Grinny Page 3

  So I asked her again about the absence of blood and she was positive. She said there was no blood, no blood at all, the skin was just split open. I asked her what colour the skin was and she said the same colour outside as in. I said, well, there must have been meaty stuff where the bones were, but she said no. There was nothing but the steel ribs and that the skin was just a thick layer ‘like the fat on a mutton chop before it is cooked’, but with a tear in it.

  I thought of all kinds of reasons for her telling this story, ranging from my linocut set, which has very sharp (= frightening) gouges, some of them the same section as umbrella ribs; right down to playing in the garden when we were much younger with an old tattered umbrella, all spokes and no cover (it was pelting with rain and we were making a joke of the useless umbrella, etc., etc.).

  As I was thinking of all the things that might have caused Beth to think she saw what she said she saw, she began again. ‘I saw her wrist mend! I saw it heal itself!’ she said.

  I must say, this gave me goose pimples. I said, ‘What do you mean?’ and Beth told me that as she watched, the skin came together over the broken bones leaving a bump covering the breaks. That was when Beth became really frightened and ran inside.

  I said to her, ‘You know that people actually can have metal bones?’ She said, ‘Oh yes, I’ve always known that and so have you. Father nearly had one, you remember.’ I did remember – he broke a bone and the hospital thought that he might have to have a steel rod inserted to pin the bone. In the end he didn’t. Some people do, however, and it may be permanent. A man in the village has a metal plate in his skull.

  So it is no good me trying to pretend that Beth has some fixation or other about bones and umbrella ribs because she simply hasn’t. Cream, coffee, chocolates, chicken and stuffing – she’s certainly got fixations about them. But not people’s bones.

  By now she was saying, ‘I told you! I knew all along you wouldn’t believe me!’ and preparing to have a good cry again. I managed to avoid this by more kiss and hug treatment and in the end I said, ‘All right, so Grinny has an artificial arm, let’s say, made by some super surgeon. For all we know, she’s got false teeth, wears a wig, has a cork leg and a glass eye. Fine! But what difference does it make? Why get upset and refuse to kiss her goodnight and all the rest of it?’

  Beth set up a great howl and shouted, ‘Oh, how can you be so stupid! It’s nothing to do with false legs and glass eyes – IT’S BECAUSE SHE’S NOT REAL, that’s why I can’t stand her. NONE OF HER IS REAL!’

  She was making such a row that I said, ‘All right, all right, I understand now. And then of course you don’t like the way she smells and it all adds up in your mind –’

  Beth went very white and said, ‘Yes, and she doesn’t smell of anything, that’s another thing! And she asks those stupid questions! And she’s frightened of electricity! It all proves it, she’s not real!’

  I quietened her down eventually (she had started crying again in a very big way) and let her come into my room while I did my homework. She was fairly happy by her bedtime. But I must admit she has put the frighteners on me. I am writing this rather late and I keep expecting a crack to appear in the wall, then a hole, then a metal hand come through the plaster. That sort of thing. A good story might be written about a metal hand.

  I just do not know what to make of it all. Beth’s only a little girl but she is not an idiot.

  Feb. 10

  Big family row today, BAM, POWIE, ECHHHH! Beth the cause. Would not eat her breakfast, doing her White-faced Orphan act, ‘Oh no, Mama, I am not unwell, I am quite all right, it is just that I am not hungry.’ Mum slamming buttered toast down in front of her and saying, ‘Look, you little viper, eat this toast or I will hang you from a hook over a slow fire,’ etc., etc. Lurid imagery. Father moaning, ‘For heaven’s sake shut UP, where are those Canadian boots of mine, blast Beth, I must have dry feet.’ I felt rather sorry for Beth in a way because for once in a million years she could actually have slept badly because of Grinny and the metal bones. Eventually she nibbled at the toast and made a disgusting sick noise and deposited what she had chewed on the plate. Mum instantly all sympathy and tenderness but Father unexpectedly went ape and shouted, ‘Disgusting! What the hell do you mean by,’ etc., etc.

