Grave Misgivings

by Caroline Wood

  I decide to have a shower while I’m waiting. But there isn’t one. There is only an ancient cast iron bath with green stains on the enamel where the taps have dripped. I fill it with water that is tainted with rust and get in for a relaxing soak. My shoulders feel easier the moment I submerge myself in the warm water, and I don’t care that it looks like weak tea. Fifteen minutes later, the bulky young woman I’d seen earlier opens the bathroom door and stands looking down at me; she’s holding a tray.

  ‘I’ll put this on your bedside table, shall I?’ she says, as I splash water everywhere in my frantic efforts to sit up and grab a towel.

  I nod my head. All I can say is, ‘Yes, okay, yes.’ I am so surprised I can’t think what else to say. I slide back down into the rusty water.

  ‘Nice figure,’ she says, and turns to leave the tiny bathroom.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ I say. ‘What’s going on? This isn’t …well it isn’t — ’

  ‘Don’t get yourself all worked up,’ she says, interrupting me. ‘I was only trying to give you a compliment.’

  ‘But …’ I say.

  She pops her head round the door, smiles at me. ‘It pays to know what the competition is.’ she says. ‘That’s the way I look at it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I say, but she’s gone. I hear the door to the room closing behind her. I get out of the bath and dry myself quickly. I pull on the last of my clean but creased clothes. My skin is still damp and my clothes feel threes sizes too small. I am shivering although it isn’t cold. In fact the room is muggy and too warm. I go to the window and look down at the yard below. It is littered with metal barrels and orange plastic crates filled with empty bottles. A thin tabby cat looks up at me, swishing its tail from side to side. I feel more unwelcome than ever and can’t wait to get away from this place. I sit down to eat the soup and sandwiches. The soup is barely warm but I am too hungry to care.

  The light is fading. I don’t want to spend the whole evening in this dingy little room but neither do I want to wander the market square on my own. I’ve seen nothing else to do – no cinema or pubs that I could walk into on my own – in fact The Red Dragon is the only pub I’ve seen. I resign myself to the idea that I’m here for the night and dig my book out of the backpack, lay on the bed and start to read. I can hardly see so I get up to find the light switch on the wall. There isn’t one so I fumble with the fussy, fringed table-lamp next to the bed. A dim yellow glow from the dusty bulb makes the room seem even gloomier, so I snuggle under the eiderdown to cheer myself up. Within minutes I’m too hot and throw the cover off. I know this heat will keep me awake so I go and look at the squat, old-fashioned radiator to see if I can turn it off. It is so hot that I snatch my hand away as soon as I touch it. Why, I think, do they want it on this high when the weather is so mild? The valve at the bottom is stuck solid and won’t shift, so I decide to open the window. Only that won’t budge either. All I can get it to do is rattle in its frame but it won’t open even a crack. Sweating from my efforts, I look down into the pub yard. Three women are humping something heavy between them, their backs rounded with the effort. I keep watching. I guess they are moving barrels and wonder why the landlord doesn’t do it.

  ‘Good view?’ says a voice behind me.

  I jump like a firework. ‘Jesus,’ I say. ‘You frightened me.’ It’s the chunky young woman again. I’m glad I am dressed this time. She is smiling but doesn’t look friendly.

  ‘Just came to get your plates and that,’ she says. ‘Didn’t expect you to be spying on the workers though. You don’t want to go getting too interested in what goes on down there.’

  ‘I wasn’t spying,’ I say. ‘I was just looking out of the window. Not against the rules, is it?’

  She laughs but I can tell she isn’t finding this funny. ‘Oh, you getting nasty now, are you?’ she says. ‘All sarcastic and that? They said you got a bit of a mouth on you – swearing and cursing out in the street and everything. We don’t take too kindly to that sort of thing round here, you know.’

