The Perils and Dangers of this Night Read Online Free PDF Page B

the ivy which had
crawled up the walls and round the windows shivered in
a cold wind. The woodland creaked and rattled.
    The cloud fogged the moon. Suddenly, at the same time
as the house became black again, the bright light in the
hall went out.
    Dr Kemp was closing the shutters. He moved from
window to window and pulled the wooden shutters shut.
Then, from outside, the building was in total darkness, as
though nobody was inside and it had been abandoned for
years.
    I went in and sat by the fire with Mrs Kemp and the
old dog. It was dismal, the long, oak-panelled room,
which had looked and sounded quite festive when all the
parents and boys had been bustling there just a few hours
before. Now it was revealed in all its shabbiness. It was
a poor fire, a few spitting and smouldering spars of fence
posts and gnarled timber. The Christmas tree, which
almost reached the ceiling in the far corner, was sparsely
lit by a few coloured bulbs and draped with tarnished
tinsel. Along the walls, the photographs of boys and
teachers who had been and gone years ago were faded
and fusty, as blurred as the memory of the faces
themselves. There was a trophy cupboard, but the cups
and shields were nothing much, simply the in-house
prizes for tennis or cricket or soccer or shooting contested
every year by a dwindling number of Foxwood boys. The
honours boards had pride of place, for the school had a
history of real achievement under the rigorous instruction
of Dr Kemp. There was a roll of names going back
through the twenty years he'd been teacher and headmaster
at Foxwood, boys whom he would never forget,
whose talent for music, whose self-discipline and, above
all, whose perfect ear had won them scholarships to
many different and famous schools.
    But the hall was dingy and cold. Worse, somehow,
because it was so grand. The size of a tennis court, with
an enormous stone fireplace and great tall windows with
oak shutters, it had been the warm heart of a lovely
country house. With a splendid fire and warm lighting,
with the heads of gallant beasts displayed around the
walls, with a host of ruddy-faced people, with brave,
sweet-smelling dogs asleep on fine rugs, with good wine
and hot food and maybe some music, it would still have
been the grandest hall in all the county.
    But not now. There was a dog, Wagner, an eighteen-year-old
black labrador, who was just then snoring
sonorously at his mistress's feet: once a fine, strong,
handsome beast – his name pronounced the English way
in reference to his tail – he was fat, with bad hips, a
sagging belly and a malodorous mouth. There would
have been music, from the grand piano in the far corner
of the room, but not now. There was an excuse for a fire.
No laughter, no wine.
    As for food, Mrs Kemp said to me, 'Alan, have another
biscuit.'
    I had a glass of milk in one hand and a chocolate
biscuit in the other. On a little table in front of me there
was a plate with another chocolate biscuit on it. I sat
awkwardly upright on a threadbare sofa. I'd never sat in
the hall before – it was out of bounds except during
music practice – and I felt uncomfortable and embarrassed.
I managed to say through a mouthful of biscuit,
'No thank you, Mrs Kemp.'
    Dr Kemp was closing the shutters, with his back to me
and his wife, half a tennis court away. But when Mrs
Kemp leaned closer to me and whispered, 'Give it to
Wagner then', and even as the dog stirred and started to
struggle to his feet in anticipation of a treat, the man said
loudly, without even glancing over his shoulder, 'No you
don't. We've had him all this time and never fed him
from the table once. We're not starting now.'
    Mrs Kemp raised her eyebrows, winked at me and
back-handed the biscuit to Wagner, who crunched and
swallowed it horribly just before Dr Kemp crossed the
room towards us.
    He stood with his back to the fire, as though he were
warming his legs on the flames. As always, he was
wearing grey trousers and a chequered tweed jacket, a
white