  At this moment, Mac entered looking wholesome and fresh-faced. He had come to pick me up. He instantly sized up the situation and went to work on it with his usual nasty skill. That is what I like about Mac, he is very quick on the uptake. Even though he fancies Beth, he couldn’t resist pushing things a little further. He kept being Cheerful and Nice, a true British Boy, while Mum fumed and Father erupted in grunts and snarls and Beth looked puke-y, Puky? Pukey? Mac said, ‘Gosh! What a super marmalade, Beth! We never have the chunky stuff at home! Gosh you are lucky!’ and so on and Beth looked sicker and sicker. Eventually she fled from the room, wailing. I thought he was overdoing it with the ‘Goshes’ and Father suspected him too, but Father likes Mac because Mac genuinely enjoys swimming even when the water is cold, unlike us, who do it from a sense of duty towards something or other.

  Anyhow, Mum offered Mac a cup of coffee and deliberately put only one spoonful of sugar in it to let him know that she was on to him and Father read the paper very busily, not looking up. Beth then came back looking rabbit-eyed from a quick weep-in and Mac said, ‘Here’s your toast and marmalade, Beth, it’s still OK. Eat hearty!’

  This was pushing his luck. Beth scooped up the toast and flung it at him shouting, ‘Pig! Beast! Swine!’ etc., etc. The toast missed Mac and hit the wall, where it slowly slid down because of the stickiness of the marmalade. It was a marvellous sight, I could not help laughing, but Father was really angry and yelled, ‘Get out, the whole bloody lot of you!’ and went to get a dishcloth to wipe the wall. He made it too wet and now the wallpaper is coming up in a big blister.

  I cannot think why I bother to write all this down, it is so childish and futile. Or perhaps I can think why after all. The point is that GAE was ABOUT TO COME DOWN FOR BREAKFAST. (Astounding, my dear Holmes! But I confess, I remain baffled. Pray be more explicit …) What I mean is this. Grinny has got us all on the run. The mere fact of EXPECTING her to enter the dining room is enough to put everyone on edge. Beth was already on edge of course and who can blame her. But Mum and Father are feeling it too, they do not like the continued presence of Grinny in the house. Before she came, we used to have our breakfasts in a surly but comfortable silence, with Father chomping away and reading the papers, Mum vaguely instructing us in how to be better Citizens of the Future (‘Well, if you think I am going to clean your shoes for you, think again, you will not leave this house until those shoes are cleaned,’ etc., etc.), Beth practising her feminine wiles and me trying to eat as much as possible without exposing my fingernails (‘You are not leaving this house with cabbages growing from your filthy fingers. Edward, say something, he is your son,’ etc.).

  In short, we were quite comfortable and ordinary. But now at breakfast and at many other times of the day, we are all in some funny way awaiting the arrival of Grinny. Father will make to rise from his chair but Grinny will say, ‘Oh, Edward dear, don’t get up,’ – so Father will grin at Grinny and Grinny will grin at Mum and Mum will smirk at me and I will kick Beth under the table, etc., etc.

  At first I thought this uneasiness was something to do with age. Grinny is a very old lady and we, the family, are used to each other and don’t think about each other’s ages, we just accept it (except Mum, who is prone to smile as if she had false teeth when it’s her birthday. I would hate to be a woman but would not mind being a girl – they get it all their own way for the first twenty years or so).

  As I was saying before I so rudely interrupted me, at first I thought it was just the presence of an old lady, a foreigner, in our midst. Now I have caught Beth’s bug – ‘Grinny is not real’ – and find myself brooding about her a lot. But the broken wrist story is a bit too much. When Mac and I were on our way to school
I said, ‘Mac, what do you think of Grinny?’ He said, ‘Queer old party. Rather you than me.’

  I said, ‘What do you mean, queer?’

  He replied, ‘Her Mona Lisa smile. She looks like the cat that swallowed the canary. As if she knew it all.’

  I said, ‘But she doesn’t know anything much, that’s what’s so annoying about her. She’s always asking daft questions, you must have noticed.’

  He said, ‘Yes, she fixes you with her eye and asks all those questions … What does she live on?’ ‘Food,’ I replied. Mac said, ‘You’re so cute. I mean, has she any money? Does she pay you rent or something? Has she an income?’

  I had never thought of this, but am thinking about it now. I am also thinking about how long she will stay, why it is that Mum and Father never talk about her going (they certainly talk about certain of our guests going, and the sooner the better!) and why it is that even now, after all this time, nobody ever talks about Grinny’s early days with our Granny.

