The 7th Fontana Book of Great Ghost Stories

GONE AWAY A. E. Coppard

Three people were touring through France in a fast motor car, John Lavenham and Mary his wife, with their friend Anson, a morose man who could not speak French and complained of the absence of mountains—had they been in the Alps he would have snorted over the absence of boulevards. It was a fine August morning, sparkling, glorious. They had gone through a city called Rouen, a town by the name of Beauvais, and were now pouring over a vast plain burdened from end to end with its million shocks of ripe corn, which Anson declared was the nearest blessed thing to a champaign that his eyes had ever seen. Well, that was soft-rolling Picardy. There were also the advertisements of M. Dubonnet’s tonique and avenues of trees—maple, chestnut, and poplar of all kinds—which began nowhere and ended, like time itself, in the hereafter. The three travellers in the car were dejected, although there was nothing to daunt the spirit in those ineffable leagues. Far from the bedecked and Baedekered bathing places the plain had ripened and fulfilled itself and was snoozing placidly under the sun, serene, triumphant, with its little brooks cataracting everlastingly over their quiet stones. But the three in the car were joyless and dispirited, some melancholy had grown upon them. In one week they had journeyed a thousand miles in a sheer rush of enjoyment—one thousand and seventy-eight miles to be precise—but a disquiet they could give no name to had brushed them with its sinister wing. It wasn’t vague autumn, the fall of the year, or the monotonous vista of trees; it was some personal prevision, common to all three, of the turn (as it were) of a tide that would not flow in for ever. And it was, to a faint degree, unnerving.

‘This visibility,’ remarked John at the wheel, ‘seems quite unreal, like crystal.’

‘Crystal’s real enough,’ said Anson.

‘So’s a feather bed, but you can’t see through it.’

‘You can sleep on it.’

‘You can’t sleep on crystal,’ snapped John.

‘Who wants to? And what the deuce are you stinging me for, anyway?’

‘I’m not stinging you, my dear fellow. I only say the visibility is marvellous.’

‘So it is. All right, all right. It’s a miracle.’

Mary, who was sitting beside her husband, called over her shoulder to Anson in the back of the car:

‘Perhaps . . . if it were more picturesque here . . . don’t you think . . .?’

‘It’s picturesque enough,’ he stubbornly replied.

‘Well . . . but something a little more . . . you know . . . unlike what we expected . . .?’

‘What did we expect?’ he asked.

‘O . . . I don’t know . . . it looks as if there was no end to anything!’

‘Well, there isn’t,’ Anson snorted.

John, at the wheel, giggled grimly. ‘Sing something,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Anything a bit lively.’

Anson reflected: ‘Could you endure,’ he asked, ‘a mildly bawdy song?’

‘Just as you like,’ John answered; but Mary said: ‘No. O gracious no, not this morning.’

For a while Anson sat fumbling with his depression. No end! May be; there is change. World without end, yes! The plain diminishes as the towns encompass it, the roads straighten or swerve anew, the high old tower falls, the tree dies and from its myriad seeds renews again. Yet it all takes no account of me! I’m a nonentity, I’m ignored as though I were doomed from the beginning! But I am not doomed, I swear I am not, I will not be. ‘Shall we, do you think,’ he shouted to John, ‘be able to get a Times at the next town? I feel shockingly cut off from everything. Haven’t seen a newspaper for a week.’

At that moment John was slowing up the car to go over a small stiff narrow bridge. It had a pert yellow sign upon it.

‘What the devil does that say?’ John stopped the car under the trees. There was a brook under the bridge, and on either hand fields swarming with stooks undulated to the skyline. For some moments he and Mary tried to translate the inscription on the sign, but it was difficult and Anson could give them no help.

‘As far as I can make out, it means The Bridge of the Hump-backed Donkey,’ said John; and Mary dubiously agreed.

‘Sounds a little sarcastic.’ Anson sighed. ‘Where are we?’

‘Don’t quite know,’ John slowly said. ‘And it wouldn’t be that.’

‘Wouldn’t be what?’

‘Sarcastic—not in France. It means something—something else.’

Mary, studying a map, enquired: ‘How far have we come this morning, John?’

John glanced at the speedometer, then bent—and stared and stared.

‘Nine . . . thousand . . . miles!’

‘Don’t be absurd,’ Mary exclaimed.

‘Well, look at it! It’s going now—and we’ve stopped! The damn thing has gone wrong somehow. We’ve come . . . what d’ye think . . . nine thousand miles this morning, Anson! That’s going some! Look at the blessed thing.’

All three stared at the face of the instrument. The little red figures denoting a furlong kept flicking on. A mile was registered in a flash. Then another.

