Chapter 4 – A Lost Child
JACQUI WAS astounded and completely lost for words at this unexpected remark. She stammered but was unable to answer the question. When she realised this, the old lady continued:
"Do come indoors, my dear: I'll put on a nice cup of tea; you look like you could do with it." So Jacqui followed the lady into the cottage.
"My name's Mary, by the way," the old lady began, as she poured out the tea. "Mary Histon. Yes, I used to live in Midwich—which I think you've already guessed. Midwich: no-one's allowed to go there now; the whole place has been sealed off."
"I'd gathered that. Pleased to meet you, Mrs Histon," replied Jacqui.
"Oh, it's 'Miss', not 'Mrs'. Never been married. Never been with a man, to tell the truth. And please call me Mary."
" 'Mary', sorry. My name's Jacqueline Gayford." Jacqui decided to use her maiden name here. "But most people call me 'Jacqui'. And yes, I am interested in Midwich."
" 'Gayford'. 'Gayford'? Yes, I remember the name. Richard and Janet, wasn't it? Used to live there too—in Midwich. Inquisitive couple, if you'll forgive my saying so, Jacqui. So you're related to them? And are they still alive?"
"Yes, I'm their granddaughter—and also one of the 'inquisitive' types! And no, I'm sorry, they've both passed away now: my Grandad only a couple of weeks ago—at a ripe old age, nearly ninety-five. Which is part of the reason I'm here."
"Ninety-five, eh? Well, that was a good innings. I'm a mere spring chicken myself, only eighty-six—so I've a while to go to catch up! I think most of the Midwich residents your grandfather might have known are dead now. I'm one of the last. And times are rather lonely for me now—it's lovely to have a visitor."
"Have you not got any relatives?" asked Jacqui. As she said this, her eyes fell upon a photograph on the mantelpiece. A faded black-and-white portrait of a strange-looking boy, with blond hair and an attractive-looking though rather thin face with a small mouth, and rather curious-looking light-coloured eyes. Mary caught her gaze.
"My son, Theodore. Taken when he was three. The only photo I was allowed to keep: they took away all the colour snaps."
Jacqui observed that the photo showed a boy more like six or seven years old, but she supposed that the old lady's memory was faulty. "So where is he now?" she asked.
"Oh, he died."
"He died? Oh, I'm most awfully sorry. When was that? And how?"
"They all died. All the Children died. Zellaby blew the whole place up."
"Blew the whole place up!? What on earth do you mean? And who was Zellaby?"
"I'm not supposed to say much about it. Something about the Official Secrets Act—would you believe it?—that we all had to sign. But what the hell! I'm getting on in years, and I need to talk to someone, sometime. And you're the Gayfords' granddaughter, so you must know something already. Yes, the Children were all born at the same time, my Theodore among them, a strange lot they were. They could make you do things you didn't want to do. So in the end they were all taken away from us and housed in a special school nearby. Until that Zellaby chap went and planted a bomb in the place, blowing himself up along with all the Children."
"How extraordinary! What sort of a person was this Zellaby?"
"Oh, he wasn't any kind of mass murderer, if that's what you're thinking. No—a most respectable gentleman, one of the richest residents in Midwich at the time. And quite an eminent author. Maybe you've heard of him? But no—after the bomb went off, his books disappeared from the libraries and booksellers, bit of an embarrassment for them—so you won't have."
"I'm baffled. Why would a respectable middle-class gentleman do a thing like that?"
"I'm puzzled too. I was no longer living in Midwich at the time: my parents took me away to here as soon as Theodore was sent to the school. Didn't want to be associated with the place any more, not really surprisingly. I only heard snippets of news about Midwich from my old friends—but they were secretive too."
A sudden thought occurred to Jacqui, remembering Mary's earlier remark about her spinsterhood. "Your son Theodore. What became of his father?"
"There wasn't any. No don't laugh, I'm serious. There really wasn't any! I'd never been with a man—I thought I told you. It was a virgin birth—same for many of the others. And I'll have you know, I'm as good a God-fearing Christian as any other: I still go to Church every Sunday. I firmly believe there was only ever one Virgin Birth in history. To another Mary, not me. So I've always been utterly bewildered as to what happened to me and the other girls. It wasn't right—it seemed like an insult to our Blessed Lord. I named him 'Theodore' at first, because the name means 'gift from God'—but I've since regretted it. God gives, but He also takes away."
