Whiskers & Smoke Read online

  I pushed the note to the back of the freezer compartment and piled the frozen food on top of it. If the power failed, I’d dig it out later and read the rest of the instructions.

  I splashed some milk into Errol’s saucer to hold him until I’d finished stowing away the rest of the shopping.

  Patrick came back into the kitchen carrying the last two shopping-bags. We seemed to have bought an inordinate amount, but Celia had assured me that it was better to buy in bulk and get enough to last for as long as possible. Apart from which, everything took up so much space—basic supplies seemed to come in “Large,” “Larger,” and “Large Economy Size” exclusively. Only “Sample” size looked reasonable to my eyes, but there were few items so modestly packaged.

  “That’s better.” Celia followed Patrick with the air of a job well done. “You must remember to keep windows and doors closed or you’ll just be trying to cool all outdoors—and it can’t be done. Although,” she added grudgingly, “if it gets cooler in the evenings, you can open the inside front and back doors and let a breeze through. But keep the screen doors closed or the house will be filled with mosquitoes and insects.”

  “All right,” I said mendaciously. I intended to turn off all the air-conditioning as soon as she left, although I did take her point about screens and insects. There seemed to be an awful lot of the latter, doubtless they bred excessively in this climate.

  “It looks like we’re in for a real scorcher this weekend.” Patrick took a glass and sauntered over to the refrigerator. I watched with fascination as he thrust the empty glass into the niche in the outside of the refrigerator door. We had examined it curiously last night but I had refused to allow the children to experiment with the two bracket levers until we knew how they should be used and what would happen. Our funds did not run to replacing broken major appliances.

  Patrick pushed the glass briefly against one lever at the back of the niche and a cascade of miniature ice cubes swooshed into the glass. He then filled the glass with iced water from the nozzle poised above the second lever. The action was so automatic that he did not even notice that I was following his movements avidly. All mod. cons. I thought guiltily of the refrigerator we had thought so up-to-date and hoped the Harpers hadn’t lost the knack of wrestling with old-fashioned ice trays.

  “I wish it would rain,” Celia said.

  “Spoil the weekend.” Patrick sipped his iced water.

  “Not for us.” Something in Celia’s tone implied the weekend was already spoiled. I wondered whether she was obliquely referring to our arrival—but she was the one who had insisted that we come.

  “No.” Patrick set down his glass so heavily I expected it to crack. His lips tightened, his eyes looked more haunted than ever. “I’ll round up Luke. We ought to be going.” He went out of the back door, closing it with dangerous consideration.

  “He isn’t well,” Celia said softly. It was almost an apology. “I suppose—” she sighed deeply—“you and the kids might as well drop over later. You haven’t seen our place yet.”

  “Not tonight, thank you.” I have had more heartfelt invitations in my time. “We’re still awfully tired and slightly jet-lagged. I think we’ll have a quiet evening, perhaps watch television for a bit—we haven’t seen any yet—and have an early night.”

  “As you think best.” Celia brightened. “Perhaps you can come to dinner tomorrow night. Oh no—” She brightened even more. “It’s the cookout at camp tomorrow night. Perhaps—”

  “There’s plenty of time,” I reminded her. “We have all summer.”

  “That’s right.” The thought did not appear to cheer her. “So we have.”

  After dinner, I slumped down on the sofa and played with the television set, using the remote control gadget to switch off sound, change channels and generally discover what could be done with it. Errol, replete with more fish than he had a right to expect, stretched out beside me throbbing like an outboard motor.

  “Would you like a glass of iced water, Mummy?” Tessa asked solicitously. I had demonstrated the ice-making unit and it was more popular than the television.

  “All right, thank you.” Until the novelty wore off, it was clearly going to keep them out of mischief. Actually, I agreed with them; it was more interesting than the television.

  The telephone rang, jolting me upright. I heard giggles and the rush of feet from the kitchen.

