Читать книгу No. 17 - J. Farjeon Jefferson - Страница 10

‘G’arn—I’m dreamin’,’ thought Ben. ‘Orl them doors is bolted!’

He stayed quite still, listening, and hoping to be awakened from the dream. But the footsteps continued, and grew louder, and all at once Ben realised that this was no dream, but stark reality. The knowledge produced a frank sweat.

The moment when the dream theory fails is always a nasty one.

‘S’elp me, there’s a bloke dahn there,’ gasped Ben, and clambered clumsily to his feet.

Then he stood motionless, and listened again. Now he heard no sound. The footsteps had stopped. Was the producer of the footsteps also listening, standing somewhere below as motionless as he?

Ben crept to the door, and softly opened it. As he did so, a dull clank-clank in the distance grew nearer and louder. A goods train, obviously. It rattled under the house, shaking it, and under cover of the noise Ben left the room and stepped out into the passage.

‘P’r’aps it was the trine, orl the time,’ thought Ben, as the rattle and clank decreased.

But this hope was soon dissipated. Even before the sound of the train had dwindled away, the footsteps below recommenced—less heavily, this time more stealthily.

‘’Ere, I’ve ’ad enuff o’ this!’ reflected the seaman, and tiptoed quickly along the passage.

Should he dash out of the house? This would mean unbolting the front door—a noisy operation—and it would also mean the rest of the night in the fog. A speedier, and probably better, sanctuary was suggested by the staircase. Almost before he realised it, he was ascending the stairs, and he did not pause in his ascent until he had reached the top of the house.

He found himself now on a small landing with a skylight above him, and a door on his right. There was only one door, leading assumedly to an attic.

Before entering the door, he turned and peered down the stairs up which he had come. All was quiet. He waited, so it seemed to him, five minutes, but probably it was only one. Then he turned to the attic door again, and regarded it.

Risking the sound, he struck a match. A key was in the door, and this immediately suggested his plan. He stretched his hand forward, and turned the key. The door was now locked, with the initiative on his side, and he was free to negotiate.

‘Oi!’ he whispered, through the keyhole. ‘Hennybody there?’

No answer came. He repeated the inquiry, a little more loudly, but not too loudly, lest the thing below stairs should hear. Then, as again no answer came, and as he heard neither breathing nor snoring, he felt free to turn the key, and open the door.

Another match revealed the chamber, and proved that, although less pretentious from the architect’s point of view, it had certain advantages over the lower rooms he had already sampled. The first advantage was a half-used candle, sticking upright in a pool of its own grease on the mantelpiece across the floor. Ben made for the candle promptly, and by its comparatively brilliant glare noted the other advantages of the attic.

An old chair, battered but still serviceable, was near the fireplace. Three or four packing-cases, which could be used as tables or firewood, stood about. And the key in the door was another advantage, for it offered security.

But before Ben could finally approve of the room, two other doors had to be investigated.

One door, by the fireplace, led to an inner room somewhat similar to the outer room. Rendered courageous by his candle, he made a thorough examination of this inner chamber, discovering that it possessed no other entrance, and that it contained a fair-sized cupboard.

The other door of the outer room, at right angles to the passage door, and close to it, refused to open. It was locked—as the door down in the basement had been—and there was no key.

‘This is a better pitch,’ thought Ben. ‘I’ll stay ’ere till the mornin’, any’ow, and the feller dahnstairs can ’ave the bottom ’arf. Sort o’ maisonette.’

Some packing-cases stood under a rather high window. He climbed on to them, and peered out. Fog still as thick as ever. Climbing down again, he selected the most dilapidated case, and split it up.

‘Might as well ’ave a bit o’ cheer,’ he muttered. ‘And it’s time, I reckons, fer them pork an’ beans.’

Fortunately, there were some odd scraps of paper in the packing-case, and these served to start the fire. Throwing some wood on top, he soon had a good blaze, and the warmth welled into him, making life good once more, and dispelling some of his tremors. Thus many another has enjoyed the calm before the storm, smiling for a short period in the false assurance of a temporary security.

His good humour increased when he opened the packet which contained the tin of pork and beans. The old proprietress of the Emporium had added a chunk of bread and a slice of cheese. Best bob’s-worth he’d ever known. This was a bit of all right!

‘Me own mother wouldn’t ’ave done more fer me,’ thought Ben. ‘Wot it is ter ’ave a ’andsome fice!’

But, although he made light of it, the old woman’s kindliness warmed that bare, uncomfortable room almost as much as did the crackling blaze. In the midst of all this uncouthness and uncanniness, of fearful possibilities and tremulous thoughts, a peaceful, human smile lurked somewhere. It stood for the tiny gleam that no blackness can ever totally extinguish, though often enough we seem to lose it in our groping, and forget that it is there. Yet, however faintly it burns, it never flickers out, for it is independent of material substance.

