Richard and Janet Gayford happened to spend the night of September 26 in London, not returning to their home in the village of Midwich until the following day. Only they have difficulty getting back into Midwich, and -- in ways that are difficult to isolate -- the village does not seem to be the same place it was the day before. The nightmare that descends on Midwich has dire implications for the rest of the world, sowing the seeds of a master race of ruthless, inhuman creatures bent on total domination.
John Wyndham's The Midwich Cuckoos, published in 1957, is better known by the more sensational title of its two film adaptations, Village of the Damned. In the author's typically elegant and calm manner, the novel explores the arrival on earth of a collective intelligence that threatens to eliminate humankind. The eerie change that befalls Midwich manifests itself in strange ways. On the surface, everything seems normal but there is a vague sense of dread everywhere and in everyone. Also, suddenly and inexplicably after the night of September 26, every woman of the appropriate age is pregnant. They will give birth at the same time, to children who are all alike -- their eyes mesmerizing, devoid of emotion, innately possessed with unimaginable mental powers and formidable native intelligence. The children develop into an unstoppable force, capable of anything, far outstripping mere humans in guile and cunning. The threat to the human race is unmistakable.
Wyndham writes his fantastic story in a precise, almost bemused manner that sometimes seems almost droll. London's Evening Standard called The Midwich Cuckoos "humane and urbane with a lightly sophisticated wit putting the ideas into shape." The Spectator noted that Wyndham "provides just that right amount of semi-realistic data ... to soothe his readers into a mood of acceptance, and his poker-faced attitude towards the strange and improbable events which he records is also exactly calculated." Wyndham skillfully heightens the terror by making his narrative so rational and matter-of-fact. In a nuclear age, it is richly ironic that the forces of evil take shape in a picturesque, bucolic English village, in the form of eerily angelic looking children. The Midwich Cuckoos is a contemporary classic of speculative fiction, like Wyndham's best work, so cleverly imagined, that it has lost none of it sting in the more than 40 years since it was published.
One of the luckiest accidents in my wife's life is that she happened to marry a man who was born on the 26th of September. But for that, we should both of us undoubtedly have been at home in Midwich on the night of the 26th-27th, with consequences which, I have never ceased to be thankful, she was spared.
Because it was my birthday, however, and also to some extent because I had the day before received and signed a contract with an American publisher, we set off on the morning of the 26th for London, and a mild celebration. Very pleasant, too. A few satisfactory calls, lobster and Chablis at Wheeler's, Ustinov's latest extravaganza, a little supper, and so back to the hotel where Janet enjoyed the bathroom with that fascination which other people's plumbing always arouses in her.
Next morning, a leisurely departure on the way back to Midwich. A pause in Trayne, which is our nearest shopping town, for a few groceries; then on along the main road, through the village of Stouch, then the right-hand turn on to the secondary road for-But, no. Half the road is blocked by a pole from which dangles a notice 'ROAD CLOSED', and in the gap beside it stands a policeman who holds up his hand . . .
So I stop. The policeman advances to the offside of the car, I recognize him as a man from Trayne.
'Sorry, sir, but the road is closed.'
'You mean I'll have to go round by the Oppley Road?'
"Fraid that's closed, too, sir.'
'But-'
There is the sound of a horn behind.
"F you wouldn't mind backing off a bit to the left, sir.'
Rather bewildered, I do as he asks, and past us and past him goes an army three-ton lorry with khaki-clad youths leaning over the sides.
'Revolution in Midwich?' I inquire.
'Manoeuvres,' he tells me. 'The road's impassable.'
'Not both roads surely? We live in Midwich, you know, Constable.'
'I know, sir. But there's no way there just now. 'F I was you, sir, I'd go back to Trayne till we get it clear. Can't have parking here, 'cause of getting things through.'
Janet opens the door on her side and picks up her shopping-bag.
'I'll walk on, and you come along when the road's clear,' she tells me.
The constable hesitates. Then he lowers his voice.
'Seein' as you live there, ma'am, I'll tell you-but it's confidential like. 'Tisn't no use tryin', ma'am. Nobody can't get into Midwich, an' that's a fact.'
We stare at him.
'But why on earth not?' says Janet.
'That's just what they're tryin' to find out, ma'am. Now, 'f you was to go to the Eagle in Trayne, I'll see you're informed as soon as the road's clear.'
Janet and I looked at one another.
'Well,' she said to the constable, 'it seems very queer, but if you're quite sure we can't get through . . .'
'I am that, ma'am. It's orders, too. We'll let you know, as soon as maybe.'
If one wanted to make a fuss, it was no good making it with him; the man was only doing his duty, and as amiably as possible.
'Very well,' I agreed. 'Gayford's my name, Richard Gayford. I'll tell the Eagle to take a message for me in case I'm not there when it comes.'
I backed the car further until we were on the main road, and, taking his word for it that the other Midwich road was similarly closed, turned back the way we had come. Once we were the other side of Stouch village I pulled off the road into a field gateway.
'This,' I said, 'has a very odd smell about it. Shall we cut across the fields, and see what's going on?'
'That policeman's manner was sort of queer, too. Let's,' Janet agreed, opening her door. What made it the more odd was that Midwich was, almost notoriously, a place where things did not happen.
Synopsis
Aliens land in an isolated British village and impregnate all of the women. Nine months later strange children with glowing eyes and intense intelligence "Midwich Cuckoos," emerge to undertake the conquest of the world. Filmed in the 1950's and again in the 1990's as VILLAGE OF THE DAMNED.
About the Author
The English novelist John Wyndham Parkes Lucas Beynon Harris (1903-69) wrote his finest work under the pseudonym John Wyndham, though he had at least seven others, all permutations of his lengthy name. Raised in Edgbaston, Birmingham, he attended a number of English prep schools and began writing as a sideline, while trying to make a career variously in law, farming, commercial art and advertising. He began publishing stories in the early 1930s, many in American magazines, but he did not find his voice as the writer John Wyndham until he returned from service in World War II.
The world had changed, and it was now gripped by the possibility of a nuclear apocalypse. Wyndham was fascinated by apocalyptic scenarios, and his 1951 novel The Day of the Triffids transformed him as a writer. His distinctive approach to fantasy is often classified as science fiction, though its popularity far exceeds the genre. Following the publication of The Day of the Triffids in 1951, Wyndham wrote a series of remarkable novels that include The Kraken Wakes (1953), The Chrysalids (1955), The Midwich Cuckoos (1957), The Trouble with Lichen (1960) and Chocky (1968) as well as the short story collections Jizzle (1954), Tales of Gooseflesh and Laughter (1956), The Seeds of Time (1956) and Consider Her Countless Ways and Others (1961).
Wyndham also wrote under a number of other pseudonyms, and several titles were released under his name after his death in March of 1969. He remains best known for the timeless terror of The Day of the Triffids and The Midwich Cuckoos, the latter inspiring two memorable film versions titled Village of the Damned.
