Year 1949

WISTBOURNE [Jacqui read] was blighted.

Of course we didn’t know that when June and I first discovered the village and moved into the tiny cottage we would be renting there, in the autumn of 1949. Wistbourne was the very model of a typical, prettily-picture-postcard sort of village, surrounded by farmland, with thatched cottages, an old stone church with a tower, a small shop, and a friendly-looking pub, all clustered around a fine village green with a war memorial. There were several fine elms standing on one side of the green, and a small stream bubbling along the other side: Wistbourne Brook, which eventually fed its waters into the River Wye. Unravaged by warfare, this village could not have been a more perfect setting for an aspiring writer like myself.

I had just completed my tour of duty in National Service—including a spell in Malaya, where I had been hit by shrapnel shortly before my discharge. Back in England, recovering in hospital, I had been tended to by June, who had just completed her qualification as a District nurse. We got married soon after I left hospital, and started searching around for a place where I could pursue my writing career undisturbed whilst June could find work in her new role.

When we learnt of a vacancy for a District nurse in Wistbourne—and besides, a cottage available to rent—we felt our prayers had been answered. The ideal setting: a lovely little village; a perfect pied-à-terre. What could possibly go wrong? We moved in as soon as we were able to.

It was true that, despite the apparent closeness of the community, none of our new neighbours seemed in a hurry to make our acquaintance. In the first week we had had no callers at all. Nor had June’s services as a nurse been called upon: no-one seemed to be unwell. I was wondering whether to pay a visit to the pub, but June was all for waiting.

“Give them time,” she said. “We’re strangers here, and maybe the locals take a little while to feel at ease with newcomers.”

However, two weeks passed with little or no contact with the other villagers. We knocked on our neighbours’ door and introduced our­selves, but after the formalities the neighbours—a young couple named George and Susan—seemed unwilling either to talk about themselves or to ask about us, so we let it be.

It was June who suggested we attend the church on the following Sunday. Not being a churchgoer myself, having been brought up in a secular household, I was reluctant—but June, who’d had a more religious upbringing, was insistent. We could at least make ourselves known to the vicar, who was bound to be well-informed about the village.

So we went. The church service was dull and tedious to the extreme—to me at any rate. The sermon, during which I almost nodded off, was all about sinners and divine retribution, and other stuff of that sort. I remember wondering why religion had to be so depressing at times. Couldn’t the vicar have said something a bit more upbeat? It was then that I guessed that there was something troubling the good people of Wistbourne.

So we presented ourselves to the vicar on the way out. He was happy to introduce himself as the Reverend John Dibley, and was effusive in welcoming us to the flock. I asked something a bit trite like “are we the ones to bring good fortune to the village?”, or words to that effect. At that, his face fell for an instant, but he soon brightened up, and said that he and Mrs Dibley would be delighted to have us to tea at the Vicarage that afternoon.

So at last contact was made. June had been right all along!

That afternoon, over tea and cake (not much—there was still rationing), John Dibley was a bit more forthcoming. Yes, we had guessed right, Wistbourne was a troubled village. Had we not noticed anything unusual in Church, that morning?

I thought and thought, but couldn’t recall anything amiss. But it was June who piped up—she had evidently been more observant than I was. “There were—there were no young children at the service. Was that it?”

“You are quite right,” replied the vicar. “That is exactly where the trouble lies. Wistbourne has no children under the age of nine at all. The youngest here is, I think, young Phyllis Howells, who’s just turned nine. And this at a time which people are calling the ‘baby boom’ years! It’s not as if no-one is willing to have a baby: there are at least thirty young couples in the village anxious to start a family, and others trying desperately for a second child—but not one child has been conceived since the War. Oh yes, of course we had young evacuees back then—several of them, and they were very welcome here, but of course they had to go back to their parents. We’ve had all sorts of experts come here: gynaecologists, fertility specialists, the whole lot. They couldn’t find anything wrong with any of the young ladies, nor their husbands either. They’re as mystified as we are.”

“Couldn’t it just be coincidence?” remarked June. “It does happen sometimes: a couple try for years before they conceive.”

“Thirty young couples all in the same village, all trying at the same time?” replied the vicar. “No, I don’t believe in that sort of coincid­ence.”

