Ramsey Campbell - 1976 - The Doll Who Ate His Mother (17 page)
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Authors: Ramsey Campbell
“All
the ones that are worth writing, he wrote. All the films I used to show had
Shakespeare stories. That was when they bothered with stories. My father acted
most of the plays locally,” he told Chris. “He used to rehearse with us, so I
knew half of it by heart when I was Mark’s age.”
Clare
glanced at Mark. He frowned at his fork, as if it were a problem in mathematics
(astronomy, rather). He smiled shyly to himself when the adults laughed; if he
understood the joke he looked up, laughing, and was his mother.
“Then
I fell in love with the pictures. I remember looking forward to managing one of
my parents’ cinemas. I wanted to give people what the pictures gave me, take
them out of themselves,
make
them feel things they’d
never feel otherwise. The pictures were magic to me. They still are,
sometimes.” He poured more wine. “Of course I didn’t know then how much work
goes into running a cinema. But sometimes when I talk to people coming out of
the film, the magic’s there.”
“Yes,
I’ve finished, thank you. That was very good,” Edmund said; his plate was still
half full. “Only when you talk to people?” he asked George. “Not when you watch
the films?”
“They
aren’t making films for me
any more
. Oh, a few. But
I’m not there to please myself.” Alice was serving tinned pudding to the
children, fruit and cream to the adults. “The thing I had last week, supposed
to be a horror film,” George said. “It was horrible all right. About an actor
who kills off his critics. I wouldn’t have minded, but he was a Shakespearean
actor, supposed to be copying his
behaviour
from
Shakespeare. There was one,” he said to Chris, “where he cooks up a man’s pet
dogs and makes him choke on them. Oh, I’m sorry,” he said as Clare froze. “My
table manners aren’t all they should be.”
“It
isn’t that,” Chris said. “I think Clare’s worried because the man Edmund’s
hunting ate my cat.”
George
slapped his forehead.
“God in heaven.
I am a very
foolish fond old man, or I might as well be. I’m sorry. One day I’ll learn to
keep my mouth shut.”
“Shit,
no. It doesn’t matter. Clare told me about your mother and her dog.”
“
Ate
your cat?” Mark said.
“Yeah.”
“That’s
enough, Mark,” Alice said.
“But
I want to hear about who ate his cat.”
“No,
you don’t. And I’m sure nobody wants to talk about it, either.”
Into
the silence Edmund said, “It’s presents time.” He took several books from his
attache
case. “I thought you should know what my books are
like, since you’re going to be in one. Here you are, Clare. I wrote that one
with ladies in mind.”
Love
Has Many Weapons. The heart has its reasons for murder, and here’s Edmund Hall
with a dozen of the best. Opposite the blurb Edmund had written “To Clare, who
still owes me a dinner date.” The row of kisses might almost have been stylized
graves. She wondered if he meant her to remember the awkward scene in his hotel
room.
“I
couldn’t leave you out, Alice. That’s one for the ladies too.” He dealt her The
Homicidal Heart. “Here’s George’s. That’ll give you some good dreams.” He
winked at George, who stared at Sinister Sirens. “Oh, I didn’t know you were
coming,” Edmund said to Chris.
“‘Was
ever book so fairly bound?’” George said. “I’ve left a bit out of that. Never
mind. Thank you, Ted.”
“About
my book—there’s something I wanted to say while we’re all together. It would be
heartless of me not to put in something about your loved ones. Well, you’re the
ones who can tell me what to put. But it isn’t the sort of thing I should take
notes of. Write it down for me, anything you want to say. Oh, Clare, can you
tell me where I can contact your sister-in-law?”
“Dorothy?
I’ll ask her if she wants to get in touch with you.”
“Sell
me to her as hard as you can. Now there’s one more thing. I expect this book to
make me a lot of money. Jesus.”
The
rabbit had been rubbing her chin on his
attache
case;
now she was nibbling a corner. Clare made a grab—she didn’t want Edmund to get
his hands on the rabbit—but the animal fled under the table. Olivia picked her
up. The girl’s long face had been morosely introverted throughout the meal,
rather like George’s in his office; now it softened as she carried the rabbit
out, stroking her ears. “Naughty
Flopsy
,” she said
softly.
“Naughty girl.”
“I
expect to make a lot of money,” Edmund said. “I want the book to make you some
too. You’re contributing; you get paid as contributors.
Now,
George, no arguments.
You’d pay a man if he helped you run your cinema.”
George
was gazing into himself. “Say it, George. Whatever it is,” Edmund said.
“I
was thinking of my mother. She worked in a music hall when she was eight. She
helped my father start the cinemas. She brought me up and looked after him, and
kept the cinemas going. And—I never told you this, Alice—she sold her house to
subsidize the
Newsham
.”
“I
know she did,” Alice said, smiling for him alone.
