by Joan Aiken
When she had dealt with Clarkson’s arm he went off up to the big house. Mrs. Marsham waited until he was out of sight and then let herself into one of the two empty cottages.
The three men in an upper room stiffened, hearing her key in the front door. Then one of them said, “It’s Mother,” and the other two relaxed. One of them, who was lying on a surgical couch, rolled sideways and vomited a mouthful of blood onto the polythene sheet that was spread under his head.
His pallor looked habitual but was at present accentuated to cod-fillet colour; his hair was a dead-white stubble. Large pink ears stood out from a face shaped like an indented oval; the absurdity of the ears did not suit the rest of him; his appearance at any time, whatever he was doing, suggested a hungry purpose, a kind of chronic anger.
The man who stood beside him was short, with a chubby pock-marked complexion, round dark eyes, and stiff dark hair. Although he looked tough, and as if he might have an ugly temper, he behaved in a curiously affectionate, protective way towards the man on the couch, and once even patted his head, as if to assure him that the worst of his ordeal was over; but he did it in a nervous, hasty way, like somebody taking liberties with a dangerous dog.
The third man, much younger than the others, was ginger-haired and thickset and had on a white lab coat. It was to him that Mrs. Marsham spoke when she came in.
“Did you put the car in the shed, Harold?”
“Do me a favour. Of course I did.”
“Good. How’s Harbin?”
“He’ll live,” said Harold laconically.
“No trouble?”
“Nope. Goetz helped me.”
“All right, are you?” she inquired briskly of the man on the couch.
“Pain. Painful,” he mouthed with difficulty, dribbling more blood.
“Give him a lump of ice to suck. Has he had codeine? He could have a couple more. You’ll feel better in an hour or so,” she said to Harbin. “You can come over to the house as soon as it’s dark and have something to eat. That’ll do you good.”
He shuddered. Goetz, the third man, looked amused.
“Same old Linda,” he said. “I could almost fancy we were back on the Hong Kong run, handing out paper bags and chewing-gum.”
“Well, we are not,” Mrs. Marsham said shortly. “And you’d better not forget it.”
“What about Adnan?” Harold asked his mother.
“No trouble there.” But Mrs. Marsham looked as if she were withholding volumes of adverse opinion. This was one of her strengths, and the three men eyed her uneasily.
At this moment the cat, which had followed her into the house, sidled round the door and rubbed against her legs, then jumped, with a sort of uncouth agility, onto the couch beside Harbin. He let out a bubbling yell, and spat more blood.
“Ge’ that’ ‘amn ‘at ou’a here!” he mouthed frantically.
Goetz grabbed at it and dumped it, none too gently, outside the door.
“Careful! You’ll hurt him!” snapped Mrs. Marsham.
“Well you don’t want him getting septicaemia or cat-bite fever, do you?” Goetz said. He dusted his hands together, looking at them distastefully; Harbin’s glance crossed that of Mrs. Marsham. After a moment she turned on her heel and left the room, saying, “I’ll expect you in an hour or so, then. Come in at the side door. Harold will show you.”
“You want to watch it with that cat,” warned Harold in a low voice. “Ma’s crazy about the fat, overfed thing.”
The other two men were silent.
Harold put his head round the door and called cautiously down the stairs.
“Hey, Ma!”
Mrs. Marsham was about to let herself out. She turned, key in hand.
“Well?”
“I thought I heard another car, after the doctor?”
“Oh, it was nothing,” his mother said. “Some tiresome girl, looking for her great-aunt.”
“Great-aunt? One of your old things?”
“No, nobody we’ve ever heard of,” said Mrs. Marsham.
Now what are we going to do? Nearly out of tooth powder, need more cuttlefish bone. Ounce of cloves too. Also, not much oil of rosemary left. Old Mr. Thing would buy cloves, sweet oil, at chemist when he goes to cash cheque; old Mr. Thing very obliging, grateful for poppyhead lotion rubbed on gouty toe. Poor old Mr. Thing. But no use asking him look for rosemary or cuttlefish bone; wouldn’t know one from the other. Rosemary grows in public gardens, or used. Remember exactly where, at back, against wall, behind benches, under plane trees. Remember seeing it when Dill and I used to come for seaweed. Not hard to pick a few sprigs; say after tea, when nobody much about. Cuttlefish bone on shore, used to be lots. Used to bring home for birds, too. Taffypuss used to get excited and roll on it. Oh, Taffypuss.