  ‘It wasn’t exactly swearing and curs — ’

  She cuts me off, steps closer. ‘Listen, you’ve got a room for the night, that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? It’s nice and warm and comfortable, and you’ve got plenty of tea and biscuits. Now, just keep yourself to yourself till Blakey’s finished with your car and everything will be all right.’

  I am so angry I feel like slapping her fat, wobbly face. Not content with walking in on me in the bath and making personal comments, now she’s got the cheek to stand here and issue instructions. There must be a complaints procedure, I think. And I decide to myself that I’ll make sure she gets in trouble for this.

  She gives me another forced smile. ‘Glad we got that straight,’ she says, and snatches at the thin curtains to pull them closed.

  The first time I wake up that night it’s just after ten. The room is stifling and I’m on top of the blankets, still fully dressed. My thumb is trapped in the middle of my closed book. For a few seconds, I think I’m in my tent. The space around me feels small and close – the murky patch of dim yellow light means I can’t see far beyond the bed. I stretch my arms above my head, still half expecting to touch canvas. I decide to have a cup of tea. The kettle, on a small oak table against the wall, is huge and ancient, with a plaited, fabric cord and a two-pin plug. There is a rasping, scratchy sound when I carry it to the bathroom and big limescale crusts come loose in the basin when I pour out the stale water. I think back to the incident with the fat woman watching me in the bath and imagine telling my friends. I’m not angry now, just amused. The tray with cups and teabags is well stocked. There is a basket filled with biscuits in packs of three – dozens of them. This is just what I need after my sleep, and I crouch down to find a socket to plug the kettle in. The only one I can find above the dusty, peeling skirting board is already in use for the bedside lamp. I go round the floor again on my hands and knees, sure there must be another socket, but have no luck, so I unplug the lamp and feel my way with my fingers to plug the kettle in. Then I sit in the dark and wait for the clicks, bangs, and wheezes of the kettle to form a united sound that I’ll recognise as boiling water. It takes quite a while, and is long enough for my sleepy brain to realise I can have both light and power at the same time. Just open the bathroom door, I tell myself, feeling stupid. Obvious, isn’t it?

  The tea is lovely – hot, strong, and reviving. I eat too many biscuits, hiding the little cellophane packets under the pillow so I don’t have to count them. It dawns on me that there isn’t much noise from the bar below and I’m impressed that they must have soundproofed the building so well for the sake of guests. I poke another biscuit wrapper under the pillow and push myself up off the bed. With the door ajar, I stand on the small landing and strain to listen. Not a sound; the place is silent. Saturdays must get going really late round here, I think to myself. I go a few steps down the stairs and listen again, but it’s still silent. I wouldn’t be too worried about walking into a pub like this, I think, and keep going. As I get further down, the air is even warmer and smells of cooking. Tomorrow’s lunch, I think. It’s a cloying, meaty smell and gets stronger with every step. I’m glad my room is far enough away – I couldn’t cope with this hot smell all night.

  In the lounge bar, I hear the faint hum and see the bluish flicker of a television. I turn to go back upstairs, not wanting another unpleasant encounter for doing something wrong. I’m four or five steps up when I stop. I hear something behind me but don’t want to look round. The cooking smell is stronger than ever and is making me feel sick. I just want to get back to my room, and move up another couple of steps.

  ‘Not going to say hello, then?’

  I look over my shoulder. It’s the older woman – the one who let me in. She has just come through a door near the foot of the stairs and is carrying a huge tray laden with food.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t realise there was anyone there.’ My head is starting to feel tight ac
ross the front.

  ‘Oh, there’s always someone about in this place,’ she says. Heart of the village, this is.’

  Could have fooled me, I think. I fake a yawn and give her a polite smile then start making my way back upstairs. ‘Well, goodnight then,’ I say.

  ‘Come and join us,’ she says. ‘I mean; you must have come down for something.’ There is an edge to her voice, she sounds annoyed.

  I can’t think of an excuse quickly enough. I do as she says. Shit, I think rather than say it out loud.