He had some difficulty in opening the tin, and might have been reduced to stamping upon it but for a nail which he wrenched from one of the packing-cases. Putting the tin carefully on the fire, he watched its congealed contents soften and warm, munching bread and cheese to assuage his impatience. He had no spoon, so he stirred the pork and beans with his finger, to help them on their way, and also for the pleasure of sucking his finger afterwards. The operation was so successful that he stirred the pork and beans several times, until they got too hot for the process. Then, to ensure peace with his meal, he tiptoed out on to the landing once more, and listened.

A blessed silence greeted him.

A faint noise in the room he had just left, however, disturbed the blessedness. His mind instantly flashed to the locked door, and he visualised it slowly opening, and heaven knows what coming out! Had he stopped to think, he might have fled downstairs, but the two things he loved best in all the world were in that room—the pork and beans and the candle—and they were worth some risk in this house of risks. He returned to the room rapidly, and disturbed a little mouse enjoying a crumb of cheese.

‘’Ere—wotcher mean, pretendin’ ter be a ghost?’ demanded Ben indignantly.

The mouse, like Ben, became divided against itself. This great, hulking thing was a terror; but the cheese was wonderfully succulent. Two reproachful eyes peered up at Ben from the boards.

‘Oh, go hon—don’t mind me!’ jeered Ben. ‘But, look ’ere, Charlie, you was ’ere while I was gorn—didjer see that there door a-movin’ jest nah?’

He jerked his thumb towards the locked door. The mouse, still eyeing him solemnly, refused to commit itself.

‘Boo!’ cried Ben.

A frenzied flash, and the mouse was gone. Ben felt no animosity against the mouse, but it gave him a sort of satisfactory feeling to frighten something. Moreover, it suggested a pleasant theory. If he could scare a mouse, without any desire to harm the mouse, why could not something scare Ben, without any desire to harm Ben?

This thought was rudely disturbed by a new emotion. The tin on the fire slipped, and began to pour itself out.

‘Oi!’ gasped Ben. ‘’Arf a mo’!’

He rushed across, and rescued the tin, nearly scalding his hand in the process. Luckily, not more than a penn’orth had flowed away.

Many strange things were destined to happen in this room within the next twenty-four hours, and while Ben is busy with his pork and beans, it may be as well for us to examine the room a little more closely. Its walls and ceiling were in a most dilapidated condition. The paper was yellow with age, and in some places had peeled right off. In others, it was peeling. Here and there, bits of the ceiling had come down, and the vibration caused by the trains that ran under the house suggested one cause of this. The trains could still be heard from the attic, though the sound was naturally fainter and more muffled than it had been down in the basement.

Facing the door by which Ben had entered the room, and with our back to the opposite blank wall, we note two or three packing-cases that lined the left-hand wall, ceasing at the locked door which Ben had not been able to open. This locked door was near the corner of the room, and round the corner came the door to the passage—a small passage containing, in addition to the attic door, nothing more notable than the head of the descending staircase, and above, in the low roof, the skylight. Inside the room again, to the right of the passage door as one turned and faced it, were more packing-cases. By climbing upon them one could reach a small, high window, which Ben had noted with satisfaction was closed. Then, round the corner to the next right-hand wall, came a bare space, the door leading to the inner chamber, the fireplace, and the single, battered chair.

Such was the configuration and furnishing of this room of destiny, where an out-of-work seaman sat dispatching pork and beans.

His simple meal over, Ben smiled contentedly, and prepared once more to make himself comfortable for the night—or, for the rest of the night. Towards this end, he poked his head into the inner chamber, assuring himself again that it was empty, and made one last effort to get the locked door on the opposite wall open. Failure, of course, greeted this effort. Finally, he stepped out on to the little landing …

‘Ah, not this time, lovey!’ he chuckled, as a soft sound came to him—not from below. ‘I ain’t feared o’ mice no more!’

The soft sound continued, and he tiptoed back to the room to give his little friend another surprise. But no small eyes greeted him this time. Nor was there any flashing scurry. His grin froze on his face, as he realised that, this time, a mouse was not responsible.

Ben had not gained a reputation for speed in the Merchant Service, but there were times when he acted quickly. This new soft sound was worse than anything he had heard—he could not define it, or place it. But it was up here—somewhere—which meant that Ben must get down there, anywhere, He scampered down the stairs like a frightened rat.

But, even in that mad scamper, he stopped dead at the head of the stairs that led down to the ground floor. Someone was below, with footsteps as hurrying as Ben’s.

And the footsteps were coming up.