But would I dare go out? Hat with veil, green eye-shade? Might attract attention even more? Hard to know what to do for best. Long way to public gardens, even farther to shore, and steep climb back again. Take long time. Legs not what they were, due to lack of exercise. Could walk ten, fifteen miles, few years ago, out in all weathers, heather on moor, ransoms in Cronkley Wood. Much healthier. Not enough fresh air now, can’t even walk about in house, all that furniture. So, long, slow journey through streets. Suppose That Other One in town, waiting, watching? If I knew child, could send child for cuttlefish bone. Used to send children for lichen. But don’t know any child now. Wonder what happened to Paul’s little one, Shrimpy he used to call her. Long ago.
All right, all right, just coming out of bathroom, have to have good wash don’t I, nobody likes living with people who aren’t properly washed. Several in this house could do with more. Not my fault only one bathroom.
Dressing. Fingers getting weaker. If went to shore for cuttlefish bone, could get seaweed too. Dry in back garden? Maybe That One wouldn’t mind hanging over kitchen stove; kitchen smells terrible anyway. Would be wonderful to stand on shore again, hear gulls, smell sea.
Brush hair, roll up bun. Arms tired already, only ten o’clock. Could do with sea air. Put on hearing aid.
My goodness, what was that? Sound came from stairs. Someone called out, then awful crash, then called out again. Footsteps running. Should go and see? No, better not. One of the others puts head out of door. Somebody fallen? Yes, someone fallen downstairs. Not surprised with Hoover cord trailing down like that. Only surprised more don’t. Who fell then? Can’t see, down at bottom, people there, but dark in front hall.
Better keep out of way, better not go to see. That One can be very sharp when there’s trouble. I’ll thank you ladies not to come running out like school-kids just because there’s been a slight accident.
Slight? That didn’t sound so slight.
Front door banged. Someone running on pavement outside. Going for doctor?
Voices muttering, voices chattering. Nearly time for morning cup of tea, probably late today. Possibly no tea at all.
One of the others gone down now, to see what’s happened. Shan’t go, shall stay here sitting on bed. Hands trembling, accidents frighten me. Can’t help remembering Dill always. Oh Dill. But she’s safe now, she’s happy. Should be happy for her. But supposing she misses me?
Here’s somebody coming back now.
What happened, who was it? Somebody fell downstairs? Old Mr. Thing? Tripped over Hoover cord? Not surprised, always have said—
Taken off in ambulance for X ray?
Suppose he stays in geriatric ward?
Who will I get to cash my cheques now?
“Humph,” said Rees-Evans. “Not quite so good today. What have you been doing with yourself?”
“Waiting.”
“Well, better stop waiting and do something else.”
The two men looked at one another sympathetically. It is harder to bear another person’s knowledge than one’s own.
“I’ll drop in for a game of chess later,” the doctor suggested. “Shall I?”
“That would be very enjoyable.”
“Got plenty of reading-matter?”
“Plenty.” Benovek did not look at the triple stack of glossy new books on the window table.
“Well—” said the doctor, rather helplessly. He moved towards the door. “See you later then. Oh, I nearly forgot. Letter for you—your secretary asked me to give it to you. One of your fans in Yorkshire.”
The door closed behind him.