  She goes into the bar and sets the tray down on a table in the middle of a group of women. They are all absorbed with watching the television and do not speak. They lean forward and help themselves to the food, almost without looking. There are huge sandwiches filled with thick dark meat – I can see steam rising from them – there are pies, sausages and shapes covered in breadcrumbs. One by one the women turn away from the television and glance across at me as they chew on their supper. I feel just like I do when men do this in pubs. I move to leave but the older woman puts her hand on my shoulder. She smiles but her hand is pressing firmly.

  ‘You don’t want to go just yet,’ she says. ‘Sit down and join us. There’s always plenty to eat here.’

  I know for certain that I’ll be leaving in the morning – I will find somewhere else to stay. I don’t like this place at all – and there’s something menacing about these women heaping their plates with food and eating non-stop, their fingers and chins shiny with grease. Over and over again they offer me something to eat. Each time I refuse, I sense their impatience with me. Tension flickers in the air with the blue light from the television.

  ‘I never did understand you vegetarians,’ one of the women says, licking her fingers before she leans forward to re-stock her plate.She’s the woman from the Tourist Information Board. In this darkness, it’s hard to make out faces but gradually I start to recognise some of them. The cardigan woman and the one from the other B&B are there.

  ‘How’s the planet meant to get rid of unwanted life forms if you only eat leaves and roots?’ says the Tourist Information woman.

  ‘I don’t look at it like that,’ I say. I feel both nervous and annoyed. I don’t want to get into this discussion but know I have to give an answer. ‘To me, it’s more about the idea of natural balance.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asks.

  I don’t want to get drawn into this at all. They are all watching me now instead of the television.

  ‘Well,’ I say, taking a deep breath, ‘it’s about the way creatures evolve to fit habitats and space according to how many of them there are. There’d be enough space for all of us if that balance hadn’t been upset – like the artificial rise of animal populations in farming, for instance. We’re arrogant enough to think we’re superior to other creatures and can use them as food. I find that disturbing and it’s why I don’t …’ My voice fades away. I’ve said too much. I feel too self-conscious to continue. Everything stops. The women stare at me.

  ‘So,’ one of the women says, ‘you think that sheep, for instance, deserve to live the same way we do? Have the same chances in life?’ There is some laughter; she is enjoying mocking me.

  ‘No of course not,’ I say, wishing this would stop, ‘but they do deserve to live the life that’s right for them and not be exploited or modified to suit us.’

  ‘Oh,’ she comes back at me, a sneer in her voice, ‘and what about cows? I suppose you think they should drive around in cars and get all the best jobs while we just sit back and look after them?’

  ‘Sounds more like men,’ someone else says.

  ‘Yes, them as well,’ she snaps and some of the others laugh. But not very much.

  ‘Come on Iris, leave it now,’ says the older woman, the one that seems to have some sort of authority.

  ‘It’s true though,’ the sneering woman goes on. ‘Look at the life my sister’s husband gave her. He never worked a day in his life. Never did anything around the home, and spent all his time in the pub. My sister had to earn the money, look after the kids and she still did all the cooking. That lazy bastard did nothing. Is anyone going to tell me he didn’t deserve to end up … well, getting what was coming to him?’

  ‘That’s enough, Iris,’ says the older woman. She laughs, but it sounds uneasy. ‘We all know you like a bit of a joke. Don’t we everyone?’

  There are light-hearted attempts to distract from what’s been said but everyone seems on edge somehow, like too much has come out. And they are trying too hard to casually play it down.

  The room falls quiet. I feel muddled, shaky, and very uneasy. I don’t know what this is all about, but something is going on. I can feel it – there’s an undercurrent. Not only are they hostile, these women also seem angry and defensive. And they are edgy with each other. I don’t belong, that is more than obvious, but there’s something else as well – some sort of friction between them. I don’t want to be here when it erupts. I stand up. They all stare at me, waiting. ‘I’ll er, I’ll say goodnight now,’ I say without looking at anyone, and leave the silent group behind me.

