Stories of the Strange and Sinister (Valancourt 20th Century Classics) by Frank Baker Page B
Authors: Frank Baker
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the wearied endless stream of song ceased, and the small bird fell like a stone to the grass in the recreation ground. Barley rushed out and searched in the dewy grass. For many minutes she went round and round the place where she thought the bird had fallen. Then, just as she was about to take one step forward, she heard a tiny voice from the ground.
‘Oh Barley, I have finished singing forever. Pick me up, dear. Take me home.’
Barley, wondering whether she were dreaming, picked up the small warm bird, covered it in her hands, and took it home. She laid it on a cushion on the sofa where the bright morning sun shone upon it. The little body was trembling with faint life. Barley knew it must die.
‘Oh, Polly dear, can you speak to Barley once again?’
Very, very faint came the answering words, words that were like the tinkle of light rain upon summer leaves.
‘Barley, I had to go this way, dear. It had been coming on me for weeks. I tried to stop singing forever. I did not want to leave you. But this was my fate and I knew it. My father told me at one of the séances that my mother had beaten him. There was no music where he had gone to, he said. And he warned me that if I let myself go the same way, I should meet with the same fate. Now, it is the lark who sings at Heaven’s gate, dear; and I have done that. During the rehearsals I could not dare to sing. I was too frightened. Not until I got to the beautiful Albert Hall and watched Sir Kenneth could I find my voice again. The moment we stood up I knew something curious was happening to me. I saw Sir Kenneth’s baton raised. And then – well, Barley dear, I sang . . . and the moment I touched my first note I knew that Polly Ponsonby had ceased to exist as you knew her. I could, of course, have stayed there, perched on Brenda’s shoulder perhaps. I did brush my wings against her cheek. But when a lark sings he must rise. And rise I did and found, by merciful providence, a broken pane of glass through which I flew to the Albert Memorial.
‘I wanted to let you know, but I could not do so earlier, in case you should tell Rye and he would put me in a cage. It was that which kept me away from you, Barley. Yet all through the winter, when I should, of course, have emigrated, I could not resist singing over my old places. There is nowhere more beautiful than Sydenham in the world, I am sure. I am glad that I stayed. But it has given me a chill from which I shall not recover. I don’t mind. I have sung my life out as a lark should. And now I go to – nothing, as larks do. It is much better to be a lark than go on wandering round circles as the spiritualists do, or live forever in Heaven as the Christians do – or, as I fear some do, pass to the other place. A lark has the best of both worlds, and by his art of singing gives the very breath of life to his body. Mr Shelley knew all about it. Goodbye, Barley dear. Don’t stuff me. Bury me with father’s flute.’
With a little shudder the small bird died. And so Polly Ponsonby passed forever away from Baker’s Lane.
If you go to the cottage now, a very old lady who lives alone, a Miss Merton, may perhaps be induced to talk of these events. But she prefers to remain silent with her memories.
III
The Sack
It’s no use pretending I can go on much longer. I can’t. And that is an understatement. Yet I must understate it, try to rationalise it. Get it out of my system. And the only way I can do that is to put it down on paper. For who to read? God knows.
Living alone, I’m well aware that one gets silly ideas. You come back to the house when you’ve been for a prowl round the park, and it’s late afternoon with the sun setting and winter round the corner, as you might say (for it’s autumn as I try to write this), and you see a kitchen chair or a saucepan or a shovel left exactly where you left them. And you think – they’ve been moved. Then, looking back, you realize everything is just as when you went
‘Oh Barley, I have finished singing forever. Pick me up, dear. Take me home.’
Barley, wondering whether she were dreaming, picked up the small warm bird, covered it in her hands, and took it home. She laid it on a cushion on the sofa where the bright morning sun shone upon it. The little body was trembling with faint life. Barley knew it must die.
‘Oh, Polly dear, can you speak to Barley once again?’
Very, very faint came the answering words, words that were like the tinkle of light rain upon summer leaves.
‘Barley, I had to go this way, dear. It had been coming on me for weeks. I tried to stop singing forever. I did not want to leave you. But this was my fate and I knew it. My father told me at one of the séances that my mother had beaten him. There was no music where he had gone to, he said. And he warned me that if I let myself go the same way, I should meet with the same fate. Now, it is the lark who sings at Heaven’s gate, dear; and I have done that. During the rehearsals I could not dare to sing. I was too frightened. Not until I got to the beautiful Albert Hall and watched Sir Kenneth could I find my voice again. The moment we stood up I knew something curious was happening to me. I saw Sir Kenneth’s baton raised. And then – well, Barley dear, I sang . . . and the moment I touched my first note I knew that Polly Ponsonby had ceased to exist as you knew her. I could, of course, have stayed there, perched on Brenda’s shoulder perhaps. I did brush my wings against her cheek. But when a lark sings he must rise. And rise I did and found, by merciful providence, a broken pane of glass through which I flew to the Albert Memorial.
‘I wanted to let you know, but I could not do so earlier, in case you should tell Rye and he would put me in a cage. It was that which kept me away from you, Barley. Yet all through the winter, when I should, of course, have emigrated, I could not resist singing over my old places. There is nowhere more beautiful than Sydenham in the world, I am sure. I am glad that I stayed. But it has given me a chill from which I shall not recover. I don’t mind. I have sung my life out as a lark should. And now I go to – nothing, as larks do. It is much better to be a lark than go on wandering round circles as the spiritualists do, or live forever in Heaven as the Christians do – or, as I fear some do, pass to the other place. A lark has the best of both worlds, and by his art of singing gives the very breath of life to his body. Mr Shelley knew all about it. Goodbye, Barley dear. Don’t stuff me. Bury me with father’s flute.’
With a little shudder the small bird died. And so Polly Ponsonby passed forever away from Baker’s Lane.
If you go to the cottage now, a very old lady who lives alone, a Miss Merton, may perhaps be induced to talk of these events. But she prefers to remain silent with her memories.
III
The Sack
It’s no use pretending I can go on much longer. I can’t. And that is an understatement. Yet I must understate it, try to rationalise it. Get it out of my system. And the only way I can do that is to put it down on paper. For who to read? God knows.
Living alone, I’m well aware that one gets silly ideas. You come back to the house when you’ve been for a prowl round the park, and it’s late afternoon with the sun setting and winter round the corner, as you might say (for it’s autumn as I try to write this), and you see a kitchen chair or a saucepan or a shovel left exactly where you left them. And you think – they’ve been moved. Then, looking back, you realize everything is just as when you went
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