I did so. It held more views of Scarborough.
'The sea from Scarborough,' observed Miss Rickerby of the first one I turned up. 'Scarborough from the sea,' she said of the second.
'I thought it might be a visitors' book,' I said, closing it again. 'I thought I might have to sign it.'
'We do have a visitors' book, but it's in the kitchen. I'm going through it just now.'
I nodded, not really understanding.
'You see,' she explained, 'I write to the visitors asking if they'd like to come back - the ones I want back, that is.'
I should've thought they'd all want to come back, looking at her.
I glanced up, and the man had gone from the side of the stairs.
'It's hardly worth keeping it out this time of year,' the landlady said.
'You've not been busy then?'
She smiled, eyeing me strangely.
'We had a Mr Ellis last week.'
'An engine man, was he?' I enquired, and it seemed my investigation had begun sooner than I'd bargained for.
She shook her head.
'He travelled in galoshes, if you see what I mean. Now... tea or room?'
'I'd rather see the room, I think,' I said.
'Quite right,' she said, 'because you might just hate it. What did I put down about it on the notice at the station?' she asked, turning towards the staircase.
'You said all the rooms were excellent,' I said, and she made a noise like 'Ha!'
I thought of the wife, who'd been a landlady when I first met her - my landlady in fact. She had a good sense of humour, but it would not have done to rib her about the rooms she let out. Being so keen to get on, she never saw the funny side of anything touching business or money.
Miss Rickerby carefully moved her teacup aside with the toe of her boot, and began climbing the stairs. Without looking back, she said, 'Follow me.'
I did so, with my coat over my arm, and of course it was a pleasure to do it, at least as far as the view of Miss Rickerby's swinging hips went. But the stair gas burnt low. The paint smell increased; the stair carpet seemed to deteriorate with every new step, and the green stripe wallpaper became faded, like a sucked humbug. We came to the first landing: black floorboards with a blue runner, none too clean. It led to closed doors.
'The sitting room is on this floor,' Miss Rickerby said, indicating the nearest closed door.
The staircase narrowed still further as we approached the second landing: a dark corridor where one bare gas jet showed tins of white-wash and rolls of wallpaper leaning against the wall.
'These are all the rooms you can't have,' said Miss Rickerby - and this was evidently why Tommy Nugent had been turned away.
'Decorating,' I said.
'You're very quick on the uptake, Mr Stringer.'
I followed her up another, still narrower staircase, and we came to a short corridor, running away ten feet before ending in the slope of the house roof. A gas bracket - unlit - stuck out of the wall to my left. A little further along, also on the left, was a small white-painted door with a sloping top to accommodate the roof - evidently a cupboard or store room. Immediately to my right was a somewhat bigger white-painted door, with a low, reddish light coming out from underneath. The landing being so small, I was rather close to Miss Rickerby who smelt of talcum, perhaps, but also something out-of-the-way. She made just as good an impression close to, anyhow.
She said, 'You haven't asked the price.'
I said, 'No, that's because ...'
'... You're stupendously rich.'
She took a small match box from her sleeve, turned the gas tap on the bracket, and lit the mantle, allowing me to see that the wallpaper was a faded green stripe alternating with an even more faded green stripe.
'It's because in your notice,' I said, breathing in Miss Rickerby, 'you put down "economical rates for railway men".'
'And because the North Eastern company will refund you,' said Miss Rickerby... which was what I should have said.
'Two shillings,' she said, and she reached for the handle of the bigger door, pushed it open and retreated.
The room was practically all bed. The head of it was just alongside the door, while the end fitted neatly under the win- dowsill. The window itself was about three feet with a wide ledge and red velvet curtains, which had perhaps once been very good, but now showed bald patches, and were parted, so that the whole window was like a tiny theatre stage. I went in, shuffled along by the edge of the bed, and looked out and down. There was a kind of staircase of dark house roofs to either side, but directly below was the Prom (which was deserted), then the lights of the harbour, with its cluster of cowardly boats, unable to face up to the wild black sea beyond.
'That's a grandstand view all right,' I said.