Jacqui, who was not religious, was nevertheless much moved by Mary's affirmation. After a pause she asked: "Were you also caught up in that fainting episode—the one that affected everyone in Midwich?"
"The Dayout? Yes I was caught in it. So were all the other girls who had the Children. We thought there might be some connection, but I can assure you, I definitely wasn't raped while I was unconscious. I was still 'intact' afterwards, if you know what I mean. Doctor Willers examined me."
"Did you also know that some sort of UFO was sighted on the ground nearby, while you were all unconscious? 'Unidentified Flying Object'," Jacqui added, by way of clarification.
"You mean some sort of flying saucer? No, I never heard about that. Sounds like poppycock to me. Did your Grandad tell you that?" Mary laughed. "But of course, he used to write Science-fiction stories, didn't he. All about spacemen and weird alien creatures, so I'm told—never read that sort of thing myself. Surely he must have made that bit up."
"Did Grandad also make up the story about you all being unconscious, then? But no, of course he didn't: you've confirmed that part of the story. And what about the strange Children? How strange were they—can you tell me any more about them?"
"The only thing I didn't mention was their eyes. Of course, that's why the men from the Ministry confiscated all our colour photos. A secret, I suppose. The eyes—sort of bright iridescent gold, they were. They all had them."
"Golden eyes? You mean the colour of the irises?"
"Yes. The eyes were quite normal apart from that, and the Children had normal eyesight. Indeed I don't remember any of them wearing glasses. But they used to look at you strangely with those eyes. And they had this power—to compel you to do something."
They fell silent for a while. Then Jacqui had another thought. "Does the name 'Bernard Westcott' mean anything to you?"
" 'Westcott'?" Mary paused in thought for a while. "Yes, the name does ring a bell. Sort of Army chap, was he?"
"Yes, he would have been, back then."
"I think he was around the village quite a lot, after the Dayout. Him and a lot of other military people. But he never lived in Midwich."
That was encouraging. Perhaps Bernard was the next line of enquiry, if she could track him down. Jacqui felt she had absorbed as much as she could take in. Besides, the tea had gone cold. She stood up and thanked Mary profusely for her hospitality.
"Don't even mention it, Jacqui dear. You're welcome to drop in, any time you're passing this way. It's been lovely talking to you, and I get so little company nowadays. And good luck with your search! I'm only sorry I can't help you more. But do please give me your phone number, and I'll give you mine. I'll call if there's anything more I can think of."
Jacqui decided to drive back into Trayne for a rather late lunch, there being no eating-place she fancied in Stouch. But she was determined to investigate this perimeter fence further. So after lunch, she drove back through Stouch and parked as close as possible to where the muddy track began, and put on her boots.
She had walked about three or four miles along the track, always following the fence, without discovering anything. The fence continued as it was, uniform without a break, and with security cameras dotted along it at intervals. She assumed she was being watched and maybe recorded—but she wasn't doing anything wrong—yet. It was late summer and in places she had to push her way through long grass, nettles, or patches of willowherb. Clearly the path was little used. It did seem to be curving slightly to the north, and Jacqui figured that it probably formed a complete circle, surrounding the spot where Midwich ought to be.
Suddenly she spotted a man running across the field towards her, from the other side of the fence. A man in uniform, wearing an Army cap. Oh dear, she thought, now I'm for it! She stopped.
"Excuse me, Madam," said the man as he drew up. "May I ask what you are doing here?"
"Just going for a walk. Is there anything wrong with that?"
"You know that this is a prohibited area, do you not?"
"On the other side of the fence, yes. I saw the sign. I assumed that where I'm walking is not part of the 'prohibited area'."
"You are correct. But we've been watching you for a while, and your actions looked a bit suspicious to us, so I was sent to investigate. Can I ask you for some ID?"
With resignation, Jacqui produced her driving licence and passed it through the fence. The man copied down some details.
Jacqui was minded to ask a few questions. "Is that where Midwich lies, beyond the fence?"
"I'm sorry, I'm not allowed to answer any questions. Now could you please retrace your steps towards the road and leave the area. I shan't report you this time, but if you're seen here again it will be a matter for the Police."
That seemed a pretty unarguable dismissal, Jacqui thought, and it would be best to comply. As a journalist, she was already accustomed to being 'asked to leave'. Too bad—but she had learned enough from Mary to keep her perplexed for days. Anyway, it would be poor form to have to phone Paul to announce that she was in police custody: she could only imagine his glee as he chortled 'I told you so!'.