“Well, if we try for a baby,” I put in, winking at June (who pouted in response), “it’ll make thirty-one. Of course we may succeed, that is.”

“I’d advise you not to speak too openly in the village about starting a family. The people here are, not surprisingly, becoming resentful of outsiders. Besides, now you’re here, you might be under the Curse.”

“The Curse? Is that what they’re saying?”

“A lot of my flock have come to me, saying, it must be God’s judgement upon this village—though no-one has come up with any suggestion as to what particular ‘sin’ we are supposed to have collectively committed. Oh yes, you heard my sermon this morning. I preached about guilt and retribution, because that’s what the villagers expect me to say. But in reality I like to think of myself as a more progressive, more enlightened member of the clergy. It may be an Act of God or it may be something else, something more mun­dane. Something the scientists may in time discover. Personally, I keep an open mind.”

It seemed to me that we’d found a useful ally in the Reverend Dibley—should we ever try to get to the bottom of this mystery. Certainly, as an agnostic, I was very sceptical about this Act of God hypothesis. I was wondering what June’s thoughts were—she was more of a Christian than I was—when she spoke up.

“Reverend Dibley, is it possible that none of the couples want children—and that they’re afraid to tell you this?”

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“If that’s so, we have a lot of very good liars in this community. No, I don’t think so. It’s something else.”

I could tell that the vicar had no more to tell us about this disturb­ing topic, so I changed the subject. He was a good listener as I re­counted some of my Army experiences, and how June and I had met, and our marriage. In the end we thanked him and Mrs Dibley (who’d hardly spoken during our visit) and returned to our cottage. At least the mystery about the villagers’ reticence was explained.

As soon as we were indoors June started up. “Gavin, that was a bit tactless of you, speaking about us starting a family. You know full well, I’m happy for it to happen, in time—but not yet. I’ve got my job to do. How are you going to support us with just the income from your writing? Anyway, can you imagine how the other villagers will react, if we have a baby and they can’t? And what if we do fall under this ‘Curse’, as they call it? How will you feel about that?”

I could think of nothing to say.

Over the next few months we settled down in the village, and in time made the acquaintance of several of the villagers. June was kept busy now: the villagers were beginning to warm to us: they had come to accept—indeed, welcome—the presence of a resident nurse, especially since there was no doctor in the village: the nearest doctor had his surgery in Gomhurst which is a few miles away. Several cases of influenza commanded her attention; two or three of the older children went down with measles; an elderly resident suffered a stroke and was conveyed to hospital in Hereford; she was able to clean and dress a few cuts and grazes. But whatever ‘blight’ or ‘curse’ was troubling the village continued: not a single infant was conceived, let alone born. June visited all the married women of childbearing age; kept records of their monthly cycles, tested them for oestrus, and gave advice as the best time to try for a baby. But with no result.

We had been living there about six or seven months, I suppose, when the first of the extraordinary events that were to shake Wist­bourne to its foundations occurred. I’d sent a few short stories to the pulp magazines, but I was still working away at my first Sci-fi novel, hoping for a windfall as soon as I found a publisher who might be interested. June was still kept busy and provided our income. Food was still being rationed and we were comfortable enough in our fairly frugal existence: indeed I was coming to accept that, even if it weren’t for the ‘blight’, a family would be a long time coming for us.

It must have been in May 1950—I didn’t make a note of the exact date at the time. The first incident we only heard about later, but it seems to have been connected with what happened after. Bill Smyth, a farm-hand, had been helping to get the cows ready for milking: it would have been about 4 to 5am, just before dawn. As he walked back from the milking-shed he looked up and spotted a large oval shape floating in the brightening sky, almost overhead. That was the time when people were getting all excited about ‘flying saucers’ following the Roswell incident a few years earlier. But Bill, who was a sceptic, didn’t think he was looking at a UFO—instead he took it for a ‘blimp’ like those which had been seen all over the skies during the War. Perhaps, he thought, it had escaped from its mooring and drifted over Wistbourne. But it appeared to be pulsating with a faint yellowish glow, which he couldn’t account for. Did blimps carry some sort of onboard light? He couldn’t remember. He shrugged and more or less forgot all about it—for the time being.

By the time Smyth remembered his experience and spoke about it to his friends in the pub, months later, Wistbourne had had other things to get excited about.

