acne. He was due to be called up; he had a verruca, which might save him from the infantry. When he was gone, the old man would be alone. But perhaps interior decorating would not be needed any more in wartime.

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