Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror (10 page)

He took the money out and stuffed it into the inside pockets of his coat and zipped it up again. He replaced the box and began to leave. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw a movement in the carving on the box.

Simon walked out of the house and was comforted to see that Old Mother Tallow was still at work on the trees. He smiled and set off for the garden wall, gently patting the bundles of notes inside his coat.

But he hadn't taken two steps across the lawn when a blinding flash lit up the garden as if a huge but soundless firework had been detonated next to him. The world went white and he felt himself pass out.

When he came round he was still in Old Mother Tallow's garden. He seemed to have woken up on his feet, but whatever had knocked him out had done something to his vision. He could see, but in a different way from before. He had a panic that he had been horribly hurt somehow. He could not feel or move his face.

He wanted to run, but when he tried to move he found that he could not. It was as if he were rooted to the spot. In fact, not only could Simon not move his feet, he seemed unable to move any part of his body. He could look out across the lawn towards where he had been sitting earlier, and he was dimly aware that there were branches to the left and right of him. He seemed to be tied to one of the apple trees.

Simon was cold too. The chill breeze seemed to go straight through him. Had the crazed old woman stripped him? What had she done to him? What was going on? He wanted to struggle but was unable to move at all.

He was aware of a bird landing on one of the branches nearby, but felt it as though it had landed on his bare forearm. He could feel with excruciating sensitivity the prick of its tiny claws as it edged along, then hopped and scurried to the end of the branch. He felt the grip of its feet as though on his own fingers, flexing and squeezing as it shifted its weight before flying off as Old Mother Tallow appeared.

It was then that Simon realised the truth of what had happened, though his mind struggled to accept it. He was not
tied
to an apple tree. He
was
an apple tree.

'Now then,.' said Old Mother Tallow, opening and closing the curved blades of the secateurs with one hand and feeling along his arm-branch to his finger-twigs with the other. 'I think we will need to do a lot of work on you. A
lot
of work.'

Simon let out a scream - a long and painful scream that only the birds could hear - and a flock of startled finches took flight, flapping wildly above the old woman, the cottage and the five gnarled apple trees.

I realised when Uncle Montague had finished his story that I had been sitting on my hands as if to protect them in my imagination from those vicious secateurs of Old Mother Tallow. When I took them out from under my thighs I had lost all feeling in them.

I shook them and wiggled the fingers and Uncle Montague smiled, pouring us both another cup of tea. I wondered aloud if the fog was still as thick as it had been and my uncle said that I should go to the window and take a look.

I was amazed to see, when I pulled back the curtain, that the view was now utterly blank - as if the whole world had been erased and my uncle's house floated in a void. It was an unpleasant and strangely dizzying sensation and I quickly closed the curtain to shut it out.

As my uncle jabbed a poker into the fire I took a stroll about the room. It was full of such an amazing array of extraordinary things that no matter how many times I looked round it, I never felt I saw the same thing twice.

Then I happened to look at a nearby bookcase and saw on one of the shelves a wooden box whose carved decoration I immediately recognised from the story I had just heard. I reached out a hand to touch it, but before I got there my hand seemed to flinch involuntarily and I found that I could not do it. I wondered if my uncle had a story about everything in this room.

My eyes fell upon an elaborate gilt frame hanging on the wall and I was surprised to see that it was empty. It seemed an odd thing to hang on the wall. My uncle suddenly appeared at my side.

'You have noticed the gilt frame,.' he said.

'But why is it empty, Uncle?' I asked.

'Ah, yes,.' said my uncle, nodding sagely. 'Why indeed?'

I had hoped that my uncle might continue and answer this question, but, as so often, he felt no need to say anything further.

'Is the frame a family heirloom?' I asked, gently probing for more information.

'No, no,.' he said. 'Like most of the objects you see in this room, it has simply come into my possession over the years.'

'You are a collector, Uncle?' I asked. I hoped that at last I was going to hear something of my mysterious relative's own history.

'Of a kind, Edgar,.' he said. Again my uncle felt no need to elaborate.

'It must be an expensive pastime,.' I said coaxingly. I could tell that though few of the pieces Uncle owned were what one might call beautiful, some of them were clearly valuable.

'No, Edgar,.' he said. 'They were given to me.'

'They are all gifts?' I said, gazing round and wondering why my uncle should have been the recipient of so much generosity.

'Of a kind, yes,.' said Uncle Montague with an odd wry smile. I obviously looked a little confused.