  “I’ll get it—” I called. This time it might be someone we knew: Greg calling to suggest proper costume for tomorrow’s cookout; or Luke to speak to his cousins; but I was still uneasy enough to wish to monitor the call.

  “Hello—” I said cautiously.

  “Well, hi there! I’m glad I caught you at home. I dropped round earlier, but you were out.” It was a female voice, unidentified, but apparently friendly.

  “We went out with Celia and Patrick—” I relaxed a bit but remained cautious. “They drove us around, we had lunch at Gino’s Place and did a lot of shopping at the supermarket.”

  “Well, swell! Are you going to be home tomorrow morning? I’ll come round and see you then.”

  “Excuse me—” It was becoming apparent that this could go on indefinitely and I would be landed with a still unidentified stranger on the doorstep in the morning. “You obviously have the advantage. To whom am I speaking?”

  “Oh, sorry. I’m Pixie Toller. A friend of Nancy’s.”

  “Oh yes—” Now I could place her. “The elderberry brandy. And those delicious vanilla biscuits.”

  “That’s right!” She was pleased. “Also the Welcome Wagon. I’ll drive it round in the morning and get you off to a proper start in town. That’s why I called. Not that I wouldn’t have, anyway. Nancy is a very good friend of mine and I promised her I’d look after you.”

  “I’ll be delighted to meet you. Er, what’s a Welcome Wagon?”

  “Wait and see!” She laughed gaily and rang off.

  I returned to the living-room in time to see that a news broadcast had started. A close-up of an urgent intelligent face mouthing words voicelessly was replaced by an action shot of firemen surrounding a burning building. I sat down and reactivated the sound.

  “ … DOWNTOWN BOSTON …” The words roared at me from the set with the urgency of the leaping flames. I adjusted the volume hastily.

  “This is the fourteenth fire in Boston’s business section in four months. That’s a rate of nearly one a week. Other city centres throughout Massachusetts and the surrounding New England states have been similarly afflicted. In May, in Concord, New Hampshire, three people lost their lives when—”

  Another picture flashed on to the screen: a gutted ruin, smoke still rising from the charred wooden crossbeams of what had been a small shop. At the edge of the pavement lay three ominous shapes shrouded in blankets.

  Errol stirred uneasily. He gazed unblinkingly at the screen, seemingly mesmerized by the fire and smoke. I heard Timothy’s voice in the hallway, then Tessa’s. They had apparently wearied at last of their game with the ice-making equipment.

  “ … Deputy Fire Commissioner Francis X. Alton today renewed his appeal to the public to come forward with any information—”

  A grave, harassed man looked out from the screen obviously striving for eye-to-eye contact with the invisible audience.

  “If any of you knows of anything that might possibly be helpful,” he said desperately, “please contact us immediately. If you think you have seen or heard anything suspicious, we want to know about it. Don’t be afraid of wasting our time. Don’t be afraid that your information isn’t important enough. Let us be the judge of that. Any scrap of information added to the information we already have might be the means of bringing the perpetrators of these outrages to justice. We will keep your name confidential. I appeal to you to come forward—”

  “Mummy—” Tessa was fretful and on the verge of tears. “Mummy, the machine isn’t doing the ice right any more. It’s gone all sloppy.”

  “Maybe you
’ve worn it out.” I wasn’t surprised. “It isn’t supposed to be non-stop toy. Let’s give it a rest until morning now. It’s probably all worn out—and so are you. It’s time for bed.”

  Errol stretched, considered, then leaped to the floor and marched purposefully to the door. For him, it was time for other things. He looked back at us and gave an impatient command, waiting for someone to come and let him out.

  Automatically, I switched the television off first. The message emblazoned across the screen grew momentarily larger, then dwindled away as though receding into Time:

  “Ring ARSONLINE …

  “24 hours a day service …”

  Chapter 6

  It was hot … so hot. I tossed and turned, trying to find a cool spot on the bed, but the sheet grew hot as soon as I had rested on it for a moment and the spot I had deserted did not cool down fast enough to keep up with my restless churning. There was no escape anywhere. How would I get through the endless hours until morning?