  I have been nice to Beth this evening, but she is still in a silent and won’t-play mood. How strange if Beth were right and Grinny is not real! And if she isn’t a real GAE, what the hell is she instead?

  Feb. 12

  Beth now in a very different mood. She has gone all defiant and We Shall Not Be Moved. Strike Action. She now refuses to kiss Grinny goodnight and barely talks to her. Big scenes with Mum, who says, ‘You must,’ but Beth just says, ‘I won’t.’ And she doesn’t, I must hand it to her for that.

  I talked to her (Beth) about it this evening and you gotta hand it to the little lady, she’s convinced herself. Do not confuse me with the facts, my mind is made up, etc., etc. She says, ‘Grinny is not real, she is horrible. I won’t have anything to do with her. And that is that.’

  Grinny takes it very well, just smiles vaguely and lets it pass. She does not attempt to be nice to Beth and strike up conversations. Father hardly notices.

  Feb. 18

  Re Beth’s Operation Grinny (see Feb. 12). Report from all Fronts. Beth still on strike, Mum still saying, ‘Oh do see reason’, Father still silent, Grinny still grinning, Mac now more curious than anyone but me.

  At teatime (Mac with us after soccer) Mac asked her point-blank about earlier days. He did it all very well, the uninstructed youth bowing before the wisdom of old age, etc., etc. Where did she spend her childhood, he asked, and wouldn’t let go.

  Mum tried to interrupt by saying something or other, I forget what, but Mac kept asking. At last Grinny said, ‘Oh, the past is over and done with, I never think of the past.’

  Mac still pressed on and said, ‘Oh, but surely you must think about your sister, Tim’s granny?’

  Mum sort of gasped and made a face to shut Mac up but Grinny replied, ‘Well, you see, my sister and I were so very different. Quite different. Very close, of course, but quite different.’ Then she gave a sort of little laugh which could have been embarrassment but which Beth said later was sinister (Beth’s new word).

  Mac said, ‘But –’ and Mum came in very strong saying, ‘Mac, I would rather you didn’t pester Aunt Emma with questions.’

  Mac said, ‘But –’ again, and Mum said, ‘More tea, Aunt Emma? More tea, anyone?’ and that was that.

  Now comes the significant part. An hour or more later, I found Mum in the kitchen and said to her, ‘Oh, I do wish you had let Mac go on, I was hoping we’d find out.’ She said, ‘Go on about what?’ I said, ‘About Aunt Emma’s past and about Granny and everything.’

  She looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘What are you talking about? Mac said what?’ She did this as if she really meant it – as if she really had forgotten the conversation. But she doesn’t forget things, she has the usual terrifying WAW memory about anything to do with people – what they wore, what they said, etc., etc. Anyhow, I kept on at her a bit more and even said, ‘Don’t you remember telling us not to pester Aunt Emma with questions about Granny?’ but either Mum wasn’t really hearing me or she was making everything slide out of her mind.

  Unless, of course, someone else – Grinny herself! – was making her forget.

  Then suddenly Mum looked ill. She put her hand to her head and said, ‘I’m so tired. My head aches.’

  I have just reread all this and have realized what a complete fool I am making of myself. Going on like a girl about what this one said and what that one said and if you want my opinion … worse than a girl. And all about a perfectly ordinary old lady.

  I HEREBY RESOLVE TO SHUT UP ABOUT GRINNY and concentrate on things that matter. I WOULD BE ASHAMED IF THIS DIARY WERE FOUND because it is full of drivel and has nothing that matters. IT IS ALSO APPALLINGLY WRITTEN.

  TIMOTHY CARPENTER, TURN OVER A NEW LEAF. TIMOTHY CARPENTER, TURN …

  Feb. 19

  I resolved yesterday to stop writing about Grinny and start writing about something important.

  I must break the first promise if only to keep the second.

  Something extraordinary happened last night and it concerns Grinny.

  I must make sure to get everything in the right order and into plain English.

  First the UFO (Unidentified Flying Object). There have been various UFO scares in this district, and I never believed in such nonsense. Now I have changed my mind. I saw a UFO myself. So did Beth and my father.

  It happened like this. I prepared to go to bed after writing up my diary at about 12.30, which is late for me. I suppose I was the last person awake in the house except for one – but more about that later.

  I looked out of the window because it was a cold night and I like the look of the moon on frost. The moon was very bright indeed, almost full. Unusually bright – the frost made the whole scene super-real, like a stage set with special pale blue lighting.

