by Roald Dahl
‘We’ll have a talk tomorrow about finding a school for you, Monica,’ he said. ‘Run off to bed, now. Good night, my dear.’
He hesitated, then touched her forehead with his lips. She ran from him, nearly as shy as Everton himself, tossing back her long hair, but from the door she gave him the strangest little brimming glance, and there was that in her eyes which he had never seen before.
Late that night Everton entered the great empty room which Monica had named the schoolroom. A flag of moonlight from the window lay across the floor, and it was empty to the gaze. But the deep shadows hid little shy presences of which some unnamed and undeveloped sense in the man was acutely aware.
‘Children!’ he whispered. ‘Children!’
He closed his eyes and stretched out his hands. Still they were shy and held aloof, but he fancied that they came a little nearer.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ he whispered. ‘I’m only a very lonely man. Be near me after Monica is gone.’
He paused, waiting. Then as he turned away he was aware of little caressing hands upon his arm. He looked around at once, but the time had not yet come for him to see. He saw only the barred window, the shadows on either wall and the flag of moonlight.
Ringing the Changes
by Robert Aickman
He had never been among those many who deeply dislike church bells, but the ringing that evening at Holihaven changed his view. Bells could certainly get on one’s nerves, he felt, although he had only just arrived in the town.
He had been too well aware of the perils attendant upon marrying a girl twenty-four years younger than himself to add to them by a conventional honeymoon. The strange force of Phrynne’s love had borne both of them away from their previous selves: in him a formerly haphazard and easy-going approach to life had been replaced by much deep planning to wall in happiness; and she, though once thought cold and choosy, would now agree to anything as long as she was with him. He had said that if they were to marry in June, it would be at the cost of not being able to honeymoon until October. Had they been courting longer, he had explained, gravely smiling, special arrangements could have been made; but, as it was, business claimed him. This, indeed, was true; because his business position was less influential than he had led Phrynne to believe. Finally, it would have been impossible for them to have courted longer, because they had courted from the day they met, which was less than six weeks before the day they married.
‘ “A village”,’ he had quoted as they entered the branch line train at the junction (itself sufficiently remote), ‘ “from which (it was said) persons of sufficient longevity might hope to reach Liverpool Street.” ’ By now he was able to make jokes about age, although perhaps he did so rather too often.
‘Who said that?’
‘Bertrand Russell.’
She had looked at him with her big eyes in her tiny face.
‘Really.’ He had smiled confirmation.
‘I’m not arguing.’ She had still been looking at him. The romantic gas light in the charming period compartment had left him uncertain whether she was smiling back or not. He had given himself the benefit of the doubt, and kissed her.
The guard had blown his whistle and they rumbled into the darkness. The branch line swung so sharply away from the main line that Phrynne had been almost toppled from her seat.
‘Why do we go so slowly when it’s so flat?’
‘Because the engineer laid the line up and down the hills and valleys such as they are, instead of cutting through and embanking over them.’ He liked being able to inform her.
‘How do you know? Gerald! You said you hadn’t been to Holihaven before.’
‘It applies to most of the railways in East Anglia.’
‘So that even though it’s flatter, it’s slower?’
‘Time matters less.’
‘I should have hated going to a place where time mattered or that you’d been to before. You’d have had nothing to remember me by.’
He hadn’t been quite sure that her words exactly expressed her thought, but the thought had lightened his heart.
Holihaven station could hardly have been built in the days of the town’s magnificence, for they were in the Middle Ages; but it still implied grander functions than came its way now. The platforms were long enough for visiting London expresses, which had since gone elsewhere; and the architecture of the waiting-rooms would have been not insufficient for occasional use by Foreign Royalty. Oil lamps on perches like those occupied by macaws lighted the uniformed staff, who numbered two, and, together with every other native of Holihaven, looked like storm-habituated mariners.