  It grew hotter still … my nostrils twitched suddenly. Was that smoke? Even as I asked myself the question, the room blurred at the edges, as though the smoke were already encroaching.

  I struggled out of bed. Had we turned the television set off properly? Had the children overheated the refrigerator while playing with the ice-making gadget? Or were the woods behind the house alight?

  The room was filled with smoke now. It had to be coming from inside the house. I could just make out the pale oblong of the doorway. I struggled towards it.

  “Mummy … Mummy …” The voices were frightened and far away. “Mummy …”

  “I’m coming …” I seemed to struggle without making any progress. The smoke thickened by the second. The doorway was almost obscured. I was disorientated … lost … I could not reach the children …

  “Mummy … Mummy …” And then they were there in the room with me, pressing against me, clinging to me. I realized with horror that I could see them so clearly because the doorway had burst into flames behind them. We could not get out that way.

  We could not get out at all. We were trapped.

  “Rosemary …” The warm familiar voice called to me. “Rosemary … over here …”

  John was standing outside the window.

  “Oh, my darling!” I rushed to him, herding the children before me. “My darling, you’re here!”

  “Where else would I be when you needed me?” His loving eyes met mine. We pantomimed a kiss to each other; the children were still between us, preventing physical contact.

  “Now …” John was immediately practical. “Pass the children out to me and I’ll lower them to the ground … Tessa first …”

  “All right …” I picked Tessa up and swung her over the window sill. “Be careful of her arm …”

  “Her arm?” He frowned down at the plaster cast. “What’s the matter with it?”

  “It’s broken …” Something was wrong. The smoke was curling through the window, swirling around John, beginning to obscure his outline.

  “When did that happen?” He was still frowning.

  “Soon after …” My voice faltered. I did not want to finish the sentence. But his eyes held mine with frowning, loving concern.

  “When … ?” he insisted.

  “Soon after … you died …” He was shrouded in smoke now. I could scarcely see him. He was fading away.

  “No! No!” I could not let him go. I swept Timothy and Tessa aside, reaching out towards him. “They told me you were dead—but it was a lie. Some terrible mistake. You’re here now. You’re with us again. You’re alive!”

  “No, Rosemary …” He spoke sadly, softly. I could scarcely hear him. I could scarcely see him. He was dissolving into the smoke.

  “No, Rosemary, I’m dead.”

  In the distance, there was a dull hollow thud, like a coffin lid falling.

  I awoke trying to scream.

  For a terrible moment, I thought I had screamed. Had I wakened the children? I caught my breath and listened.

  Silence.

  The ache in my throat was evidence of the force with which the scream had tried to tear loose. Somewhere in my mind, I was still screaming.

  I took a deep breath and a sob escaped me. I swallowed hard. That would never do. Not yet.

  I crept from the room and down the hallway, the terrors of the nightmare still gripping me. I looked for flickers of flame. I sniffed for smoke. I would not let myself think of John.

  I stood outside Timothy’s room, and then Tessa’s, for a long time. They were sleeping peacefully although every once in a while a whimper escaped one of them. I wondered what sort of dreams they were having.

  Downstairs, the television set was silent—and safe. No sparks, no smoke. In the kitchen, the refrigerator hummed comfortably, an occasional tinkle of shifting ice telling that it was renewing itself for the coming day. The woods outside were dark and cool, rustling in the predawn wind that had sprung up.

  Upstairs again, I checked on the children once more. Still sleeping, still undisturbed. I must not disturb them now.

  I went into the bathroom. If they woke, they must hear only the familiar soothing sound of running water.

  And yet the dream had not been entirely bad. For those brief moments, John had been there. Loving and supportive, when I needed him …

  “Where else would I be?”

  I turned on the shower and, standing beside it, sobbed myself into exhaustion.

