August Heat

by W. F. Harvey

　　PHENISTONE ROAD, CLAPHAM.

　　August 20th, 190--.

　　I have had what I believe to be the most remarkable day in my life,and while the events are still fresh in my mind, I wish to put themdown on paper as clearly as possible.

　　Let me say at the outset that my name is James Clarence Withencroft.

　　I am forty years old, in perfect health, never having known a day'sillness.

　　By profession I am an artist, not a very successful one, but I earnenough money by my black-and-white work to satisfy my necessarywants.

　　My only near relative, a sister, died five years ago, so that I amindependent. I breakfasted this morning at nine, and after glancingthrough the morning paper I lighted my pipe and proceeded to let mymind wander in the hope that I might chance upon some subject for mypencil.

　　The room, though door and windows were open, was oppressively hot, andI had just made up my mind that the coolest and most comfortable placein the neighbourhood would be the deep end of the public swimmingbath, when the idea came.

　　I began to draw. So intent was I on my work that I left my lunchuntouched, only stopping work when the clock of St. Jude's struckfour.

　　The final result, for a hurried sketch, was, I felt sure, the bestthing I had done. It showed a criminal in the dock immediately afterthe judge had pronounced sentence. The man was fat---enormously fat.The flesh hung in rolls about his chin; it creased his huge, stumpyneck. He was clean shaven (perhaps I should say a few days before hemust have been clean shaven) and almost bald. He stood in the dock,his short, clumsy fingers clasping the rail, looking straight in frontof him. The feeling that his expression conveyed was not so much oneof horror as of utter, absolute collapse.

　　There seemed nothing in the man strong enough to sustain that mountainof flesh.

　　I rolled up the sketch, and without quite knowing why, placed it in mypocket. Then with the rare sense of happiness which the knowledge of agood thing well done gives, I left the house.

　　I believe that I set out with the idea of calling upon Trenton, for Iremember walking along Lytton Street and turning to the right alongGilchrist Road at the bottom of the hill where the men were at work onthe new tram lines.

　　From there onwards I have only the vaguest recollection of where Iwent. The one thing of which I was fully conscious was the awful heat,that came up from the dusty asphalt pavement as an almost palpablewave. I longed for the thunder promised by the great banks of copper-coloured cloud that hung low over the western sky.

　　I must have walked five or six miles, when a small boy roused me frommy reverie by asking the time.

　　It was twenty minutes to seven.

　　When he left me I began to take stock of my bearings. I found myselfstanding before a gate that led into a yard bordered by a strip ofthirsty earth, where there were flowers, purple stock and scarletgeranium. Above the entrance was a board with the inscription--

　　CHS. ATKINSON. MONUMENTAL MASON.

　　From the yard itself came a cheery whistle, the noise of hammer blows,and the cold sound of steel meeting stone.

　　A sudden impulse made me enter.

　　A man was sitting with his back towards me, busy at work on a slab ofcuriously veined marble. He turned round as he heard my steps and Istopped short.

　　It was the man I had been drawing, whose portrait lay in my pocket.

　　He sat there, huge and elephantine, the sweat pouring from his scalp,which he wiped with a red silk handkerchief. But though the face wasthe same, the expression was absolutely different.

　　He greeted me smiling, as if we were old friends, and shook my hand.

　　I apologised for my intrusion.

　　"Everything is hot and glary outside," I said. "This seems an oasis inthe wilderness."

　　"I don't know about the oasis," he replied, "but it certainly is hot,as hot as hell. Take a seat, sir!"

　　He pointed to the end of the gravestone on which he was at work, and Isat down.

　　"That's a beautiful piece of stone you've got hold of," I said.

　　He shook his head. "In a way it is," he answered; "the surface here isas fine as anything you could wish, but there's a big flaw at theback, though I don't expect you'd ever notice it. I could never makereally a good job of a bit of marble like that. It would be all rightin the summer like this; it wouldn't mind the blasted heat. But waittill the winter comes. There's nothing quite like frost to find outthe weak points in stone."

　　"Then what's it for?" I asked.

　　The man burst out laughing.