‘What a nuisance!’ laughed John. ‘Must get it seen to at the next stop if I can.’

‘And I must get a Times if I can,’ added Anson. ‘I feel done without a Times. What’s our next town?’

‘It ought to be . . . but I can’t seem to make anything out this morning,’ stammered Mary.

‘There’s a milestone along there,’ John interjected, and he drove the car slowly along to the stone. It stood under a maple tree, a bone-white pillar with a painted red cap.

John stared at it. Mary stared at it.

‘What does it say?’ asked Anson.

‘Well, it’s a rum ’un,’ John said. ‘A rough translation would be: A thousand miles to here!’

‘Here? Where is here?’

‘That’s what’s so rum. That’s what it doesn’t tell you. I’ve never seen a stone like that before. We must have a look at it.’

They all got out of the car and walked up to the inscrutable stone. At the back of it they found another inscription which said: A thousand miles to there!

‘It does begin to look a bit sarcastic, after all,’ laughed Anson.

They gazed around. There was not a living being in sight.

‘I’d like to take a photograph of that,’ said John.

The road lay straight for miles under its endless avenue of trees. No sound of a car reached them, or of bird or beast, no voice of a child, only the leaves on the trees faintly hissing. There was a pronounced smell of straw from the corn shocks. And they became aware of a stranger thing as they peered into the view beside the trees. Far ahead in the gleaming distance they could perceive a high hill with the roofs and towers of a city on its top, too far to define and yet clear enough to the casual eye. But what puzzled them all was the sight of something continually puffing up into the air above the hill and then bursting and falling back again, faint curving frills of smoke that shot up with the regularity of a beating pulse, that died and reappeared. Again and again. It looked as though fireworks, huge rockets, were ascending and breaking. But you did not send up fireworks during the day! With the sun so brightly shining, too!

‘O God!’ exclaimed Mary. ‘It’s an earthquake.’

‘No, it’s an explosion,’ Anson quickly said. ‘Might be an arsenal blowing up.’

‘That’s no arsenal,’ said John. ‘Come on, let’s bundle off and have a look at it.’

‘No, no, please, John!’ cried Mary.

‘Aw, it’s all right,’ he replied soothingly. ‘What’s the matter? We must have a look at it. We won’t go too near, only somewhere where we can see it. We might be of some use, you never know. Come on.’

All scrambled into the car.

‘My! If this damn speedometer isn’t smashing all records! Look! Done another five thousand! Did you ever see anything like it? How can the thing go on when the car’s not moving?’

‘Let’s go back, John,’ pleaded Mary with a bruised air.

‘Back! Go back! Where? We can’t go back—not now.’

‘I wish you would,’ said she. ‘I feel . . . you know . . . you know how I feel?’

‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘How do you feel?’

‘I really can’t tell you,’ answered she. ‘It’s ghastly, all this earthquake and things going wrong.’

‘Pooh!’ John edged in the clutch and the car slid off again into the lane of trees. For ten minutes they sped along without speaking, the endless trees screening them from all view of the fiery city, until Mary begged John not to go so fast.

‘I can’t tell how fast we are going,’ he explained. ‘The speedometer says a million miles an hour. We’ll stop and have a look at those fireworks again—it u’ll be nearer now.’

They stopped and emerged. There was blankness beyond the avenue of trees. There was no hill, no city, no explosions. Time had spread its fickle placidity over all the plain once more. Corn, and shocks of corn, feeble brooks, the wide sky, trees, low uplands, and measureless distance.

‘That’s where it was,’ murmured the astounded John. ‘There was a hill, it was over there.’

‘It certainly was there,’ Anson agreed.

‘I do wish we had not come,’ Mary was unnerved.

‘I know!’ cried John. ‘It must have been a mirage! You remember we couldn’t hear any noises.’ His face brightened again. ‘And we ought to have heard something. I’ve seen them before—not in this latitude, though. Fancy that! A mirage!’

‘Was the milestone a mirage?’ asked Anson.

‘Probably,’ laughed the other. ‘And the donkey bridge, too—all the lot of it.’

‘And the speedometer?’

They turned back to the car again and peered in.

‘O lord! Thousands of miles more. Look at it. Thousands, and the damn thing won’t stop!’

They reseated themselves. John lit a cigar. Anson munched an apple. Mary sat with closed eyes. The car plunged on. It came suddenly into a considerable town, all cobbled, with tramlines, shops, markets, and a plage covered with smooth yellow sand. In the centre of the plage was a white marble statue of Joan of Arc standing on a mat of red geraniums, with a live pigeon on her head.

‘What’s this place?’

Mary did not recognise it at all.

‘Dash it!’ growled John, T know this town, I know it well, but I can’t think of its name. There’s a paper shop here though, Anson, halfway up the Rue des Enfers, just along here; Dunoyer’s the name, here we are.’