The station-master and porter, as Gerald took them to be, watched him approach down the platform, with a heavy suitcase in each hand and Phrynne walking deliciously by his side. He saw one of them address a remark to the other, but neither offered to help. Gerald had to put down the cases in order to give up their tickets. The other passengers had already disappeared.
‘Where’s the Bell?’
Gerald had found the hotel in a reference book. It was the only one the book allotted in Holihaven. But as Gerald spoke, and before the ticket collector could answer, the sudden deep note of an actual bell rang through the darkness. Phrynne caught hold of Gerald’s sleeve.
Ignoring Gerald, the station-master, if such he was, turned to his colleague. ‘They’re starting early.’
‘Every reason to be in good time,’ said the other man. The station-master nodded, and put Gerald’s tickets indifferently in his jacket pocket.
‘Can you please tell me how I get to the Bell Hotel?’
The station-master’s attention returned to him. ‘Have you a room booked?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Tonight?’ The station-master looked inappropriately suspicious.
‘Of course.’
Again the station-master looked at the other man.
‘It’s them Pascoes.’
‘Yes,’ said Gerald. ‘That’s the name. Pascoe.’
‘We don’t use the Bell,’ explained the station-master. ‘But you’ll find it in Wrack Street.’ He gesticulated vaguely and unhelpfully. ‘Straight ahead. Down Station Road. Then down Wrack Street. You can’t miss it.’
‘Thank you.’
As soon as they entered the town, the big bell began to boom regularly.
‘What narrow streets!’ said Phrynne.
‘They follow the lines of the medieval city. Before the river silted up, Holihaven was one of the most important seaports in Great Britain.’
‘Where’s everybody got to?’
Although it was only six o’clock, the place certainly seemed deserted.
‘Where’s the hotel got to?’ rejoined Gerald.
‘Poor Gerald! Let me help.’ She laid her hand beside his on the handle of the suitcase nearest to her, but as she was about fifteen inches shorter than he, she could be of little assistance. They must already have gone more than a quarter of a mile. ‘Do you think we’re in the right street?’
‘Most unlikely, I should say. But there’s no one to ask.’
‘Must be early closing day.’
The single deep notes of the bell were now coming more frequently.
‘Why are they ringing that bell? Is it a funeral?’
‘Bit late for a funeral.’
She looked at him a little anxiously.
‘Anyway it’s not cold.’
‘Considering we’re on the east coast it’s quite astonishingly warm.’
‘Not that I care.’
‘I hope that bell isn’t going to ring all night.’
She pulled on the suitcase. His arms were in any case almost parting from his body. ‘Look! We’ve passed it.’
They stopped, and he looked back. ‘How could we have done that?’
‘Well, we have.’
She was right. He could see a big ornamental bell hanging from a bracket attached to a house about a hundred yards behind them.
They
retraced their steps and entered the hotel. A woman dressed in a navy blue coat and skirt, with a good figure but dyed red hair and a face ridged with make-up, advanced upon them.
‘Mr and Mrs Banstead? I’m Hilda Pascoe. Don, my husband, isn’t very well.’
Gerald felt full of doubts. His arrangements were not going as they should. Never rely on guide book recommendations. The trouble lay partly in Phrynne’s insistence that they go somewhere he did not know. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said.
‘You know what men are like when they’re ill?’ Mrs Pascoe spoke understandingly to Phrynne.
‘Impossible,’ said Phrynne. ‘Or very difficult.’
‘Talk about Woman in our hours of ease.’
‘Yes,’ said Phrynne. ‘What’s the trouble?’
‘It’s always the same trouble with Don,’ said Mrs Pascoe, then checked herself. ‘It’s his stomach,’ she said. ‘Ever since he was a kid, Don’s had trouble with the lining of his stomach.’
Gerald interrupted. ‘I wonder if we could see our room?’
‘So sorry,’ said Mrs Pascoe. ‘Will you register first?’ She produced a battered volume bound in peeling imitation leather. ‘Just the name and address.’ She spoke as if Gerald might contribute a résumé of his life.