　　"You'd hardly believe me if I was to tell you it's for an exhibition,but it's the truth. Artists have exhibitions: so do grocers andbutchers; we have them too. All the latest little things inheadstones, you know."

　　He went on to talk of marbles, which sort best withstood wind andrain, and which were easiest to work; then of his garden and a newsort of carnation he had bought. At the end of every other minute hewould drop his tools, wipe his shining head, and curse the heat.

　　I said little, for I felt uneasy. There was something unnatural,uncanny, in meeting this man.

　　I tried at first to persuade myself that I had seen him before, thathis face, unknown to me, had found a place in some out-of-the-waycorner of my memory, but I knew that I was practising little more thana plausible piece of self-deception.

　　Mr. Atkinson finished his work, spat on the ground, and got up with asigh of relief.

　　"There! what do you think of that?" he said, with an air of evidentpride. The inscription which I read for the first time was this--

　　SACRED TO THE MEMORY

　　For some time I sat in silence. Then a cold shudder ran down my spine.I asked him where he had seen the name.

　　"Oh, I didn't see it anywhere," replied Mr. Atkinson. "I wanted somename, and I put down the first that came into my head. Why do you wantto know?"

　　"It's a strange coincidence, but it happens to be mine." He gave along, low whistle.

　　"And the dates?"

　　"I can only answer for one of them, and that's correct."

　　"It's a rum go!" he said.

　　But he knew less than I did. I told him of my morning's work. I tookthe sketch from my pocket and showed it to him. As he looked, theexpression of his face altered until it became more and more like thatof the man I had drawn.

　　"And it was only the day before yesterday," he said, "that I toldMaria there were no such things as ghosts!"

　　Neither of us had seen a ghost, but I knew what he meant.

　　"You probably heard my name," I said.

　　"And you must have seen me somewhere and have forgotten it! Were youat Clacton-on-Sea last July?"

　　I had never been to Clacton in my life. We were silent for some time.We were both looking at the same thing, the two dates on thegravestone, and one was right.

　　"Come inside and have some supper," said Mr. Atkinson.

　　His wife was a cheerful little woman, with the flaky red cheeks of thecountry-bred. Her husband introduced me as a friend of his who was anartist. The result was unfortunate, for after the sardines andwatercress had been removed, she brought out a Doré Bible, and I hadto sit and express my admiration for nearly half an hour.

　　I went outside, and found Atkinson sitting on the gravestone smoking.

　　We resumed the conversation at the point we had left off. "You mustexcuse my asking," I said, "but do you know of anything you've donefor which you could be put on trial?"

　　He shook his head. "I'm not a bankrupt, the business is prosperousenough. Three years ago I gave turkeys to some of the guardians atChristmas, but that's all I can think of. And they were small ones,too," he added as an afterthought.

　　He got up, fetched a can from the porch, and began to water theflowers. "Twice a day regular in the hot weather," he said, "and thenthe heat sometimes gets the better of the delicate ones. And ferns,good Lord! they could never stand it. Where do you live?"

　　I told him my address. It would take an hour's quick walk to get backhome.

　　"It's like this," he said. "We'll look at the matter straight. If yougo back home to-night, you take your chance of accidents. A cart mayrun over you, and there's always banana skins and orange peel, to saynothing of fallen ladders."

　　He spoke of the improbable with an intense seriousness that would havebeen laughable six hours before. But I did not laugh.

　　"The best thing we can do," he continued, "is for you to stay heretill twelve o'clock. We'll go upstairs and smoke, it may be coolerinside."

　　To my surprise I agreed.

　　* * *

　　We are sitting now in a long, low room beneath the eaves. Atkinson hassent his wife to bed. He himself is busy sharpening some tools at alittle oilstone, smoking one of my cigars the while.

　　The air seems charged with thunder. I am writing this at a shaky tablebefore the open window.

　　The leg is cracked, and Atkinson, who seems a handy man with histools, is going to mend it as soon as he has finished putting an edgeon his chisel.

　　It is after eleven now. I shall be gone in less than an hour.

　　But the heat is stifling.

　　It is enough to send a man mad.