He swung the car round into a narrow street and halfway up, sure enough, there was the shop of M. Dunoyer. Anson and Mary both went into the shop but M. Dunoyer was profusely desolated; it was deplorable, but he had not got a copy of The Times, but it might be, yes, he was almost certain that it could be obtained at the shop of M. Thievenot in the next street, a street and shop that he described with spirited gestures as he smiled the couple back into the car. John drove on to the end of the street where there was a square with a market of toys and clothing in progress. Cursing the one-way direction, John had to drive right around the square before gliding into the street of M. Thievenot—and then Mary said it was not the right turning. But John was positive, Anson was certain, so Mary said it didn’t matter a bit.

There was no newspaper shop in that street, no sign of M. Thievenot living or dead, and the car soon emerged on a main thoroughfare full of converging traffic.

‘Ah, I see what we’ve done!’ cried Anson. ‘I can tell you where we are now. I know exactly where he is. I’ll run across and get it.’

There and then he stepped out of the car.

‘No, no, get in again,’ I can’t wait for you here in the middle of all these trams!’ stormed John. ‘I must get on a bit further.’

‘That’s all right,’ Anson answered. ‘It’s only just across the way—two minutes. You go on, I’ll find you all right.’

And without more ado he dashed off between the passing carts and cars.

‘Where? Where will you meet us?’ John yelled after him. But Anson was gone.

‘Silly ass!’ John exploded. ‘Suppose he gets lost! He’s never been here before, he can’t speak a word of French, and I’ve got his passport! Nice pickle he’d be in—and so would we. Damn fool!’

But the car had to get out of the road and they drove on a little way until they found themselves once more at the plage with the statue of Joan of Arc.

There they waited.

‘He’ll easily find us here,’ said John to Mary. ‘You look out for him that way and I’ll look this.’

They waited for ten minutes.

‘Now the ninny has gone and lost himself. I knew that u’d happen.’

But Mary said: ‘I expect he is only looking at the shops.’

Another ten minutes passed by with still no sign of Anson, and Lavenham began to fume:

‘O God help that fool!’

‘Don’t quote scripture, please John,’ said Mary apprehensively.

And he said: ‘No, all right, I won’t quote it. Hadn’t you better go and look for him? I’ll stop with the car in case he turns up here while you’re gone.’

So off went Mary. The last he saw of her through the traffic was her blue shoes tripping across the cobbles towards a block of shops.

John sat in the car. He did not want to get out of it, he liked cars and it was a hot day, too hot to go twiddling about on the plage. The trams clanging, the cars hooting with every imaginable torture of sound, and the rattle of carts on the stones, were not things to his liking—he wanted to get away from this town. Lolling back he reviled the fat-headed Anson who had gone chasing after The Times and gazed moodily out of the open window at Joan of Arc amid her geraniums, at people footing idly across the neat yellow sand of the plage or sitting on seats perusing the news with their legs crossed. Four young priests came gaily by in their long black cassocks and Roman hats; they were all smoking thin cigars. A dirty-looking pigeon sipped and bathed in the basin of the fountain; when it fluttered to the ground close to the car it left wet triangular footprints where it walked. By and by, despite the noise, Lavenham fell into a doze.

On waking up he felt sour and ugly. For a moment he had forgotten his whereabouts and did not want to stir. He frowned at the statue of the peerless Joan, and a lanky little girl in a pink tunic who was passing with a fish on a string, but the traffic uproar bit into his consciousness like a hornet at its prey and he sat up sweating most infernally, yawned, blasted, and found he was alone. Mary was gone. Anson was gone. Then he remembered they had gone after The Times at M. Thievenot’s.

His watch was on his wrist. He stared at it—shook it. It had stopped. How long had he been asleep? He could not tell. His watch said it was twelve o’clock, but that was just the time it had registered when they were at The Bridge of the Hump-backed Donkey! It must have stopped there. It was damn silly. He got out of the car and walked about until he saw a clock tower and a clock that denoted three-thirty. Three-thirty! That must be wrong, too. He crossed the road, and peering into a shop doorway saw another clock. It was three-thirty all right! He must have slept, he must have slept, let’s see, he must have been sleeping at least an hour, an hour at least! More than an hour, much more! A nasty anxious feeling assailed him. Something must have happened to Mary—or that idiot Anson! Or could they—would they—have gone to have lunch without him? O no, she wouldn’t do that. Besides, it was long past lunching time. Running back to his car he drove off in it slowly to the shop of M. Dunoyer, searching right and left as he advanced. No, neither the lady nor the gentleman had called there again. Receiving once more the most explicit directions to M. Thievenot’s he was soon at that establishment, but nothing was known of Anson or Mary. Neither had called, M. Thievenot was positive of that. Lavenham rushed back to the plage in his car. Of course, he had been a fool not to have left it there and walked to these shops. Mary or Anson might have returned there and not found him. Lavenham was now thoroughly agitated. It must have been two hours since Anson disappeared. And he had never reached the shop. Neither had Mary. Had they been kidnapped? Or had there been an accident to one of them—perhaps both? Where was the hospital? Off in the car he shot again. ‘This infernal traffic! These blasted lunatics of people!’ He ran over a dog but would not stop until he reached the hospital and blundered up the steps.

