The Pan Book of Horror Stories

OH, MIRROR, MIRROR Nigel Kneale

There’s no call to start so, Judith. It’s only your auntie. Lie back in the bed now. Let me pull the covers round you against the draught. And a sip of water: your forehead’s hot.

No, you’re wrong, dearest. It’s hot, not normal. So often that way; I don’t like it. Oh! You mustn’t listen when I say such things, talking to myself. I’m such a silly; I meant nothing. Really—nothing. Yes, I know it feels cool to you, but then—never mind! Poor little Judy!

I’m going to sit with you for a while. There! What jolly cane chairs you have in your room, haven’t you? I think they are two of the cosiest in the whole house. Age doesn’t matter with really good articles, you know that. Don’t you? And fumbling repairs sometimes spoil things we’ve grown used to and fond of.

Now, I want you to he quite still and restful. I’m going to talk to you, dear.

Yes, it’s about what happened yesterday afternoon.

Won’t you tell me why you did it, Judith? You may as well. Because I know, anyway; more than you do.

No! No!

Don’t hide your face like that! Oh, it hurts your auntie more than you can tell when her little girl won’t speak to her.

Yesterday I was arranging her tea and wondering what would please her most. I had found a bright, clean napkin for her tray, and I was cutting bread thin as thin, and cornerwise, because that is how she likes it. And then I looked out of the window.

What I saw upset me very much. It was my little girl running, wasn’t it? Running far down the garden to where the wall joins the big door. And peeping behind her to see if I watched. But I was behind the curtains.

Then I felt something inside me. Here. A tight, cold feeling all round my heart.

Because of two things. One was that she should go so terribly against my wishes. So many times I have said, since she was quite tiny, ‘You mustn’t go outside the garden, Judith,’ and ‘You ought never to run.’ But there she was, in spite of all I had said and done for her. It made your auntie extremely unhappy, Judith.

But the second reason was sadder still. As I ran out on to the lawn, I was saying to myself, ‘Now she will have to be told everything, and it may break her heart. Something wicked has made her do this, and she must know, so that she can resist it.’ That’s what I said to myself as I was running down the path. ‘She will have to be told,’ I said.

You weren’t able to go very fast, were you, dear? You are so young, and I am your old aunt, and yet I caught up with you among the pear trees. Was it really that you slipped upon the path? Or was it perhaps, something else?

Now I want you to take another sip of water—there! Are you quite comfortable? You must be very brave. Give me your hand, dear. Such a frail little hand, tight in mine.

Very brave indeed, Judith. I’ll have to tell you something that will be a very great shock. I’m going to be as gentle as I can, but it will still be a shock.

Let me see. You remember that fairy tale from when you were very small—‘The Ugly Duckling’? It looked so odd and different that the other ducks and everybody drove it away. And then it changed and grew into a beautiful swan. Do you know what ‘beautiful’ is, Judy? You liked that story very much, though.

Now, just think, dear. Supposing—just supposing that the duckling hadn’t changed at all. Supposing it became a still uglier one? That wouldn’t have made a happy ending, would it?

Hold your auntie’s hand very tightly, my love, and try to be ever such a brave girl. You see, Judith, I’m afraid you’re that kind of duckling.

There, there!

Ever since you came here as a tiny tot with no mother and daddy, I’ve known some day I’d have to tell you that you were—different from other people.

Now you’re understanding. Why nobody comes here. Why I have to have a high, safe wall round the garden—that you never go outside. And why your auntie takes such care of you, every minute of the day.

I suppose you’ve often wondered why it was like that, haven’t you? But you’ve always been so good and done as auntie bid, and auntie loves you so very much.

It would have been the same if your—parents had lived. Your lovely mamma would have done what I did; we understood each other so well, as sisters do. I knew everything she should have, every single thing that was best for her. And then she married your father—she had no right. . . .

We—we’ll not talk about that. It’s only what I said before. He wasn’t really for her. Not for her. That’s it, he wasn’t—good enough.

And so, they’ve both gone a long time, and poor old auntie’s minding this little girl instead.

And the little girl wants to know why she cannot go out and see the world at last. Because she’s grown to fifteen years old.

Well now, just wait a minute.