'As you must realise by now,.' he continued, 'these things around us are - how shall I put it? - possessed of a curious energy. They resonate with the pain and terror they have been associated with. My study has become a repository for such items. I am a collector of the unwanted, Edgar, of the haunted, of the cursed - of the
damned
.'

I was not altogether happy with the way my uncle looked at me as he said this.

'But, Uncle,.' I said, 'you speak as if the events in your tales actually took place.' Uncle Montague's eyes glittered and his eyebrows rose. I felt that I was being teased and I could feel the colour rise to my face. 'But how could that be possible?' I asked. 'And how could you know, sir? You could hardly be a witness to all these events and it occurs to me that in most cases the principal character in the story is hardly in a position to tell their tale.'

My uncle smiled and held up his hands in defeat.

'As you wish, Edgar,.' said Uncle Montague. '
As
you wish
.'

I confess I was rather pleased with myself for having stood my ground. My uncle walked to the window, pulled open the curtain and stared resolutely into the fog. I saw his lips moving, though I heard nothing. It was almost as if he were mouthing something through the window to someone outside. I could see no one there, but then the fog was so all-encompassing that there might have been a crowd of suffragettes and I should not have seen them. It was troubling that my uncle appeared so distracted, and again I grew concerned.

'Perhaps it is time you were running along home, Edgar,.' he suddenly announced.

My heart sank. The fog, as I have said, was as thick and uninviting as ever, and besides, I did not want to leave my uncle in such a strange mood. I wondered if I could repair the damage my questioning had done by coaxing my uncle into telling another of his stories.

'I was wondering, sir,.' I said.

'Yes, Edgar?'

'About the gilt frame?' I said, pointing to it. 'I was wondering in what way it was "cursed" or "damned" or what have you.'

'Were you indeed?' he said, turning to face me with a grin. 'But surely you have had enough of a foolish old man's ramblings for one day.'

'Not at all, sir,.' I said. 'Rather . . . that is to say . . . I do not think you foolish, sir.'

'I am glad to hear it, Edgar.'

Without another word, we both walked across the room and returned to our chairs by the fire. Uncle Montague raised his hands to his face as if in prayer and then lowered them to his lap, leaned back into the shadows and began his story.

Christina and her sister Agnes scampered excitedly down the stairs on hearing their mother return. Mrs Webster had been up to London to visit the family lawyer and there was every chance that she had bought them a gift.

'Now, girls,.' she said, as they ran towards her. 'I can see by your faces that you are expecting a gift and you really must not. Mr Unwin says that it is high time we started to live within our means. He is a horrid, impertinent little man, but until circumstances change, we should do as he says.'

'Are we poor then, Mama?' said Agnes.

'Of course we are not poor, Aggy,.' said Christina.

'Don't be so foolish.'

'Not poor,.' said their mother, handing her coat to Eva, the maid. 'But we are far from rich, my chicks, far from rich.'

'What's this, Mama?' said Agnes, picking up a bundle that was leaning up against the wall. Christina eyed it excitedly; perhaps their mother had bought them something after all.

'Oh, that,.' said their mother with a sigh. 'Oh well. Your Aunt Emily insisted that I accompany her to a small auction in aid of . . . in aid of . . . well, in aid of some poor unfortunates whose need is greater than ours and, well, I came away with this.' She tore away a corner of the bundle and revealed an ornate gilt frame.

'It was a bargain, actually,.' said their mother. 'Worth the price for the frame alone. But, girls, you must let me get on. I have no end of things to do before dinner and I really must take a nap. Talking about saving money does tire one so.'

When their mother had gone, Christina clenched her fists and stamped her foot, hissing a complaint about her mother's soft-heartedness.

'How could she spend our money on such rubbish? She cannot even remember whom the auction was for. Our money will probably go to some awful people who are only poor because they don't want to work. Penelope's father says London is full of them.'

Eva tutted loudly and shook her head.

'Your mother is very kind woman,.' she said.

'Shame on you.'

'How dare you criticise me,.' hissed Christina. 'I suppose you think it's very amusing that we are to be paupers.'

'You do not know the meaning of being poor,. ' said Eva.

Christina opened her mouth to reply, but Agnes interrupted.

'Leave Eva alone, Chris,.' she said. 'It's not her fault mother didn't buy us a present.'

Just at that moment their mother reappeared. She had a curious knowing look on her face and Christina was sure she had been listening. She picked up the bundle and took the rest of the wrapping off.