But Miss Rickerby had most unexpectedly - and disappointingly - gone, so I continued my inspection of the room alone.
Well, it was like a ship's cabin, or some sort of viewing booth: you'd sit on the bed with your feet up, and marvel at the scene beyond your boots. I took off my great-coat, set my kit bag down on the counterpane, and sat on the bed in the manner just described. The room was tolerably well-kept, although I fancied it wouldn't do to look too closely. On the hearth, I could see fire dust that a brush had passed too lightly over.
At my left elbow, as I sat on the bed, was the door, and there was a key in the keyhole. To the left of my left leg was a wardrobe with, as I imagined, just enough clearance between it and the bed to allow for the opening of the doors and barely any between its top and the ceiling. Beyond my boot soles was the window. To the right of my right boot was a small table covered with a tartan cloth. On the table was a box of long matches, a red-shaded oil lamp, with the wick burning low - as though in expectation of a tenant - and instructions for the lighting of the lamp. There was also a black book.
To the right of my right knee was a small fireplace, not laid for a fire but with kindling and paper ready in one scuttle, and coal in another. At my right elbow was a wash stand on a scrap of red and black tab rug, which ran partly under the bed as any rug in that room would have to do. For the rest, the floor was black-painted boards.
I sat and watched the black, brooding sea and listened to the wind rising off it, which periodically set the window clattering in its frame. I then leant forward and picked up the book that lay by the side of the lamp. It was Ocean Steamships by F. E. Chadwick and several others, and the owner had written his name on the inside page: 'H. D. R. Fielding'. Who's he when he's at home? I thought, and I settled down on the bed with it. Turning to the first page, I read: 'It is a wonderful fact in the swift expansion of mechanical knowledge and appliances of the last hundred years that while for unknown ages the wind was the only propelling force used for purposes of navigation...'
At that, I put the book back on the table and picked up the directions for the lamp. 'Sunshine at Night,' I read. 'The "Famos" 120 Candle-Power Incandescent Oil Lamp. The management of the lamp is simplicity itself.. .' Tucked into the pages of the little booklet was a handwritten note evidently meant for guests at Paradise and left over from the summer: 'Please note that teas can by arrangement be served on the beach. Please place requests with Mr Adam Rickerby.'
So there was more than one Rickerby. I didn't quite like the thought.
I replaced this and the lamp directions, and looked at the wallpaper, which was of a mustardy colour, bubbling here and there, and showing the same small ship - a black galleon - entangled dozens of times over in the same curly wave. I was just thinking that it would have made a good pattern for a lad's room when I heard a stirring to my left and there, looming in the doorway, was the over-grown boy who might have spent his childhood years gazing at it.
'Does it suit?' he enquired.
'Adam Rickerby?' I said, and he nodded.
'Will it do?' he said.
The words fell out of his mouth anyhow, in a sort of breathless rush, and with a quantity of flying spittle. He was a gormless lad of
about eighteen and, depending on how he grew, he might be all right or a permanent idiot. For the time being, he was unfinished. He wore a shirt of rough white cloth, a thin white necker tied anyhow, and a dirty green apron, so that he looked like some monstrous sort of footman.
'It's cosy enough, en't it?' I said.
He made no answer.
'But it suits me fine,' I said.
'It's two shilling fer t'night,' he said, and he put his hand out.
'Who sent you?'
'Our lass,' he said, and so he was the brother of Miss Rickerby. I was glad he wasn't her husband.
While her face was made pretty and friendly-seeming by being rather wide, his was pumpkin-like; and while her mass of curls was fetching, his were . . . well, you didn't often see a man who had too much hair but his allowance was excessive, as though sprouting the stuff was about all he was good for. While his sister was well-spoken (for Scarborough, anyhow) he spoke broad Yorkshire, and his blue eyes were too light, indicating a kind of hollowness inside.
I paid over the coin, and he dropped it directly into the front pocket of his apron.
'Winder rattles,' he said.