Here’s the mirror, down from its hook. I can rest it against the foot of the bed. Carefully does it when the frame is loose.

Can you see into it, Judith? Raise yourself a little, dear. There. See the precious duckling clearly?

This is the part that is going to hurt, even with her auntie’s arm tight round her.

I want you to look at that shape in the mirror, Judy. Such a slender, curvy body, isn’t it? So soft and pale. Those swollen little breasts.

Did you think that was right? Did you?

Now look at me, dear. I’m not like that at all. See how strong and solid I am, straight everywhere, in every line? That’s the way people are, Judith. People outside.

That little face of yours, Judy. Pale, nearly like the bedsheets, except for two pinky cheeks and red lips. Eyes as blue as—copper rot. Mine are dark brown, and my skin is dark and tough. And hair—look in the mirror, dear; see that thin, soft, shiny yellow, like fading grass? Not thick and black, like other people’s.

My little Judy—crying! Oh, what sobs!

You just didn’t know how—different you were. I’ve always kept it from you. That is why there are no pictures of people in the rooms. I didn’t want you to be hurt.

Brown skinned and hard, they are, with strong black hair. I’m one of them.

So I can go out and talk among them. And they don’t know about you, these dark people. Only I think of my little girl at home that’s different.

Now, Judy, do you know what would have happened if your old auntie hadn’t cared for you yesterday, and run to stop you and guide you back to this house? Do you know what would have happened if you had gone past the pear trees and the green water tank, and up to the big door? And if it hadn’t been locked—but it always is—and you had opened and walked outside?

Something very horrible, Judith.

You would have seen people like me—all like me, Judy—only not smiling, I’m afraid.

You would have seen them halt in the distance, and point, and murmur to each other in their dry, grey roads; and move softly in the shadows. And presently, as you walked, you would hear tiny shufflings and mutterings. And you would glimpse a head of a person on the other side of a wall, keeping pace with you, or a grey hand signalling in a doorway. And then things would come quietly through the hot dust. They would be people. And they would be following you. Because you were different.

Remember how ail the animals were unkind to the Ugly Duckling? People can be far crueller.

You might speak to one of them, but your voice would be tiny with fright. His head would turn away, with eyes remaining on you, and he would talk loudly and hard. Not to you—to the others. You would feel the whisper run through, sealing them against you, and teeth and eyes would shine out from the whole band of them. Then they would be thrustling, jostling, screaming, and all the roads clattering with laughter. ‘Look at they eyes!’ they would shout. ‘See it! How it cries! There it is, running!’ And the shouts would become the echo of your own feet beating along the middle of the lanes, and the stones ringing under them. Running until you couldn’t go any longer! And behind, they would be coming, closing on you!

Like one of those dreams auntie calls nightmares, but this time it would be true, Judy. Perhaps in your dreams, you know.

It’s terrible to be different.

But your auntie’s here. She understands. And there’s a high wall, and nothing to be afraid of, if they don’t see inside.

And when you make that singing, or sit watching the clouds and wondering, or tremble at the thunder, there’s only auntie to know that you’re doing what no one else does. Isn’t there? And auntie’s your friend who understands.

My Judith is brave, and she won’t cry any more now, will she? Just one last look in the mirror at that strange little face, so that she’ll know finally what her auntie meant.

Oh, my poor girl! Can’t she bear to look? Can’t she, then?

Don’t hide in the bedclothes, dear. You’re never strange to me, you know.

Take the mirror away? Wait, Judith.

I’ve something for you. I knew what a horrible shock it would be, and I got what may help my little girl to bear it.

There. Right in her little hand. Do you know what it is, dear? A bottle of stain—quite harmless brown stain. It smells rather sweet.

If she wants, she can add a little to her washing water. To darken those hands and those pink and white cheeks. And when she looks in the mirror, she won’t seem so different after all. She can pretend to be like me, can’t she?

And after that we must simply be patient and auntie loving, because we haven’t so very long in this world, have we? And if we’re not ordinary. . . .

Now, if the little girl stops crying and lies quietly and still, she shall have a plate of bread and butter cut just as she likes it. And some little treat. Her auntie will sit with her in this beautiful cosy room, and we shall have a game of ludo.

For I understand. And she’s my very own. For always.

Poor little Judy.