It was the first time he and Phrynne had ever registered in a hotel; but his confidence in the place was not increased by the long period which had passed since the registration above.
‘We’re always quiet in October,’ remarked Mrs Pascoe, her eyes upon him. Gerald noticed that her eyes were slightly bloodshot. ‘Except sometimes for the bars, of course.’
‘We wanted to come out of the season,’ said Phrynne soothingly.
‘Quite,’ said Mrs Pascoe.
‘Are we alone in the house?’ inquired Gerald. After all the woman was probably doing her best.
‘Except for Commandant Shotcroft. You won’t mind him, will you? He’s a regular.’
‘I’m sure we shan’t,’ said Phrynne.
‘People say the house wouldn’t be the same without Commandant Shotcroft.’
‘I see.’
‘What’s that bell?’ asked Gerald. Apart from anything else, it really was much too near.
Mrs Pascoe looked away. He thought she looked shifty under her entrenched make-up. But she only said, ‘Practice.’
‘Do you mean there will be more of them later?’
She nodded. ‘But never mind,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Let me show you to your room. Sorry there’s no porter.’
Before they had reached the bedroom, the whole peal had commenced.
‘Is this the quietest room you have?’ inquired Gerald. ‘What about the other side of the house?’
‘This is the other side of the house. Saint Guthlac’s is over there.’ She pointed out through the bedroom door.
‘Darling,’ said Phrynne, her hand on Gerald’s arm, ‘they’ll soon stop. They’re only practising.’
Mrs Pascoe said nothing. Her expression indicated that she was one of those people whose friendliness has a precise and seldom exceeded limit.
‘If you don’t mind,’ said Gerald to Phrynne, hesitating.
‘They have ways of their own in Holihaven,’ said Mrs Pascoe. Her undertone of militancy implied, among other things, that if Gerald and Phrynne chose to leave, they were at liberty to do so. Gerald did not care for that either: her attitude would have been different, he felt, had there been anywhere else for them to go. The bells were making him touchy and irritable.
‘It’s a very pretty room,’ said Phrynne. ‘I adore four-posters.’
‘Thank you,’ said Gerald to Mrs Pascoe. ‘What time’s dinner?’
‘Seven-thirty. You’ve time for a drink in the Bar first.’
She went.
‘We certainly have,’ said Gerald when the door was shut. ‘It’s only just six.’
‘Actually,’ said Phrynne, who was standing by the window looking down into the street, ‘I like church bells.’
‘All very well,’ said Gerald, ‘but on one’s honeymoon they distract the attention.’
‘Not mine,’ said Phrynne simply. Then she added, ‘There’s still no one about.’
‘I expect they’re all in the Bar.’
‘I don’t want a drink. I want to explore the town.’
‘As you wish. But hadn’t you better unpack?’
‘I ought to, but I’m not going to. Not until after I’ve seen the sea.’ Such small shows of independence in her enchanted Gerald.
Mrs Pascoe was not about when they passed through the Lounge, nor was there any sound of activity in the establishment.
Outside, the bells seemed to be booming and bounding immediately over their heads.
‘It’s like warriors fighting in the sky,’ shouted Phrynne. ‘Do you think the sea’s down there?’ She indicated the direction from which they had previously retraced their steps.
‘I imagine so. The street seems to end in nothing. That would be the sea.’
‘Come on. Let’s run.’ She was off, before he could even think about it. Then there was nothing to do but run after her. He hoped there were not eyes behind blinds.
She stopped, and held her arms to catch him. The top of her head hardly came up to his chin. He knew she was silently indicating that his failure to keep up with her was not a matter for self-consciousness.
‘Isn’t it beautiful?’
‘The sea?’ There was no moon; and little was discernible beyond the end of the street.
‘Not only.’
‘Everything but the sea. The sea’s invisible.’
‘You can smell it.’
‘I certainly can’t hear it.’
