The New Uncanny by Etgar Keret, Ramsey Campbell, Hanif Kureishi, Christopher Priest, Jane Rogers, A.S. Byatt, Matthew Holness, Adam Marek Page A
Authors: Etgar Keret, Ramsey Campbell, Hanif Kureishi, Christopher Priest, Jane Rogers, A.S. Byatt, Matthew Holness, Adam Marek
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and remade ever more complicated timetables and were anxious that the trains should run on time, and not crash into each other at the points.
Each evening, after his bath, and when he was all clean and warm and ready for bed, his father would come to tuck him up and give him his good night kisses, one on each cheek and one very gentle special one on the back of his head. Then his father would pull up the hood of his pyjamas, tie the strings and say, ‘God bless and keep you, little dark eyes,’ and the boy would snuggle down scarcely conscious of his own happiness.
He was twelve when he found out. One morning Nanny woke up sick – not very sick, but with a feverish headache and heavy eyes. When she did not go to the kitchen to collect the breakfast the housekeeper foolishly sent one of the younger maids through with the tray. The boy was already up, hungry and eager, though of course properly concerned about nanny. He was sitting cross-legged on the sofa reading a book. The maid plonked the tray down on the little table by the window and then stood there, fidgeting. The boy did not often see people other than Daddy and Nanny and the blind servant, and he was not sure how to behave. He smiled at the girl. He had a very sweet smile, like his father’s but younger and more carefree. She smiled back. She was not much older than he was and the differences between them, obvious to grown ups, were nearly invisible to them.
He said, ‘Hello.’
She bobbed a sort of half-curtsey and said, ‘Hello’ back.
There was a pause, in which he smiled some more and she fidgeted some more.
But in the end she could not resist. For fourteen years she had heard the talk and the secret murmurs, because no respect or even love for their Squire is going to keep his tenantry from gossip about him and his, from speculation and a mild mannered sort of malice. She was curious on her own behalf, and more tempted yet by the stir she will create in the servants’ hall at dinner. And he looked so sweet, with his huge dark eyes and a smile like his father’s. And she might never have another chance.
‘Go on,’ she said, ‘show us.’
He almost turned his book towards her, assuming she wanted to see the picture, but there was something, something else; even with his negligible social skills he knew there was something else.
‘Show you what?’ he asked, but still pleasantly, almost in his father’s kindly style, which unfortunately made her bolder.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘it.’
The new pause was longer; he really did not know and she, better attuned, as all servants are, to the nuances of social meaning realised that he really did not know. She had gone too far. She was embarrassed. But her shame made her even bolder.
‘You know,’ she said again, ‘The face, the other face; the back of your head.’
Instinctively he lifted his hand to the back of his head. Through the soft flannelette of his pyjama hood, he felt the back of his head lumpy, then moving. His hand was frozen for a moment. Then he felt something bite sharply into the fleshy pad at the bottom of his thumb.
He screamed.
Suddenly Nanny was standing in the door, her hair down, grey and straggling as neither of them had ever seen it, her face flushed with her fever and fury.
‘Be quiet,’ she said in a commanding tone, and then losing her grip on her anger, ‘Be quiet, you evil, wicked girl. Go away. Go away.’
Sobbing, the little maid ran from the room and the boy and his nanny listened to her clogs go rattling going down the passage.
‘Nanny?’ he said, and had she been well and wakeful it might yet have been alright; she might have given him a cuddle and he would have shown her his hand and she could have magicked a pin out of his pyjama hood and told him she was a silly old nanny for leaving it there. But the headache was stronger than her wisdom and all she wanted was her bed.
‘It was nothing, darling,’ she said quickly, ‘nothing at all. Just a
Each evening, after his bath, and when he was all clean and warm and ready for bed, his father would come to tuck him up and give him his good night kisses, one on each cheek and one very gentle special one on the back of his head. Then his father would pull up the hood of his pyjamas, tie the strings and say, ‘God bless and keep you, little dark eyes,’ and the boy would snuggle down scarcely conscious of his own happiness.
He was twelve when he found out. One morning Nanny woke up sick – not very sick, but with a feverish headache and heavy eyes. When she did not go to the kitchen to collect the breakfast the housekeeper foolishly sent one of the younger maids through with the tray. The boy was already up, hungry and eager, though of course properly concerned about nanny. He was sitting cross-legged on the sofa reading a book. The maid plonked the tray down on the little table by the window and then stood there, fidgeting. The boy did not often see people other than Daddy and Nanny and the blind servant, and he was not sure how to behave. He smiled at the girl. He had a very sweet smile, like his father’s but younger and more carefree. She smiled back. She was not much older than he was and the differences between them, obvious to grown ups, were nearly invisible to them.
He said, ‘Hello.’
She bobbed a sort of half-curtsey and said, ‘Hello’ back.
There was a pause, in which he smiled some more and she fidgeted some more.
But in the end she could not resist. For fourteen years she had heard the talk and the secret murmurs, because no respect or even love for their Squire is going to keep his tenantry from gossip about him and his, from speculation and a mild mannered sort of malice. She was curious on her own behalf, and more tempted yet by the stir she will create in the servants’ hall at dinner. And he looked so sweet, with his huge dark eyes and a smile like his father’s. And she might never have another chance.
‘Go on,’ she said, ‘show us.’
He almost turned his book towards her, assuming she wanted to see the picture, but there was something, something else; even with his negligible social skills he knew there was something else.
‘Show you what?’ he asked, but still pleasantly, almost in his father’s kindly style, which unfortunately made her bolder.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘it.’
The new pause was longer; he really did not know and she, better attuned, as all servants are, to the nuances of social meaning realised that he really did not know. She had gone too far. She was embarrassed. But her shame made her even bolder.
‘You know,’ she said again, ‘The face, the other face; the back of your head.’
Instinctively he lifted his hand to the back of his head. Through the soft flannelette of his pyjama hood, he felt the back of his head lumpy, then moving. His hand was frozen for a moment. Then he felt something bite sharply into the fleshy pad at the bottom of his thumb.
He screamed.
Suddenly Nanny was standing in the door, her hair down, grey and straggling as neither of them had ever seen it, her face flushed with her fever and fury.
‘Be quiet,’ she said in a commanding tone, and then losing her grip on her anger, ‘Be quiet, you evil, wicked girl. Go away. Go away.’
Sobbing, the little maid ran from the room and the boy and his nanny listened to her clogs go rattling going down the passage.
‘Nanny?’ he said, and had she been well and wakeful it might yet have been alright; she might have given him a cuddle and he would have shown her his hand and she could have magicked a pin out of his pyjama hood and told him she was a silly old nanny for leaving it there. But the headache was stronger than her wisdom and all she wanted was her bed.
‘It was nothing, darling,’ she said quickly, ‘nothing at all. Just a
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