“You’d
think she’d earned a peaceful death, wouldn’t you? Instead of—”
“I
know,” Alice interrupted. Clare sensed her heading him off before he upset
himself. “Why don’t you show them the music hall scrapbook?” Alice said.
“There’s
a bit of business I want to discuss,” Edmund told George.
“Mark,
see if Olivia wants to play in the park. Will you wash?” Alice said to Clare.
“My nails break easily.”
She
switched on the fluorescent tube; it stuttered like lightning. Something
rattled loudly in the front room. “Come and help me sort out the children,”
Alice said.
The
children had drawn the partition which stood in for the dividing wall; it rattled
as Alice pushed it back. “Is the funny little car yours?” Olivia asked when she
saw Clare.
“Now,
Olivia. They’re good little cars, those,” Alice said. “Don’t get settled in
here, children. We’ll need all the room.”
“Oh, why?”
Olivia said.
“Because Daddy and his friends want to talk about Grandma Pugh.”
“What
about her?”
“Just about her, Mark.
It wouldn’t interest you.” But Olivia
was sobbing. “Oh never mind,
lovey
,” Alice said,
putting an arm about the girl’s trembling shoulders. “I know, I know.”
The
television shouted; interference or a flaw plucked at the image, pinching it
inward. “No, Mark. Not when we’re going to talk. Tidy up your books, now. It’s
too nice to stay in. Why don’t you go for a ride in the park?”
Mark
gathered up books about astronomy. “I can’t ride my bike,” Olivia said, picking
up books on costume, sniffling. “It hurts,” and she ran upstairs.
“Take
Olivia to feed the ducks, Mark.”
“I
want to play football.”
“Go on, Mark.
Your sister isn’t well; she needs cheering up.
Until she gets used to it,” she said to Clare.
“Used to what?”
“Something that only happens to girls, Mark.
I’ll tell you
about it later if you promise to be nice to her. And don’t ask her!” she
shouted after him.
Clare
gazed at the rabbit, which had dozed through the whole thing, squashed small on
an armchair, nose buried in the fur of her chest. “Let’s do the washing up,”
Alice said. In the dining room she said, “You boys had better take your seats
in the other room before the children and animals steal them.”
Which meant she would be excluded from their talk, Clare thought,
frustrated.
It annoyed her, this assumption that men must talk while
women did the washing up.
“That’s
got rid of them,” Alice said. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you alone. Is
Edmund a friend of yours?”
“Not
particularly. I’m helping him.”
“What’s
your opinion of him?”
Clare
gazed into the yard, which was almost full of a coal shed and four bicycles. “I
don’t know,” she said guardedly. “What’s yours?”
“I
don’t like him.”
The
tap coughed up ropes of water. Clare dropped cups into the suds; the washing-up
bowl plopped like a pond.
“Why not?”
George
appeared, seeking glasses. He took three as Alice wiped them. “What about the
kitchen staff?” she said.
“Oh,
we’re not drinking yet.
Just getting ready.”
He began
to tidy the draining board, until Alice shooed him away, flapping her towel.
“‘Away,
you scullion!’” he shouted, dodging.
“‘You
rampallian
!
You
fustilarian
!’”
and slammed the door just ahead of a ball of towel.
“Why
don’t I like
Edmund.
Because he uses
people.
I didn’t like him when George told me about him. He made you do
all the talking to George, didn’t he? I think he uses people so he won’t get
involved himself.”
“Did
you make him dinner so you could examine him?”
“No,
it’s just that George is more relaxed at home, especially after dinner. I
thought I’d make sure he was a match for Edmund.” She rubbed a plate,
preoccupied. “And I wanted to be nearby when they talked. I don’t want George
upset again. He loved his mother very much, you see. So did
I
.”
She turned away. Suddenly she smiled widely at Clare. “I’m glad I’ve met you,
though. And your friend is nice.”
“Yes,
he is rather.” Clare was surprised how proud she felt to say so—prouder than she’d
ever felt while defending Rob to her parents. Rob made her think again of
Dorothy.
Poor Dorothy.
Here with the
Pughs
, Clare could see how unsuited Rob and Dorothy had
been. She must go and see Dorothy. God, how bitchy she’d been to her last time!
Maybe she could find Dorothy a man. Her mind listed couples: Rob and Dorothy,
George and Alice—
It
stopped, because she’d stopped
it. “Yes, I’m fond of Chris,” she said, to get him out of her mind.
But
she found she had been in his. “I’m not surprised you showed it twice,” he was
saying to George. “
Bonnie and Clyde
,”
he explained to the late-comers.
“My
favourite
movie.
The first part, anyway.
Before they all
start to get killed.”
“Can
we get on now?” Edmund demanded, impatiently laying aside one of several
scrapbooks and photo albums.