  When I awoke the second time, the sun was shining. I heard the children stirring downstairs. The children … there was a reason to get up, and go on …

  For a moment I closed my eyes, fighting off the phantoms of the night. It was morning. Pixie Toller was coming round with something called the Welcome Wagon. Tonight we were invited to the cookout at Camp Mohigonquin. There were two focal points of the day. It was more than some days had …

  I shut off my mind, got up and dressed. Tessa, still in her nightie, looked up as I entered the kitchen.

  “Errol isn’t here,” she worried. “He didn’t come home last night.”

  “That’s all right.” I wasn’t surprised. “He’ll be along later. Why don’t you run upstairs and get dressed now? We have a new friend coming to see us soon. You want to look nice, don’t you?”

  “I’m dressed,” Timothy pointed out as Tessa darted away.

  “Then you’d better sit down and have your breakfast—” I shook cornflakes into the waiting bowls—“before Errol comes along and steals it again.”

  We had just finished eating when I heard the sound of a car drawing up outside and then a horn played the opening bars of the Habañera.

  “That must be Pixie Toller,” I guessed. It sounded like the sort of horn someone called Pixie would have. We went out to greet her.

  “Oh, Mummy!” Tessa exclaimed.

  “Crumbs!” Timothy said.

  Even I binked twice.

  Pixie Toller couldn’t really be eight feet tall but, at first sight, she looked it. And she was carrying a beribboned wicker basket that looked even taller than she did.

  “Hello! Hello! Hello—and welcome!” She bounded up the steps and set the basket down before us. Now she seemed to have shrunk to a mere seven feet.

  “I just love your cute little accent!” she gushed on. “Even Celia can’t talk like that any more—she’s been here too long. Do you think you could teach it to me? I would adore to pass as English!”

  The mind boggled. She was wearing some sort of glittering jumpsuit. From a headband sprouted shimmering antennæ which quivered with every movement of her head. Her dark glasses were rimmed with mirror fragments, reflecting distorted images of ourselves as we stared at her.

  Behind her, a shooting brake—station wagon, I must learn to say—was painted in iridescent colours vaguely reminiscent of the psychedelic phase of Flower Childhood and blazoned with the legend WELCOME WAGON in Gothic script.

  She bent to make some rearrangement of the flowers spilling
out of the wicker basket and, before I could do anything to avert it, Tessa stuck out a tentative forefinger and poked at one shimmering antenna.

  “Do you like it?” Pixie Toller straightened with an eager smile and Tessa shrank back. “It’s the latest fashion—Harper’s Bizarre! That’s a joke—” she explained to Tessa’s puzzled frown. “It’s all right to laugh. You’re supposed to.”

  For an uncertain moment Tessa was poised between laughter and tears, then the laughter won. I realized, as the peals of merriment rang out, that I had not heard her laugh like that since John died.

  I looked at Pixie Toller with gratitude, prepared to forgive her any eccentricity in return for the gift of laughter she had bestowed on my daughter. There was more to Pixie Toller than was apparent on the surface.

  Timothy was chuckling. I looked from one child to the other and felt a smile curving my own lips.

  “That’s better,” Pixie said. “And you haven’t even seen what I’ve brought you yet!” She began pulling parcels out from among the flowers in the basket.

  “Hanson’s Hardware feels that anyone can always use another egg poacher—” She thrust at me a circular package from which protuded a black handle surmounted by a bow. “I’m not supposed to mention that Old Man Hanson overbought on the item a couple of years ago and hasn’t been able to unload them since. But if you need anything else in the hardware line, he has a good stock at reasonable prices.

  “A bottle of California white wine and a large cream soda from Cut-Price Liquors—” She plonked them at my feet. “A pound of frozen pork chops from the MiniMarket; three frozen TV dinners from the Supermarket; a quart of chocolate chip ice cream from Daly’s Drugstore. The vegetable assortment—zucchini squash, tomatoes, string beans and scallions—is from the Roadside Vegetable Shop; the boxes of blueberries, raspberries and loganberries are from—”