She slackened her embrace and cocked her head away from him. ‘The bells echo so much, it’s as if there were two churches.’
‘I’m sure there are more than that. There always are in old towns like this.’ Suddenly he was struck by the significance of his words in relation to what she had said. He shrank into himself, tautly listening.
‘Yes,’ cried Phrynne delightedly. ‘It is another church.’
‘Impossible,’ said Gerald. ‘Two churches wouldn’t have practice ringing on the same night.’
‘I’m quite sure. I can hear one lot of bells with my left ear, and another lot with my right.’
They had still seen no one. The sparse gas lights fell on the furnishings of a stone quay, small but plainly in regular use.
‘The whole population must be ringing the bells.’ His own remark discomfited Gerald.
‘Good for them.’ She took his hand. ‘Let’s go down on the beach and look for the sea.’
They descended a flight of stone steps at which the sea had sucked and bitten. The beach was as stony as the steps, but lumpier.
‘We’ll just go straight on,’ said Phrynne. ‘Until we find it.’
Left to himself, Gerald would have been less keen. The stones were very large and very slippery, and his eyes did not seem to be becoming accustomed to the dark.
‘You’re right, Phrynne, about the smell.’
‘Honest sea smell.’
‘Just as you say.’ He took it rather to be the smell of dense rotting weed; across which he supposed they must be slithering. It was not a smell he had previously encountered in such strength.
Energy could hardly be spared for talking, and advancing hand in hand was impossible.
After various random remarks on both sides and the lapse of what seemed a very long time, Phrynne spoke again. ‘Gerald, where is it? What sort of seaport is it that has no sea?’
She continued onwards, but Gerald stopped and looked back. He had thought the distance they had gone over-long, but was startled to see how great it was. The darkness was doubtless deceitful, but the few lights on the quay appeared as on a distant horizon.
The far glimmering specks still in his eyes, he turned and looked after Phrynne. He could barely see her. Perhaps she was progressing faster without him.
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br /> ‘Phrynne! Darling!’
Unexpectedly she gave a sharp cry.
‘Phrynne!’
She did not answer.
‘Phrynne!’
Then she spoke more or less calmly. ‘Panic over. Sorry, darling. I stood on something.’
He realized that a panic it had indeed been; at least in him.
‘You’re all right?’
‘Think so.’
He struggled up to her. ‘The smell’s worse than ever.’ It was overpowering.
‘I think it’s coming from what I stepped on. My foot went right in, and then there was the smell.’
‘I’ve never known anything like it.’
‘Sorry, darling,’ she said gently mocking him. ‘Let’s go away.’
‘Let’s go back. Don’t you think?’
‘Yes,’ said Phrynne. ‘But I must warn you I’m very disappointed. I think that seaside attractions should include the sea.’
He noticed that as they retreated, she was scraping the sides of one shoe against the stones, as if trying to clean it.
‘I think the whole place is a disappointment,’ he said. ‘I really must apologize. We’ll go somewhere else.’
‘I like the bells,’ she replied, making a careful reservation.
Gerald said nothing.
‘I don’t want to go somewhere where you’ve been before.’
The bells rang out over the desolate, unattractive beach. Now the sound seemed to be coming from every point along the shore.
‘I suppose all the churches practise on the same night in order to get it over with,’ said Gerald.
‘They do it in order to see which can ring the loudest,’ said Phrynne.
‘Take care you don’t twist your ankle.’
The din as they reached the rough little quay was such as to suggest that Phrynne’s idea was literally true.
The Coffee Room was so low that Gerald had to dip beneath a sequence of thick beams.
‘Why “Coffee Room”?’ asked Phrynne, looking at the words on the door. ‘I saw a notice that coffee will only be served in the Lounge.’
‘It’s the lucus a non lucendo principle.’
‘That explains everything. I wonder where we sit.’ A single electric lantern, mass produced in an antique pattern, had been turned on. The bulb was of that limited wattage which is peculiar to hotels. It did little to penetrate the shadows.