  The first thing I spot when I get back to my room is my backpack. I expect it to be stuffed back all anyhow, feel sure someone will have gone through it. I pick it up and start searching through but it’s just as I left it, nothing has been taken or moved. I’m over-reacting now, and feel stupid, but I’m still sure there’s something odd about these women. I just don’t know what. I try to lock the door but the key won’t turn in the lock. I try it on the outside of the door but again it doesn’t budge. I don’t think it is even the right key – it just sort of hangs in the lock. The smell of cooking meat – sweet and sickly – is strong on the little landing now so I go back in and shut the door hard. Sod this, I think, there’s no way I’m laying here all night waiting to see who might pop in for a visit. I carry the little oak table to the door and wedge it under the wobbly doorknob. I realise my hands are shaking.

  The next time I wake up, it’s just gone four and I feel like someone has hit me over the head, I’m so tired and groggy. This heat has knocked me out. I think I heard the door being tried – think that’s what has woken me. But I’m not sure. Whatever it was, it stops now I’m awake and I don’t even know if I really heard anything, not really. Perhaps it was just the radiator rattling. I can’t hold the thought in my head for long – I can’t fight the need to sleep. If I could shake myself properly awake I’d go and check the door. For a while, I keep promising myself I’ll go and look – but I also keep adding that I’ll do it in a minute. In the end I don’t do it at all.

  About an hour later, I jolt awake again. This time, I’m sure there’s someone at the door. I can hear the little table creaking as the door pushes against it. I pull my head off the pillow and heave myself off the bed. Even though I’m still half asleep, I’m scared and my heart is skittering rapidly in my chest. When I finally get to the door, there’s nothing. Just the smell of meat on the landing. My head is thick and pounding and I need to lie down but before I go back to bed, I move the curtain enough to look down onto the yard. There is movement but I can’t make it out – it’s not light enough yet. All I can see is large shapes moving slowly. I crawl back into bed, too tired to stay awake but too shaken up to sleep properly. I dip in and out of a restless foggy half-sleep.

  When I fully wake up, the room is light. My head is throbbing but I feel less like a zombie now and get up to look out of the window. There’s nothing down there this time – no movement or dark shapes, just the orange crates and squat metal barrels. As I turn away from the window, I stop suddenly as something catches my eye. The thin, tabby cat is sitting on the bed, hissing and swishing its tail. I like cats and can see that this one is scared.

  ‘Come on, little chap,’ I say, walking slowly towards it, ‘did you get trapped in here in the night?’I must have let him in when I opened the door. The poor thing looks terrified. I move carefully closer to the bed, whispering all
the time so I don’t startle the scrawny creature. When I bend to stroke him, the cat hisses again and lashes out, catching the back of my hand with its razor claws. I watch as a slice of skin opens on the back of my hand, from my wrist to my knuckles and a line of blood fills it. The cat streaks across the room when I hold the door open, hissing loudly again as it passes me. I hold my hand under the cold tap until the blood stops then find a plaster in the pocket of my backpack.

  It is later than I’d planned to leave by the time I get downstairs and all I can think of is getting away as quickly as possible. The place is very quiet, too warm and still smells of cooking meat. I feel sick. The older woman appears from the door at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Oh, there you are,’ she says brightly. ‘Hope you slept well?’ She bustles past me and pats the top of a table. ‘You sit here and I’ll get your breakfast.’

  I shake my head and start to tell her I don’t want anything to eat – I just want to pay my bill and go.

  ‘Don’t worry; we know you’ve got strange ideas about not eating meat and all that. I’ll get you something fitting.’ She hurries away.

  I slump down at the table and resign myself to being here a bit longer. The woman returns with a tray and puts it in front of me on the grubby, off-white, plastic tablecloth. While she’s placing the plate, teapot and cup on the table, she stops and taps my wrist.