  In spite of the brilliance of the light, I saw it perfectly distinctly.

  When I first saw it, it was fairly near the moon’s position in the sky. It was far brighter than the moon and had a yellowish brilliance. I remember thinking how it clashed with the steely blue of the moon. I also remember seeing the yellowish reflections of its light on the frosted grass of the lawn – the sort of effect you get when you look at a boat with a light on it, far out at sea. Only very different of course, because it made warm, yellowish reflections on the blueish grass.

  I had plenty of time to look and all the time I stared at it, my heart was going faster and faster. So I was excited, but only physically, not mentally. I remember thinking, ‘If it stays there much longer, I will be able to get Father and he can agree with me about what I am seeing.’

  It did stay in position – or rather, it travelled so slowly that I had to keep checking the gap between It and the moon’s position. It went very slowly and not steadily. Sometimes it paused. When it started to move again, it made an oval luminous halo or nimbus. I think (and so does Father) that it was flying within our atmosphere and this nimbus was the result of very cold air being disturbed by the thrust and/or movement of It. Rather like the contrails (condensation trails) you get from ordinary aircraft.

  Without taking my eyes off it, I moved away from the window and felt behind me for my telescope, which is hung on two hooks on the wall. It is not a high-power instrument, just a World War Two military telescope used for artillery spotting and so on. But it does give a very sharp image, as good as the best modem field glasses, Father says. I felt for and found the telescope and, constantly keeping my eyes on It, pulled the telescope into rough focus. Then I lowered the window and rested the telescope on the frame to steady it and the UFO just jumped into focus!

  I could see nearly everything about it. I could even see that it was revolving slowly, in a clockwise direction, and had several ‘windows’ or vents. I could very easily see its halo or nimbus, which looked like cirrus cloud (the very high, veil-like cloud).

  At this moment, I heard my parents’ bedroom door open quietly and Father’s footsteps padding along. He was going to the loo. I ran backwards to my door, still keeping my eyes on It,
and called him. He said, ‘Oh, aren’t you asleep? Now what’s the trouble?’ and came rather grumpily into my room.

  He said, ‘What are you doing in the dark?’ and turned the light on. (I forgot to mention that I had turned the light out the better to see the moonlit frost.) I said, ‘Turn it off! Quickly! Come over here!’

  He was still saying things rather crossly and sleepily but I said, ‘Look! Up there, in the sky! Look through the telescope!’

  He looked for a long time and said, ‘My God!’ Then he said, ‘Pinch my arm, Tim.’ I thought he was joking but he was not, so I pinched him fairly hard. He said, ‘All right, all right. My God!’

  A little later he said, ‘I must get my camera, it should be a cinch to get a picture with the long lens. It can’t be far away, you can see it so well, so clearly …’

  I said, ‘What about the police? Shouldn’t I telephone them, no one will ever believe us!’

  He replied, ‘I would rather you got the camera – no, I’ve a better idea, wake your mother and Beth, the more witnesses the better.’ Then he changed his mind again and said, ‘No, don’t wake your mother, she was so tired … get Beth, then the camera. Quick as you can.’

  I said I would and asked if anything was happening (my father was looking through the telescope, not me). He said, ‘No, it’s just moving in occasional lazy spurts, always in the same direction. And each time it moves it makes a mist –’

  ‘Like a nimbus?’ I interrupted.

  ‘Yes, I think it’s simply condensation, frozen vapour!’

  Which is exactly what I had thought. Father and I agreed this point later. Presumably it must have been well within our atmosphere for there is no moisture to condense in true space.

  I got Beth. She wakes very fast and I could hear her exclaiming while I prodded about behind the desk in Father’s study (it is next to their bedroom) looking for his camera case. I found it and took it to him. He was just taking the telescope from Beth, who was murmuring, ‘A space ship! It is a space ship!’ in an astounded sort of way. Father said, ‘Can you put the longest lens on, Tim?’ but I replied (rather craftily, because I wanted to get back to the telescope), ‘No, I’d rather you did it, Father, it’s safer!’ So I got the telescope from him while he opened the camera bag and got the body and long lens out. Then he started swearing mildly, saying, ‘It’s got a blasted colour film in, it will be too slow, I’ll have to change to black and white – is the thing still there, Tim?’