No, not there. No accident. No news. Nothing.

Distractedly he fled to the Chief of Police, who was at hand in a quiet street full of offices displaying the golden shields of notaries over the doorways. The police station was in a courtyard and Lavenham drove in under an arch. Jumping from the car he hurried into the office and announced his errand. He was conducted to the room of the Chief, a suave official with the demeanour of a hawk. In stammering French Lavenham explained his predicament.

‘Your name, Monsieur? Your passport.’ And so on. Then the Chief listened to Lavenham’s story and scribbled notes on a pad of paper. Smoking with extreme deliberation a cigar of crumpled design he contrived to make light of the whole affair. Two hours? That was a mere nothing—what was two hours? His off-hand manner only increased Lavenham’s perturbation. The Chief spoke soothingly to him. Whence had he come? Whither was he going?

‘Come?’ Lavenham had to reflect. Where had they stayed last night? He racked his brains, but could not remember! Monsieur the Chief smiled, and Lavenham explained that his mind and recollection had been upset by the occurrences of the morning. To begin with, there was the earthquake. . . .

‘Earthquake?’

‘Yes. Or no, no, it wasn’t. It looked like an earthquake at first but it turned out to be a mirage.’

The officer stared; ‘Where was this, Monsieur?’

‘Where?—That also I cannot tell you.’

The Frenchman, sitting sideways with one arm over the back of his chair and his legs nonchalantly crossed, pursed his lips and dropped his pencil resignedly on the paper pad.

‘You see,’ Lavenham explained, ‘my speedometer has gone wrong. I cannot tell. It says we have come twenty thousand miles this morning.’

‘Monsieur! But that is impossible!’

‘It is impossible, but that is what it says. And that is not all.’

The Chief stood up. He said he would like to see this speedometer. They walked out to the courtyard together. The courtyard was empty. Lavenham’s car was gone.

Lavenham ran out under the arch. The Chief followed him. There was no sign of the car in the street.

Well, but, was Monsieur quite sure he came in his car? It could not have been stolen from the courtyard of the police! Lavenham was really frightened now and could only babble away hysterically in English:

‘What does it all mean! Anson’s gone. My wife’s gone. The car’s gone. What is the meaning of that? What does it all mean? Am I mad, or is it the end of the world? What is the meaning of it? Tell me, please!’

The Chief took him soothingly by the arm and led him firmly back into the police station. The attendant gendarme was questioned: had he seen M. Lavenham arrive? Did he notice M. Lavenham’s car?

No, he had not seen this car. Possibly there had been a car, but he had not noticed its arrival; he had been engaged in the office, he could not say. Beckoning the gendarme to follow them the Chief led Lavenham along a passage and thence into a corridor where there were many doors. The gendarme unlocked one with a key from a bunch he was carrying. The Chief ushered Lavenham into a dim room that had only a table and a bench in it.

‘Monsieur will please to wait here while I make some enquiries for him. Yes, in a few moments.’

And assuring him that he would find out all about everything, the police Chief backed out of the door. The door was abruptly closed and Lavenham was bolted in. Good Lord! He realised he was in a cell! Was he going to be locked up? There were iron bars across the little window. He stood up and peered out. All he could see was the gable end of a big building overtopping a high wall, and on it was an inscription painted in yellow and blue:

He couldn’t help laughing at it, laughing aloud. ‘The friend—ha, ha—of the stomach—ha, ha; ho, ho; good Lord above!’

The Chief of police and the gendarme were conferring in whispers outside the cell. At those sounds of delirious laughter the Chief raised his tufty eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. The gendarme nodded his head. Monsieur the Chief then returned to his office and telephoned for the prison doctor to come and examine an Englishman who had been smitten with sunstroke; he had lost himself and seemed a little mad.

And so, in half an hour the doctor came. As they proceeded together to the cell the Chief explained M. Lavenham’s condition: Earthquakes! You know—his wife gone, his friend gone, his car gone! The gendarme unlocked the door in the corridor and the doctor peered in.

The cell was silent and empty. Lavenham, too, was gone.