Christina gazed pleadingly up at her mother and asked if she could see. Inside the gilt frame was an old studio portrait photograph. It was of a girl about her own age with dark hair and a Mona Lisa smile. What on earth had possessed her mother to buy such a thing?

'Would you be a dear, Eva,.' she said. 'And hang it for me? It can go over there in place of that dreary watercolour.' Christina remembered how her mother had bought that dreary watercolour at a similar auction the year before.

'Of course, madam.'

'Thank you, Eva.'

With that, their mother left to take her nap. Eva busied herself taking down the watercolour and replacing it with the photograph, walking away towards the kitchen when she was done. Agnes said she was going to finish a letter she was writing to their grandmother and disappeared upstairs.

Christina was left alone in the hallway feeling a seething rage against everyone in the household, when she heard a whispering coming from nearby. She looked about her, but there was no one. Then she realised the sound seemed to be coming from the photograph in the gilt frame.

'Over here,.' it said quite clearly.

Christina's heart skipped a beat and she backed away to the other side of the hall, bumping painfully into the table. The girl in the photograph giggled.

'You needn't be frightened,.' she said.

'W-w-what are you?' Christina stammered.

'I will be your friend,.' said the girl. 'If you'll let me.'

'My friend?' Christina frowned. 'What do you mean? You're a photograph and I must be dreaming or feverish or something.' She put her hand to her brow.

The girl in the photograph giggled.

'I have the power to grant you three wishes,.' said the girl. 'There must be something you would like.'

'I must be dreaming,.' murmured Christina, pinching herself. 'I must be.'

'What are you doing?' said a voice behind her, making her jump. It was Eva. The girl in the photograph was a mere photograph once more.

'I was not doing anything,.' snapped Christina. 'And in any case I can do as I like. This is my house.'

'This is your mother's house, I think,.' Eva said, smiling and walking back towards the kitchen.

'So?' said the girl in the photograph. 'Is there nothing you wish for?'

'I wish that stupid Eva would leave me alone!' hissed Christina.

As soon as she said the words she felt a curious sensation, as if there had been a sudden change in air pressure. She felt light-headed and put her hand on the banister to steady herself. She blinked a couple of times to focus, but saw that the photograph was static once more. She clicked her fingers in front of the girl's face, but nothing moved.

Christina laughed nervously to herself. Perhaps she was coming down with something, after all. Could she really have hallucinated the whole thing? She shook her head and blinked again. Already the idea of it being a trick of her mind was easier to believe than that a photograph had actually talked to her. She laughed again.

The family were having dinner some days later when the doorbell rang. The girls looked at each other in wonder. No one ever called at this hour. Their mother frowned and stood up, wringing her napkin nervously.

'Now whoever can that be?' she said.

Eva had answered the door and they could hear a muttered conversation going on in the hall. Mrs Webster left the room and after exchanging wide-eyed glances, the girls followed her.

They found Eva in tears. The door was open and there were two stern-looking gentlemen in dark overcoats on the doorstep and a policeman standing behind them, looking back into the street.

'What on earth is going on?' said their mother. 'What is the meaning of this? Eva? What is the matter?'

'I am afraid Miss Lubanov must come with us, madam,.' said one of the stern gentlemen. Christina took a moment to realise that he meant Eva.

'Go with you?' said Mrs Webster. 'But why? I really must protest . . .'

'Please,.' said Eva. 'It is better I go. You have been so very kind, ma'am. I do not wish you to get in trouble for me.'

'Listen to her, madam,.' said the other man. 'She does not have the correct papers and she must go. You will only make trouble for yourself if you interfere.'

'Eva!' cried Agnes and she rushed forward to hug the maid. Eva had stopped crying now. She hugged Agnes and cast a hard glance over at Christina.

'Please, madam,.' she said. 'Do not try to help me.

You must look after yourself.'

'You poor dear girl,.' said their mother, hugging her. With that, the men took her away and ushered her into a waiting carriage. In seconds they were gone.

When her mother was upstairs consoling Agnes, Christina lurked about at the parlour doorway, working up the courage to step into the hall alone.

'You have come for another wish?' said the photograph.

Christina stepped nearer.

'I did not wish for Eva to be taken away,.' said Christina. 'I only asked that she would leave me alone. It's not my fault that she was taken away.'

The girl in the photograph smiled. 'And your second wish?'

Christina did not like the way she spoke to her. It was almost as if she
did
blame her, but was choosing not to say anything. After all, if she could grant her anything she wanted, Christina was hardly going to argue with her, but this time she was going to wish for something rather more useful than the absence of an irritating maid.

