by Denton Welch
‘Pachman’s,’ she said, waving her hands towards it carelessly. ‘He’s often played on it to me, so when he died I bought it.’
She went on to tell me how Augustus John and many other famous people came to her mill. She told me who had done the inn sign, but I have forgotten the name and it did not convey anything to me then. I realised now why it was glassed over, but I still thought it very dull.
The lady was now talking about the people who used the Youth Hostel.
‘Such nice young people,’ she said. ‘Such a nice type, really quite educated sometimes.’
This compliment was more than I could swallow. I felt hot and insulted and longed to tell her a great many things about myself, which only very vulgar people find it possible to mention. I stood in frustrated silence, waiting to be shown the hostel quarters.
‘You’ll find everything you want inside that door,’ said the lady, pointing to an adjoining early-Victorian house built out at the back of the mill. I saw her locking doors and collecting keys, and I suddenly realised that she was about to leave for the night. I would be entirely alone, unless some other walkers appeared.
‘Oh, you don’t live here then,’ I said, liking her and wishing for her company more than I would have believed possible a moment ago.
‘No,’ she answered, placidly going about her business and not noticing my feeling.
‘It’s going to be rather gloomy here, all alone. I hope there are no ghosts of monks,’ I said cheerfully.
‘Oh, I expect you’ll be all right,’ she said. Then she was gone, clanking her keys as she walked away. I was left alone to enter the squalid-looking Victorian house. I looked into the first room, where there was nothing but a battered oil-stove. I remembered that the lady had told me that nothing was quite finished yet—it was only just begun. I climbed up the dry, worm-eaten steps and found myself in the chief bedroom. A sagging double-bed stood there, nothing else. There were bolsters and dark blankets on it, that appeared to me then unbelievably sinister.
I decided to explore no farther. I felt that the best thing to do was to get into bed and try to fall asleep before the light had entirely faded, and to pray that one slept all night. The thought of waking in that horrible room at dead of night was unnerving.
I wondered what had happened to Williams. I longed for him to appear, but knew that he never would.
Looking at the pale square of light from the window, as I lay wrapped in the blankets on that grim bed, I told myself stories, threw my mind back to pleasant things until at last I did fall asleep.
I woke up once not knowing exactly where I was. When I remembered, it was worse than not knowing. I thought of the worm-eaten stairs and the passage outside the door; then I tried desperately to burrow down into sleep again.
I did not wait for the lady of the house in the morning. I paid my shilling to one of the waitresses and disappeared as soon as possible.
I reached Shaftesbury early that afternoon. I saw its name Shaston written on several old milestones, which we shall now never see again. Climbing up to the old town I had the feeling that it was built on ramparts and terraces. I thought of Lord Shaftesbury and charity and, when I reached the top, I stood by some iron railings and wooden posts and gazed at the view for a long time. There was an attractive little house nearby, to let, and I wished that I could take it and furnish it and live there.
Afterwards I went to look at some ecclesiastical ruins but, from what I can remember, I could see very little.
I had my late lunch and then set out again, determined to reach Templecombe that evening. The hostel there was housed in the outbuildings of an hotel. The sun was setting as I reached the converted country house. With its lights sparkling across the fields it looked grand and dignified and inviting. I went into the stable yard, feeling happy and satisfied, wanting my evening meal and bed. I saw the hostel notice and climbed up above the stable to a long bare dormitory. The floor was dirty, and dusty with chaff. Others were sitting on the beds or unpacking their rucksacks. They hailed me good-naturedly and I felt a glow of pleasure that I was not going to be alone as I was the night before.
I chose a bed and for some reason, which I cannot now remember, decided that I must have sheets. The reason may have been that my own sleeping-bag had become wet through being packed too close to my washing things (I had no sponge bag).
One of the others suggested that I should go and ask the manager of the hostel for them, saying that I would pay for them. I went to do this, humming happily as I crossed the stable-yard. Someone went to fetch the manager and I waited in a passageway.