'I know,' I said, and he skirted around the bed until he came to the window. There he crouched down and found a bit of paste-board, which he jammed into the frame, afterwards remaining motionless and gazing out to sea for a good few seconds. Rising to his feet again he indicated the paste-board, saying, 'You've to keep that in,' as though it was my fault it had fallen out. I could clearly read the words on the card: 'American Wintergreen Tooth Powder: Unequalled for...' and then came the fold. At any rate, it worked, and the best the wind could do now was to create a small trembling in the frame.
'Seen t'toilet?' enquired the youth, who was standing in the doorway once more.
I gave a quick shake of my head.
'It's on t'floor below... Yer've not seen it?' he repeated.
'Is there something special about it?' I said.
The lad kept silence for a moment, before blurting:
'There en't one in't back yard.'
'But you don't have a back yard, do you?' I asked, thinking of how the rear of the house gave on to what was practically a sheer drop. *
He shook his head.
'So it'd be a bit hard to have a toilet in it, wouldn't it?'
I glanced down under the bed, and Adam Rickerby looked on alarmed as I did so. A fair quantity of dust was down there, but not the object I was looking for.
'There's no chamber pot,' I said.
He eyed me sidelong, looked away, eyed me again.
'This room doesn't have a chamber pot,' he said.
'I know,' I said. 'That's what I'm saying.'
'Want one, do yer?' he said, very fast.
'Yes,' I said, 'that's what I'm also saying.'
A note of music arose: the sea wind in the little iron fireplace - a very pure sound, like a flute.
'Cabinet fer yer clothes,' he said suddenly, indicating the wardrobe.
'Yes,' I said, and the silence that followed was so awkward that I said, 'Thanks for pointing it out.'
Had he taken the point about the chamber pot? It was impossible to tell.
'Coal an' wood in't scuttles,' he said - and just then there came a great bang and a scream from beyond the window.
The lad remained motionless, as I barged the bed aside to get a look. Red lights, like burning embers, drifted peacefully down through the black sky towards the harbour.
'I'd say a maroon's just been let off,' I said, and I looked at the lad, who was frowning down towards the bed.
'Appen,' he said.
'What does it mean?'
'Could mean owt,' he said.
'Well,' I said, 'that can't be right,' at which he looked up at me quite sharply 'If a maroon could mean anything, they wouldn't bother firing one. I'd say a ship's been wrecked.'
And the lad didn't seem to think much of that idea, because he just turned on his heel and quit the room. I went out after him, and caught him up on the floor being decorated.
'There's t'toilet,' he said, indicating a white-painted door. 'Paint's all dry.'
Evidently, then, he did not mean to supply me with a chamber pot. It struck me that he was a very inflexible youth.
'Where's everyone else in the house?' I said. 'I want to see about this shipwreck.'
'Sitting room,' he said. 'Next floor down.'
I followed him down towards the first landing. On the way we passed three framed photographs I hadn't noticed on the way up. I turned towards them expecting to see sea-side scenes. Instead there was an old man giving me the evil eye. He hadn't mustered a smile for any of the three, I noticed, as we descended under his gaze.
'Who's that?' I enquired, although I knew the answer in advance on account of the pile of grey curls atop the old man's head.
The lad stopped on the stairs, but didn't turn about.
'Our dad,' he said.
'Is he in the house?'
'No.'
At the bottom of the staircase, the lad had paused to straighten a crooked stair rod.
'What do you mean?' I said. 'Is he not in the house just at present, or is he never in it?'
The lad straightened up, standing foursquare before me in the narrow space and folding his arms. He looked bullet proof, and big with it. Did he mean to put the frighteners on me? I stood my ground.
'Never,' he said.
'Well, let me see now,' I said. 'Would your old man be dead?'
'He would. How do you take yer tea?'
'What's that got to do with it?'
'I'll be attending yer in t’morning,' he said, taking a step closer towards me. 'I'll be bringin' yer 'ot water in a jug and tea ... in a cup.'
'Well, that's just how I like tea,' I said.'... In a cup.'
No flicker of a smile from the lad.
'Two sugars,' I said. 'When did your old man die, if you don't mind my asking?'
'Two year since. Milk?'
I nodded. 'And plenty of it.'
'Seven o'clock suit?'
'Fine.'