“Dear Max Benovek:
I am truly sorry to be so slow in locating my great-aunt. I have written to her at her God-awful bank but she doesn’t answer; I begin to wonder whether she doesn’t want to be found. If she’s alive. I’ll give it another week and then come south. I’ve located plenty of her pictures, simply by looking through windows; almost every cottage in Appleby seems to have one, except the Old Folk’s Home. But people don’t know, or won’t say, where she’s gone. I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but there seems a funny atmosphere about it all. And—this you’ll hardly believe but I swear it’s true—you remember I told you about that crazy notice on the public convenience that said it wasn’t to be used after dusk?—well, when I asked about that at the post office, I was told quite seriously that people had complained it was haunted, and the Council wouldn’t hold themselves responsible. So haunted by what? I asked. Well, no one would say anything much, but it was in some way connected with the death of old Miss Howe, who fell down a sort of cliff into the brook last year and died of exposure. Miss Culpepper’s friend. Now she’s supposed to linger near the spot. How’s that for the growth of local folklore? Meanwhile the Council have fixed for a temporary loo to be put at the other end of the village; such things exist, it seems.
No, I haven’t bought any of the pictures yet. Well, I’m not terribly keen to, till I know what’s happened to Aunt Fennel; Wilbie said I could go to twenty dollars apiece and he’d send more cash when necessary, but it doesn’t seem right. He’ll get mad soon, I expect; that doesn’t worry me a scrap. Anyway, the first picture I buy is going to be for you. I know you’ll love it. Why am I so sure? I just am.
I couldn’t find anywhere to stay in Appleby, so I’m in Kirby-on-Sea, the nearest town. By road it’s a long way but there’s a shortcut over the moor, very steep, a sort of watercourse. Your beautiful little car, dear little PHO doesn’t mind going down, but up mightn’t be so easy. In winter I guess it’s a glacier. There’s a reservoir and a dam at the top, that’s why they don’t make a road; something to do with vibrations. Anyway, no one wants to go to Appleby.
Failing Aunt Fennel I’ll describe Kirby-on-Sea for you. It’s a fine town. Two piers like lobsters’ claws enclose the harbour, and just as well; this is really a fierce coast, all cliff on either side, brown and steep like the shoulders of the sphinx. The waves come rolling furiously down from the north pole, grey as ink, and crash up against the cliff, even on a calm day. What it must be like in November! There’s a swing bridge and signs saying ‘The public are not allowed on these dolphins’. I thought there must be some kind of zoo-aquarium with maybe dolphin performances, so quite right not to allow the public, but no: it’s something to do with the bridge. There are trawlers and timber ships. The houses are stone, rising up the steep cliff in tiers, and they have those red pantile roofs, marcelled like mother’s hair in old photographs; smoke rushes hastily from the chimneys, there’s always a strong wind blowing, and the gulls never stop making a row. They sound like school kids at recess. The air smells of kippers. There are hundreds and hundreds of little shops selling them—oak-smoked kippers, they are very good. There’s also a fun fair and amusement arcade. But in spite of these gaieties this feels like an old people’s town, Max; all the bingo hall signs say Come and Join Us, as if they were beckoning to the shy and lonely.
I must stop now and go out and have another hunt for Aunt Fennel. I’ve tried the post office, public library, citizens’ advice bureau, women’s voluntary services, and hospital; none of them were a bit helpful. Trouble is, this town is just full of boarding-houses just full of elderly people; they are always shifting about, they move inland in summer when prices go up, they don’t have regular doctors, they live by selling their watches and rings. There are scads of second-hand shops. It’s almost impossible to keep track of people. But I haven’t given up yet. I’m going out and try all the drugstores and wool shops next, because old ladies use those a lot.
I don’t keep thanking you for what you are doing for me because that would be boring, wouldn’t it. But I don’t forget it, not for an instant. I listened to all your Bach recitals and all the other things on the music programme. What do you think of Barenboim? Of Ivan Davis? Never mind, tell me when we meet. I wish you were here, though—the bracing air of this town would surely do you good.
I can’t begin to express how much I’m looking forward to my lessons.
Love from Lucy
In my next letter I’ll tell you about the candy-stores; they need a whole letter to themselves.”