He arrived—a plump little man with metal-rimmed glasses. Gradually he worked himself up into a fury over my request. His short arms swung out jerkily and his lower lip glistened with saliva.
‘Sheets, sheets, what do you mean by asking for sheets!’ he shrieked in his horrible voice.
I was amazed and also rather alarmed, for he seemed likely at any moment to strike me. I was as rude and insolent and arrogant as possible in return. I tried to say the things that would aggravate his sense of inferiority still further; but I will tell you now that I was frightened in spite of my rage. He seemed to me a mad demon of that most loathsome, petty tyrant sort. I pitied the poor servants who worked under him. I thought of the hell this type of reptile created around him.
‘Of course I can’t stay here another minute,’ I said, as he screamed at me to get out. I turned my back on him abruptly, saying that I would write to the Secretary of the Youth Hostel Association about him; which was a stupid threat, as I knew that I would be too lazy ever to do so.
I told the others about the repulsive little man and slung my rucksack on my back again.
‘Where are you going?’ someone asked. ‘It’s getting late.’
‘Oh, I’ll walk on until I find a town or village,’ I said carelessly. The rage had given me new energy, although the moment before I’d felt extremely tired.
I said goodbye and walked back on to the road again. It was almost dark now. I sang to myself and kept time with my feet, wanting to obliterate the horrible scene of meaningless spite and hate. It is only some time after such happenings that they begin to bite into one’s consciousness and spoil one’s peace. I was jarred and jolted by the unexpectedness of this onslaught.
Slowly a feeling of gaiety and adventure displaced the other. I was all alone, and it was night, and I had nowhere to sleep. It was a joke. I sang louder and louder, clapping my shoes on the road to make them ring. Seeing a warm light in a cottage window, and still being in this irresponsible mood, I went to the back door and knocked.
‘Excuse me, but can you tell me of anywhere near here where I can spend the night?’ I asked the woman, who held a candle up to me as I spoke. As at Wiston, I was willing her to say that I might sleep there; but again there was no result. She just looked at me doubtfully and shook her head, murmuring something about Wincanton.
I turned away angrily, saying to myself that English people were the most inhospitable and boorish on the face of the earth.
It must have been very late at night when I reached a sloping stone wall and started to climb the gradual hill up to Wincanton. Dark trees overhung the road, and everything that I could at all distinguish seemed made of stone. At the top of the hill, on the left side of the road, I saw a light in the window of a small pub. I went in, steeling myself for the refusal which seemed likely. A woman was mopping up the bar and emptying ash-trays. She looked at me suspiciously and asked several rather impertinent questions—where I had come from, and why I was so late. Not wanting to offend her I answered as pleasantly as possible. After what seemed like some time she took me rather sulkily up the stairs and showed me into a high, wide room with several white counterpaned beds in it. Then she left me, saying something about breakfast in the morning. I began to undress, hoping that I was going to have the room to myself; but just as I climbed into bed, the door opened and a fleshy early-middle-aged man burst into the room. Almost immediately
he tore off his collar and tie. From his flushed face and heavy breathing I took it that he had been drinking. He flung off his clothes and got into bed naked. He did not seem even to have noticed me, and I lay very flat and still in my bed until I heard him snoring.
The suspicious woman gave me a well-cooked breakfast in the morning of fried eggs and coffee. I was surprised at the coffee, having expected black Indian tea. I paid her four shillings and thought that her inn was quite good in spite of her manner. I could not see the man of the night before anywhere; he must have gone out to his work early.
I went out to look at the yellow stone town of Wincanton, then walked on to Castle Cary, I think because I liked the name. From here my journey is lost; I can remember nothing until I emerged in the market place at Dunster. I do not understand this blank, but as I look at the map no name strikes any chord at all.
