I took the hired dray out the next day by myself and, as I would soon come to expect, there was no sign of the Cirrus, no indication that it had ever been there. At first, I thought that I must have the wrong area but then there was that distinctive fallen tree. Thigh-length grass when trampled doesn’t recover overnight but this grass had never been trampled. The Night-People could not allow any contamination of their Petrie-dish culture. That was three years ago.
I must explain a little about the Night-People and it can only be a little. I do not know who or what they are or why they are doing what they are doing. I can only think that we, the people in this valley, are some kind of social experiment. I have not seen even one of these night dwellers, nobody has, and yet they are all pervasive. They are our interface with the outside world and, to a large extent, create what is seen here as reality. ‘Night-People’ is my name for them. No-one else seems to even suspect their existence.
Farming in this valley produces far beyond the needs of the local market particularly in dairying and livestock production. Local needs are handled in what to an outsider like me is a normal manner. Milkmen farm their own farms, milk their own cows, deliver with horse and dray, and measure the milk with a pint or quart dipper into the customer’s container. It’s raw milk but none of us seem to be dying from it. We have two such milkmen in Crothal. I believe there’s at least three in Gatewell. Milk going for manufacture is a different matter. Churns left on the roadside stand are found to be empty and washed in the morning and an appropriate credit has appeared in the farmer’s bank account during the night. Stock penned for external sale disappear in the same way. Again a bank credit results.
The Denver papers show the country to be full of arguments for and against this New Deal of Roosevelt’s. Clearly ’that man’ is not popular in some quarters. The country remains in depression, unemployment stays high, farmers are still walking off the land, and the farmers here believe themselves to be near walking off too. In fact, everybody here believes us to be deeply affected by this slump. But it just isn’t so! Our prices are higher. I can’t think of anybody out of work. We are somehow insulated from it all. Belief is a very strange thing indeed.
But then the whole setup doesn’t make sense and yet it is accepted as exactly how things should be and these seem to be otherwise rational people. A dealer can phone Detroit for new Ford or Hupmobile and several mornings later it will be found in his yard. A newsagent will find bundles of the Denver papers outside his door when he opens for business. Film cans just turn up at the movie house. Having been run, they are left outside the door again to disappear. Underground gas tanks top themselves up. And since there can be no commercial travellers, the shelves in our markets seem to restock themselves like a never-empty purse. There are, of course, appropriate bank debits.
I empty the ashtrays on the workbench at the end of each day. I don’t smoke but the majority of my customers do and I can’t stand the stink of stale butts. Is there anything worse? I forgot to do it once and found the ashtrays emptied and polished in the morning. It might seem that I don’t need to bother. The same with the trash. Everybody puts their cans out to the kerb on Sunday night for an early Monday collection. I know that it isn’t necessary but I put mine out anyway. I’m sure that I could leave it in a locked cupboard to later find it gone but I think it best to make a some show of conforming.
It’s like living on a film set with a clean-up crew coming in every night to make sure that everything looks exactly the same for the coming day’s shooting and always a little cleaner than one would find in real life. It’s that sort of pretend reality. But the buildings are solid enough and not facades. The people are also real, as complicated as people you’d find anywhere, and not actors. Somehow this is all real to them. And things do change. The trees re-incarnate in spring to have their months of youthful glory, their middle-age, and aging turn to red or amber losing leaves. But on no fall morning will you find leaves that need disposal. One advantage of living here I suppose.
It might be thought that one could hide and see who does all this but I would be the only one who has ever tried. Never again! They knew that I was watching. I thought myself well concealed but they felled me. How? I don’t know. I woke at first light feeling as if the sky had fallen on me and yet there was not a mark to show. It was my warning.