Kirby municipal gardens lay on four different levels, terraced up the cliff. Day trippers never bothered to go beyond the bottom layer which contained the showier blooms, beds of geranium and lobelia laid out in patterns, tulips, polyanthus, roses, according to season. On the higher levels more durable shrubs were planted. Up here, too, were the benches. Elderly permanent residents who lived in the criss-cross of late-nineteenth-century streets above the gardens would terminate their faltering descent here and sit looking down at the harbour’s pincer-arms, the red-and-white lighthouse, and the expanse of North Sea, generally a surly slate-grey. Nobody stayed long, though; shrubs, however securely planted, continually trembled and winced in the relentless north wind. There were always vacant seats. But if it was cold up here, it was safe; the long-haired, arrogant teen-agers who swept in unpredictable droves along the streets round the harbour, arriving and departing with the random abruptness of migrant birds, never bothered to climb up. There was nothing for them at the top; it was cold and quiet and boring and the benches, backless and short, were unsuitable for love-making.
Lucy had had a migraine headache all day. Usually when this happened—which was every two or three months—she went to bed and slept it off, having learned that there was absolutely no other way of alleviating the condition. But she could not bear to spend her time in Kirby so uselessly, and had been roaming the streets all day, staring into the faces of old ladies in a way that filled them with disquiet and alarm. In point of fact, Lucy could hardly see their faces; her vision was blurred, sometimes double, and she felt simultaneously hungry and sick; noises rang in her head with the ominous and shattering intensity of electronic music. At last, hopelessly aware that she was achieving nothing by this meaningless patrol, she started up through the gardens, proposing to go back to her boarding-house in Redcar Street and lie down for an hour. But the boarding-house, the cheapest she could find, would still smell, she knew, of the huge greasy breakfast which was pressed on all inmates; and the landlady’s children, home for the holidays, would thump and rattle up and down the flimsy stairs, and the dog would howl in his kennel and Radio One would bawl from the kitchen . . . She turned aside and sat on a bench, resting her head on her hands.
Almost at once a woman came and plumped herself down at the other end of the bench. Lucy would have ignored her, but the woman instantly burst out, as if she had been hunting for an audience all day and could wait no longer, however unpromising Lucy’s attitude and appearance.
“I’m just so angry,” she declared. “I don’t know what to do! I’ve been to the estate agents and to the citizens’ advice bureau and to the post office—none of them would tell me anything sensible. I just don’t know what to do,” she repeated.
“Oh?” Pushing aside her forelock, Lucy squinted sideways and got a blurred, two-dimensional impression of a red hat
set with quills and a pair of resentful eyes in a much-powdered face.
“I’ve tried mentioning the matter politely in the street, I’ve sent a note, I’ve sent several notes,” the woman went on rapidly, looking through Lucy rather than at her.
“What’s the trouble then?” Lucy croaked, finding her voice with difficulty. She moved her head cautiously, looking for a spot where she might go to be sick if necessary.
“It’s this man who has moved into the house next door. Goodness knows what he does—looks like one of these commercial travellers! He’s away half the time. And for reasons best known to himself he’s changed the name of his house; it used to be The Nook, a perfectly respectable name, and he’s changed it to The Laurels, which is the same as my house! Well, I ask you! You can’t have two houses called The Laurels in one street, it leads to endless confusion. I get his bills, he gets mine. I asked him, I said, ‘Why did you change the name of your house?’ He said he didn’t like The Nook. Well, really, I think he must be mad, I really do. What a ridiculous reason to give. I’ve sent notes, I’ve rung him up, I’ve asked the post office, they say we must settle it among ourselves. So I went to see him again and he said, ‘Mrs. Truslove, do please stop bothering me. Why don’t you change the name of your house?’ Honestly! What a thing to say! And nobody has been at all helpful. Do you think I should go to the police? Or a lawyer? What do you think I ought to do?”
“I should change the name of your house,” Lucy articulated carefully.
“But that’s giving in to him! He must be mad, you know, that must be the explanation.”
“Very likely.”
“I shall go back to him again,” declared the woman. “I shall say, ‘Look here, Mr. Vanson, this has got to stop. If it doesn’t I shall get a lawyer, I shall have to inform the police.’ That’s what I’ll do.”
She rose as if she intended to do it at once. Lucy peered up, uncrossing her eyes with an immense effort.
“Mrs. Truslove. Did you say that was your name, Truslove?”