Midwich at Seventy

Chapter 1 – Departure and Memories

IT WAS a forlorn gathering. Water was dripping off the plane trees surrounding the little South London cemetery, under one of which Jacqui and Paul were sheltering—preferring the dubious comfort of the tree trunk to standing under an umbrella by the graveside. Others attending the burial were doing the same. Only a few hardy friends were standing close by the priest as he read out the service: once he had finished the grave was quickly filled in and the people dispersed to their cars.

Richard Gayford had had a wretched time during the last ten or so of his ninety-four years: struck down with Alzheimer's, towards the end he had lost the power of speech and needed round-the-clock care. Jacqui's feelings of grief at the loss of her beloved Grandad were tempered by a sense of relief that his ordeal was finally over. She felt she had done her bit—spent as much time as she could spare, caring for him after her grandmother Janet passed away. But in the end it was agreed that professional care in a care home was the only option. If only her mother, Beatrice—Richard and Janet's only child—had still been around to share the burden of care! But Beatrice had been snatched from them early by cancer; predeceasing both her parents.

Paul was suggesting that they should now return home: guests would soon be gathering there and would expect their hosts to be present for the funereal buffet. But Jacqui insisted that she wanted to remain for a few minutes in contemplation: remembering all the happy moments she'd spent with Grandad and Grandma as a child, before illness struck.

"Funerals are a time to remember the good times in someone's life," she remarked. Paul couldn't argue with that, so he left her under the tree and set out to do a circuit of the graveyard. His sister Lesley would be there, back home, to welcome the visitors and organise the food, at any rate.

They were not the only people still in the graveyard. A smartly-dressed man in late-middle-age, grey-haired and serious-looking, wearing an expensive coat and carrying a felt hat, came towards Jacqui.

"Miss Gayford? Miss Jacqueline Gayford?" he ventured.

"Mrs Jacqueline Coombes. But yes, I was formerly Miss Gayford. My husband Paul—Paul Coombes—is around somewhere: just took off for a little walk."

"Pleased to meet you, Mrs Coombes. I take it you are the granddaughter of the deceased." Jacqui nodded. "My name's Peters," he continued: "Gordon Peters of Lane, Peters and Cooper, your grandfather's solicitors. Could I please trouble you to call my office as soon as possible?" And he handed Jacqui his card. Just at that moment Paul reappeared, having completed his stroll, and Mr Peters introduced himself and repeated his request.

"Of course we will," both Jacqui and Paul replied, almost simultaneously. And Paul gave Jacqui a knowing wink. They knew what this was about!

Richard Gayford had been a moderately successful writer of science fiction: his novels had not attained the status of best-sellers, but he had secured a comfortable income and gained a modest group of devotees to his mainly apocalypse-style works. He had spent the early part of his career in Canada, but he and Janet had returned to England and settled in the London suburbs, soon after Beatrice was born. Janet had given up her career as a teacher and had then spent her time proof-reading and editing Richard's stories. The best-known work, Star's Children, describing an invasion of Earth by child-like beings who begin their work by enchanting and 'bewitching' credulous Earthlings, had sold well and helped to provide Richard with a decent living.

Jacqui had been quite close to Richard. After her parents' marriage had broken up and, soon after, when Beatrice was confined for long periods in hospital, their young child came to stay with her grandparents many times—and charmed and enchanted them as persuasively as Grandad's 'aliens' might have done. She was fascinated by Grandad's tales of fantastic worlds and even more fantastic creatures from distant planets and stars—although as a child she didn't really take in the subtle underlying precepts embodied in his works.

One element of their long and involved conversations together had been the frequent brief allusions to the mysterious 'Midwich', interrupting the childish dialogue. It had always gone the same way: Jacqui had described something impossible, maybe in a recital from a nursery rhyme like 'the cow jumped over the Moon'—and then Grandad had muttered quietly—almost to himself it seemed: 'in Midwich'. Then Jacqui would invariably ask: "Grandad, where's Midwich?" And Grandad, with a twinkle in his eyes, would merely respond "It isn't." That was all Jacqui could ever get out of him on the subject.