Again in May, we were awakened in the early hours one morning by a frantic banging on the door and ringing of the doorbell. June supposed at once that it might be a medical emergency: she grabbed a dressing-gown and answered the door. It was Harold Binstead, another farm worker, but from a different farm on the other side of the village. He said that he had spotted what looked like a number of babies lying abandoned in a field near the farm. They were quite exposed and he was worried about them. Could the nurse come and check them over?

This sounded a most extraordinary story, but from what we knew of Harold, he was a reliable sort of chap, not given to making up tall stories. June quickly dressed, grabbed her medical bag, and ran after Harold. I stopped to phone the doctor in Gomhurst, saying we might have an emergency on our hands. He said he’d be on his way at once, and suggested I call the ambulance service and the police too. Once I’d done that, I dressed, armed myself with a powerful torch, and followed the others to the field.

June was stooping over the babies, examining them by the light of Harold’s torch—augmented by mine when I arrived, and also by the moonlight. We counted fifteen in all, seven girls and eight boys, all naked and apparently new-born, with their umbilicals still attached and connected to the placentas. June ascertained that all were alive and breathing, although they might have been a bit cyanose: she couldn’t be sure in the poor light. Anyway, she set to work tying off and cutting the umbilicals, while Harold was sent to fetch blankets and sheets from the farmhouse.

June was still at work when to our relief we heard the jangling of ambulance bells, which must have woken up the entire village. The doctor arrived in his car soon after, examined all the babies in the growing daylight, and complimented June on her good work. The ambulance men were now able to take over and collect up all the infants: they would be taken to the hospital in Hereford. As far as we were concerned, June’s work was finished: she was eager to follow the babies to the hospital but I dissuaded her: it could wait until morning.

We had just finished a late breakfast when a police sergeant arrived on his bicycle and rang our doorbell. Yes, he told us, in response to our anxious enquiry, the babies had all arrived at hospital safe and sound and were being well cared for. The doctors were worried about a greenish-blue tinge which they all showed on their skin, but there appeared to be nothing wrong with them otherwise: certainly no signs of anoxia: all of them were breathing normally, indeed crying lustily often enough, and they had already taken their first feed. The police had set to work at once to try and track down the mothers, but so far without success. In cases like this, he explained, the mother was always reluctant to come forward—especially since she was almost certainly a teenager and unmarried. It would be a difficult job.

“How do you account for fifteen new-borns appearing in a field all at once?” asked June. “One, I can understand: a teenage girl can be a bit careless and stupid any time, and then regret it—but fifteen?”

“I can’t answer that,” replied the sergeant. “But since they’ve appeared, we have to do our job and find the mothers. And since you and your husband were witnesses at the discovery, could I ask you to give a statement?”

We accordingly told the sergeant all that we knew, which wasn’t much. He seemed satisfied and left us, explaining that he had several more calls to make.

Police were in evidence all around the village and surrounding area for several days after that, but it was nearly two weeks before we heard any more news. Then the same sergeant paid us another visit.

“I might as well tell you,” he said, “we’ve so far had no luck in tracking down any of the mothers. We’ve interviewed just about every young unmarried woman in the district—indeed for several miles around—but every one of them can account for herself and shows no signs of having undergone a recent pregnancy. For the time being we are at a loss, I must admit.

“But the hospital has now passed all the babies as fit and healthy, and are looking for couples willing to foster them. We are making our first enquiries here, since it is here that the babies were found. Furthermore, I have been told that this village does not have any natural-born young children at present. As a married couple without children, would you be interested in taking on one of the babies?”

June pondered for a while. “I don’t think it would work out well, not for us,” she replied after a long pause. “I can see how looking after a baby myself would interfere with my work. Anyway, as the District nurse, I’ll have my work cut out—assuming other couples in the village agree to foster any of the babies.”

I nodded my agreement at that. I did not mention that I was already contemplating leaving the village—I was getting scared at the curious circumstances here: the ‘Curse’—and now this! I wanted out. I hadn’t even broached the subject with June yet.

“All right: I quite understand,” continued the sergeant. “Yes, you’re right, we expect that all fifteen of the babies will be taken in by couples here. I think it’s all for the best. The doctors will be keeping a close check on them—and so will we. And if any of the mothers show up, we’ll of course let the village know.”