'I wish we were rich,.' said Christina with the imperious raise of an eyebrow she had seen her friend Penelope employ to such effect.

There was no reply from the girl. In fact there was no sign that the photograph had ever been anything other than simply that: a photograph. Christina walked away to wait and see what would happen.

Day after day went by but nothing changed. She had almost given up on seeing her wish fulfilled when the telephone rang one rainy Saturday afternoon.

Christina's mother had her back to her as she took the call and seemed to have to steady herself at one point, her hand clutching the back of a chair. She replaced the receiver and stood, head bowed, in silence for a moment.

'Mother?' said Christina.

Mrs Webster turned to face her daughter, tears in her eyes.

'Go and fetch Agnes, dear,.' she said.

Christina did as she was asked and their mother took them into the parlour.

'It's Grandmama,.' she said. 'Be brave, my chicks. I'm afraid . . . I am so sorry, but she has passed away.'

The news hit Mrs Webster especially hard, coming as it did so soon after Eva's deportation. Her mother-in-law could be a cold woman and had used the promise of her money as a kind of weapon, but she had been Mrs Webster's last link to her dear husband, Robert, who had died so long ago the girls could barely remember him. Christina was left feeling cold.

Later, when Agnes and Christina were alone together, Agnes said sharply, 'You never did like Grandmama!'

'She did not like
me
!' replied Christina.

Agnes shook her head in exasperation.

'You shall not make me feel guilty,.' said Christina. 'I am sorry Grandmother has died but, unlike some, I shall not pretend to be upset.'

Agnes took a sharp intake of breath and slapped Christina round the face with all the strength she could muster. The blow was sharp and stung Christina's face, bringing tears to her eyes and knocking her sideways on to the bed. When she looked up Agnes was gone. She rubbed the side of her face and ground her teeth together.

'I'm sick of her,.' she muttered. 'I wish I had my own room.'

The word 'wish' echoed in her head. Had she really wished her own grandmother dead? No. She had wished for the family to be rich, that was all. True, her grandmother's death did now mean they were rich, but that was hardly her fault. She was not to blame for how the wish was made real. When she looked up again her mother was standing in the doorway.

'Dear Christina,.' she said with more than a trace of surprise in her face and voice. 'Why, you are crying, sweetness.'

'Yes, Mother,.' she said. 'Poor Grandmama.'

'She is with the angels now, God rest her soul,. ' said her mother.

'How did she die, Mama?' asked Christina, sitting up. Her mother looked away for a moment and clenched and unclenched her fingers.

'She had a fall, my darling,.' she said. 'I had warned her so many times about that staircase but she would not . . .'

Christina's mother closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them a tear ran down her cheek. Christina got up from the bed and ran over to her mother, hugging her. Her mother stroked her hair and Christina clung on tightly, rejoicing in this new closeness between them.

Perhaps it was not too late to make amends. Christina had had a small taste of what it must feel like to be good, to be Agnes, and she liked it. Maybe it was not too late for her to change.

Agnes came back to the bedroom a little later to find Christina still sitting where she had left her. To her surprise, Christina opened her arms wide and said how sorry she was.

'Can you ever forgive me, Agnes?' she asked.

'Of course I can,.' said Agnes, embracing her.

'You're my sister. And I should not have hit you.'

'I deserved it,.' said Christina. 'I was being beastly. I've been beastly for a long time but I'm going to change, Agnes, I promise.'

The two girls clung tightly to each other until Agnes said that she felt tired and lay down on her bed. Christina sat by her, stroking her hair until she fell asleep.

Christina was suddenly aware of a harsh ringing sound - a sound she took a little while to identify as the doorbell. The room seemed to have become suddenly darker. How long had she been sitting there? She went dreamily to the landing to see Bertha, the new maid, answering the door.

Christina looked down the stairs as Bertha, looking very serious, went to fetch Mrs Webster, leaving two dour-looking men standing on the doorstep.

Christina's mother went to the door and, after a good deal of talking, showed the men through to the morning room. Christina tiptoed downstairs. She wondered who the men were, but only for a moment. It did not matter. Nothing mattered.

She stood in the hall and edged towards the photograph in the gilt frame. She knew exactly what she would wish for. She stood in front of the girl and the girl smiled back.

'You do not look very happy,.' she said.

'I wish,.' said Christina, ignoring the girl. 'I wish that everything was as it was before my mother brought you back from the auction.' Christina closed her eyes as she made her wish, but opened them almost immediately when she heard the girl giggle.