Whatever or wherever 'Midwich' was, it 'wasn't'. When Jacqui was older and studying English and, later, journalism, she appreciated that Grandad had been either teasing her, or alluding to some strange paradox: something that could only exist in the sense that it didn't exist.

Like a 'mare's nest'—that dated cliché which simply means something with no real existence.

Or possibly Grandad had had something to hide. Maybe 'Midwich' related to an episode in his former life—the period he never spoke of, the few months just before he settled in Canada. If so why did he drop this strange hint to his young granddaughter? Once Jacqui was older, in her teens, 'Midwich' was never mentioned again. But her childhood memories stayed with her.

Once they were in the car and making their way home from the funeral, Paul could no longer refrain from remarking: "It'll be about your Grandad's Will. It's got to be about the Will. And surely you're the only living heir?"

"I'm not going to speculate until we see that man Peters," retorted Jacqui. "Yes, Grandad and I were very close when I was young. But he had many close friends. Let's not raise our expectations..." But inwardly she was hoping for some sort of windfall. They could do with it!

Back at the house the found quite a large crowd gathered—many of whom Jacqui didn't know, evidently friends of Richard. And Lesley had indeed done them proud, setting out a splendid buffet to satisfy the guests.

Much was spoken about Richard's life's work—there were several of his fellow Sci-fi writers and fans amongst the gathering. But there was one man in particular who seemed not to be taking part in the general discussion. A frail little white-haired man, ancient in years, in a wheelchair and apparently nearly blind. He was accompanied by a middle-aged woman who appeared to be attending to him. Jacqui approached them.

"Oh, hello, you must be Richard's granddaughter Jacqui," said the woman. "My name's Imogen, Imogen Westcott, may I introduce you to my father, Bernard Westcott?"

At that, the old man spoke up, in a thin wheezy voice, but quite fluently: "Jacqui is it? Delighted to meet you. I saw you often at Richard and Janet's house, when you were a small child, but you probably won't remember. Sorry I can't see very well, but I'm sure you've grown up into a beautiful young lady." "She is," interceded Imogen, with a laugh. "Well," continued the old man, "I was one of Richard's oldest friends, from way back in the War. We were in the same platoon. I was so sorry to hear how badly things turned for him in his final years."

"He suffered very little at the end. His passing was quite peaceful," replied Jacqui.

"That's the way I want to go, when my time comes. When it comes. I'm older than Richard, mind you: just turned ninety-seven. I'd like to reach my ton, but we'll see." He winked knowingly as he said this. Imogen smiled.

There was a pause. Then Jacqui had a sudden thought. "Mr Westcott, do you know of a place called Midwich?"

"No, sorry, never heard of it," was Bernard's response after a short pause, but Jacqui could sense that he was somewhat taken unawares and rattled. Yes, there was some mystery about 'Midwich' and Bernard knew something, but he wasn't saying.

Jacqui tactfully steered the conversation away from that topic, and instead questioned Bernard about his and Richard's wartime experiences—a subject upon which the old man was only too delighted to relate at length. Paul had meanwhile joined them, and they were still deep in conversation when they noticed that almost all the other guests had departed: besides Lesley, who was helping to clear up, only one or two others remained. Then Imogen pointed out that they had to leave too: Bernard was evidently getting tired and needed to rest. But Bernard was not done yet.

"One more thing, please, before we go," he wheezed. "Richard left a message for me to give to you, Jacqui, should he die before me. It was simply the words 'There is no key'. That's all."

" 'There is no key'?" said Jacqui. "Just that? Why, what on earth did he mean?"

"Search me," said Bernard. "That's just what he told me to say to you—those exact words. They mean nothing to me, I thought they might make sense to you." Jacqui shook her head. "And now, if you'll excuse us, I think Imogen wants to wheel me away. I'm being wheeled about everywhere these days... It's been lovely meeting you again and talking, helps to cheer me up a lot at this sad time. But memories of Richard and his strange ways also keep me going."

With that, the visitors said their farewells and departed.