At Dunster I stared at that quaint columned market-cross, or whatever it is, and then pressed on to Minehead. The hostel was on a hill just behind the town. After I had found it and left my rucksack, I went down into the town to see the sights. The town seemed tawdry with white balconies, and pieces of paper floating in the air. The streets seemed littered with coloured paper from oranges, or the rind itself. I walked down the wide street to the sea, feeling dismal and gloomy. The sight of so many half-naked ugly people sitting in stolid rows on the beach did nothing to lighten my gloom. There seemed no joy anywhere.
I walked back into the town and who should I see suddenly but Miss Forman, who had taught me music at Repton. She was walking across the road. She stopped, recognised me and came up to speak. I was delighted; the dreary town, and being so much alone on my tramps, made the pleasure of seeing a friend intense.
‘Hullo, what are you doing here?’ she asked. She too seemed pleased to see me.
‘I’m on a walking tour,’ I said. We walked along together and I learnt that she was staying with her brother-in-law, who had been my headmaster but was now the Bishop of Chester.
‘You must come back and have tea with us; he’d very much like to see you again,’ she said decisively.
I trembled inwardly. I liked the headmaster, I even admired him; but I had run away from Repton and been sent back, and altogether had made a certain amount of trouble, and the remembrance of this made me self-conscious. My clothes too began to worry me; shorts and electric-blue shirt were not correct for tea with a bishop. I also felt rather dirty. ‘Oh, thank you so much, but do you think he’d really like to see me?’ I asked doubtfully.
‘Of course, and my sister too.’
‘Well, then, I’ll just rush back to the hostel and wash and make myself a little more presentable before I appear. What is the address, so that I can find the house?’
I was given a little slip of paper and full directions; then I left her and ran all the way back to the hostel.
I found new arrivals sitting on their beds, when I entered the dormitory.
They don’t know that I’m going to tea with a bishop, I said to myself. It seemed so rococo, and rather like the line of a rude limerick—going to tea with a bishop—except that it would be very difficult to rhyme it with anything.
I took out my other blue shirt, which was cleaner. I could have wished it to be sober white. I suddenly hated the bright, unrelieved, eye-confusing colour. I ran about in nothing but my shorts, washing my face and hands and legs, and trying to find a better pair of socks. I begged some shoe polish from one of the others, and at last set out with my hair as brushed and combed as possible.
I walked slowly, trying not to get hot and sweaty before I arrived. I really felt very nervous, and it showed itself in my exaggerated worrying about my appearance.
I found the house quite easily; it was on a hill dotted with other houses of the same type. They faced in various directions and were set in heavy clumps of trees and bushes. The effect was a crowded seclusion, if that can be imagined.
The front door was wide open. Miss Forman had seen me approaching, so she was there to meet me. I was taken into a long narrow room with windows looking down the hill. There was very little furniture about and the rugs on the floor were rucked up and at rather crazy angles, as if someone had been skidding and falling about.
The Bishop came in and welcomed me breezily. I noticed his huge episcopal ring; it fascinated me. I tried to see what was engraved on it. It looked like a mitre. The ring was of the shape called, I think, ‘marquise’, that is, two Gothic arches joined together at their bases—a very lovely, graceful shape. The colour of the stone was deep purple—an amethyst, I suppose. He wore it on his index finger which seemed to make it all the more anachronistic and significant. I could not help smiling to myself at the difference between this ring and the rest of his appearance, so matter-of-fact and down-to-earth.
He began to ask me questions about my visit to China when I had left Repton, what I was doing now, and where my brothers were.
All the time we were talking two small nephews, who were staying in the house, ran about and slid on the floor, which explained the state of the rugs. Someone rang the gong for tea and we went into the dining-room. I was surprised to see the enormous table and the number of chairs round it. I knew the Bishop had several sons but this would not explain so many seats. I was soon to be introduced to more nephews and some other older relations. Mrs Fisher was pouring out from a large teapot at the far end of the table, and the cups were being carried round by the two young nephews. Just as my cup had arrived at my place, I got up to be introduced to yet another person who had entered the room. The boy was holding the cup out from behind me and as I rose, not knowing that it was there, I caught it on my shoulder and sent the steaming water in a jet, the whole length of the long table. I was too horrified and confused to say anything; the cup was not broken, but there was the long brown stain, steaming on the table-cloth. The boy laughed and Dr Fisher, seizing a piece of bread, threw it down the table to his wife. She caught it deftly, still pouring out with the other hand.