The old man hadn't killed Blackburn at any rate ... Unless the lad lied, but I somehow didn't think so. He was indicating the nearest closed door, and saying, 'Sitting room. Fire's lit in there.'
He then told me a cold tea was served on Sundays in the dining room, and carried on down the stairs. Remembering about the shipwreck, I approached the door of the sitting room. It faced the right way to give a view of the sea. I could hear muttered voices from within.
Chapter Sixteen
I looked up as the iron wall of the chain room cracked. The door was slowly opening, and it seemed that I was returning to this dark corner of the ship from hundreds of miles away. Blue cigar smoke came in first, like something curious, and I wanted it to go back because it brought the sickness rising up again. The grey Mate stood in the doorway, and he held up an oil lamp, which swung with the ship, and gave his face a bluish tinge.
'The old man wants a word,' he said, the white foam rising at the backs of his teeth.
'What are you talking about?' I said. 'You're the old man.'
But I knew from Baytown days that the captain was always 'the old man' on any ship, regardless of age.
'Wants a word about what, exactly?' I then enquired, just as though there were many other things I ought to be attending to on the ship.
'You are to continue your story,' said the Mate. 'Your recollections.'
And he seemed to be trying out a new English word. The best thing would be to have it out with him straight away. His lamp had illuminated the length of rope, but I could hardly stoop to catch it up and I doubted that my hands would work properly anyway. He opened the first hatchway, and I stumbled into the companionway. He opened the second, and we were out onto the fore-deck under a dark blue sky and a moon that was full. The fore-sail was still rigged; it trembled in the wind, and so did I. The Captain waited a little way ahead, standing by the mid-ships ladder. One of the two of th
em must have held the revolver, but I could not see it just at that moment.
I looked up. The smoke from the funnel was pale blue and ghostly against the dark blue of the sky. It would come out at odd intervals, not connected to the beat of the engines. Smoke was unburnt carbon; the stuff could kill you if inhaled in a confined space, but that didn't mean that the fellows who made smoke were evil. Any man with an honest job made smoke in quantities, and I wondered about the men in the engine room of this no-name ship. Did they know about me? I doubted it, for the engines and the stoke hold were aft, and no man was allowed for'ard when I was out of my prison.
We walked on red-painted iron. Sea swirled over it, although not so much as before, and now the waves were almost pretty against the full moon. Some were set on following us, others drifted off crosswise, and they made the deck slippery in parts. What's wanted here, I thought, is a mop - and a big one. Mr Buckingham would scarcely have approved of the situation. Was he a real man? I could not decide. He was the fellow who bought a mill that was kept idle through the negligence of the railway company in not delivering a piece of machinery. Would the carrier be liable for profits lost by the mill being kept idle? No. Loss too remote. My ability to think was returning by degrees, but try as I might to recall those final hours in Scarborough, my recollections stopped somewhere about a giant needle, a quantity of razor blades, a wax doll, a paper fan and a paraffin heater in a blue room.
We walked on the starboard side of the ship, and as I looked over the sea, I thought I made out some deepening of night at a mile's distance, but it was more than that.
'Land!' I called ahead to the grey-faced Dutchman.
'Nobody knows you there, my friend,' he said, not turning around.
It looked homely enough all the same. I saw in silhouette two houses and what might have been a church clustered together on a low cliff. We were going at a fair lick, and they seemed to be riding fast the other way, but I kept them in sight as long as I could. Lights burned brightly at the retreating windows, and I was grateful to whoever had lit them.
The Mate had motioned me to stop. I looked beyond him towards the mid-ships, and another man had taken the place of the Captain at the ladder, this one much younger, hardly more than a boy. I saw him clear by the lamp that hung from the rail near where he stood. He wore the regulation galoshes but also a thin, ordinary sort of suit. I was certain that he was not the man who'd been at the wheel during my first visit to the chart room, which meant that there were four at least in on the secret. The kid had made some signal to the Mate, who was now leaning somewhat against the gunwale, and looking aft. Some delay had occurred in taking me into the bridge house, if that was in fact the programme. Perhaps there were some loiterers aft who might catch sight of me unless they were put off.
The Last Train to Scarborough Page 9