Now the whole table was laughing and gay and boisterous; my awful accident had been merged and incorporated into the Bishop’s wild bread-throwing. It really was the most charming and brilliant thing to do.
I was given another cup of tea and slowly began to recover some self-possession. I ate the bread and butter and jam and cakes, and thought how nice it must sometimes be to live in large families with all the noise and mess and pleasant human feeling. I had scarcely ever had it in my life. After tea the Bishop took me walking on the moor above the house. He talked about the Roman Catholics, and I listened interestedly. There was a story which I cannot properly remember about a priest who managed to buy a piece of land for a church, from a woman who had no intention of selling. It was all done very skilfully. I talked about the cathedrals which sprung up so close to Church of England ones. I asked if there were any particular method in this, and if so whether it helped the Roman Catholic cause much. I pointed out that very few people who were not Roman Catholics ever went down the side streets to Westminster Cathedral, although they could see its tower from miles away.
We parted, after he had invited me to travel over Exmoor in their car on the next day, as they were making a journey in that direction and it would help me on my way.
The next morning I was at the house punctually. There was a certain amount of bustling before we finally settled into the old car. Mrs Fisher drove and the Bishop and I sat behind. I think Miss Forman must have been in front with her sister, but I cannot remember any of the sons or nephews coming with us.
We were soon driving over the bare, dull moor with its carpet of lightly knitted little blueberry bushes. We passed some walkers, and the Bishop poked me and said, ‘There is someone in a blue shirt, just like yours.’ I was horrified to have attention drawn to my blue shirt. My hatred of it had grown even stronger, and I was determined that I would dye it on the first possible occasion.
Mrs Fisher was talking to her husband over her shoulder. There was some argument o
r joke about his old school, Marlborough. I suddenly imagined him in one of those old groups of football players, photographed in such stout and manly attitudes with tassels on their caps. I thought of what a lot he’d managed to achieve in his life and how nice it must be to be successful. He still seemed young and boisterous too, which made one feel that he had the best of everything.
I left them sorrowfully, when they branched off to go to their friend’s house. I had so enjoyed being with people who knew me and accepted me without any questions. I think one only gets this feeling after many days with strangers.
The moor spread out on all sides of me. I looked at my map to see exactly where I was. The next hostel was somewhere near South Molton; I set out down the road which seemed to run in that direction.
After walking for an hour or so I left the road and dropped down to a little stream. Its rusty colour, when I reached it, surprised me. I took off my shoes and bathed my feet and paddled; the rings of cold water round my ankles refreshed me. I stooped down, cupped my hands and scooped up some of the water to drink. I wondered if the rusty brown would make it taste of iron, but I could tell no difference to ordinary water when I swallowed it.
Leaving the stream, I made my way back to the road, striking a different section of it; here, there were fields on the other side, and a stag hunt was in progress, for I was just in time to see a knot of horsemen and women, before they disappeared down the rough lane.
I walked on, wondering if I should see any more of the hunt. The sound of horses’ hooves made me turn round to find, just behind me, a person who looked like a young farmer, on a huge horse. He wore a cap, and a handkerchief round his thick neck. His face was broad and red and pleasantly coarse, and his clothes were dirty and worn very jauntily.
‘Can you tell me which way they’ve gone?’ he asked in his soft, singsong voice.
I pointed down the road, but he seemed in no hurry. He asked me where I was heading for, and seemed generally curious about me.
Suddenly he slapped his horse and said; ‘Wouldn’t you like to jump up and have a ride on her? Aren’t you tired, walking?’