by Babs Horton
She chose a skirt which came down past her knees, a baggy T-shirt and a pair of plimsolls, pulled a brush through her hair with difficulty, repacked her case and closed it.
Opening the bedroom door, she listened for movement downstairs. All was quiet. Hopefully Aunt Ella was still asleep down in the stinky kitchen, hanging from a hook in the ceiling by her feet like a bat.
Catrin made her way along the gloomy corridor, pushing open doors as she went and looking in. All the rooms on the attic floor looked as if they had been servants’ rooms; they were simply furnished and painted cream, although the walls were stained with green mould and the curtains hung in shreds at the grimy windows.
She went silently down the narrow staircase, careful where she put her feet so as not to make a noise. On the next floor down there was a wide corridor with lots of rooms opening off on either side, and she supposed these must have been the bedrooms where the guests had stayed. She opened a door and glanced inside. There was a large double bed with a moth-eaten counterpane, the grubby sheets turned back ready for someone to climb into bed. There was a chest of drawers, a huge wardrobe and a small writing desk. By the pretty tiled fireplace there was a seating area with two high-backed chairs with faded pink velvet upholstery, and a low table. On the windowsill there was an oil lamp, and a trapped moth fluttered weakly against the glass bowl in an attempt to escape.
It must have been a lovely room once, when the linen was clean and the furniture polished, but now it gave her the shivers. She went out into the corridor and walked to the far end, where a stained-glass window let in the light, dispelling some of the gloominess.
To her left there was a narrow corridor partly shielded by a threadbare green chenille curtain. A sign on the wall said PRIVATE.
Catrin pulled back the curtain gingerly and sidestepped the resulting fall of dust. There were four doors leading off the passage and a servants’ staircase at the far end. She looked into three of the rooms, long-neglected bedrooms, dust-filled and dingy like all the others.
The last room she went into was quite unlike the others. It was a bedroom-cum-sitting-room, spotlessly clean, with highly polished furniture and a strong smell of beeswax. The bed linen was freshly starched and the sheets turned neatly back. Carefully ironed anti-Macassars had been draped over the backs of the chintz chairs, and a vase of wild flowers stood on a side table next to an open book.
The fireplace was laid with screwed-up paper and kindling, and logs were piled in a wicker basket. It was as though someone might appear at any moment, set a light to the fire and settle down to read. There were framed prints on the wall, mainly scenes from around Kilvenny in the olden days. There was an oil painting of a woman in a startling blue dress. She had the loveliest of faces, with thick dark hair swept up into a glossy coil and a blue-fringed bejewelled scarf tied round her forehead. Catrin ran her finger gently across the woman’s cheek, brushed the teardrop that trailed from her eye. It was such a realistic teardrop that she could imagine it slithering down the woman’s cheek and dripping on to her blue bodice.
There was a pretty painted clock and an oval mirror with a surround made from seashells, and three photographs lined up on top of a bookshelf. One was of two small girls outside the Fisherman’s Snug, their faces almost completely hidden by floppy sunhats. Another was of two very smart young men wearing army uniforms. A third photograph was facing the wall. Catrin turned it round. It was of her mother when she was younger, standing outside the front door of the hotel, posing for the camera. Catrin glared at it. How smug her mother looked. She had to admit that she was very photogenic even back then; everyone said that she took a marvellous photograph. And didn’t she just love pouting and preening for the camera? As soon as anyone brandished a camera she was ready. If you opened the refrigerator door and the light came on, Kizzy would strike a pose. Catrin was the opposite. She hated having her photograph taken because she never managed to smile at the right moment and usually looked as if she was grimacing.
Her mother must have been about eighteen when the photo was taken. She was wearing a tight-fitting dress with a pretty scalloped hemline just below her knees. She looked so happy, so full of herself, like a Hollywood starlet.
Catrin replaced the photograph and allowed herself a sour smile. Aunt Ella didn’t think her mother was wonderful, though, did she? At least there was one other person in the world who didn’t think Kizzy Grieve was the bloody bee’s knees.
She crossed to the window and looked down into the overgrown gardens of the hotel. There was a weed-clogged tennis court with a sagging net, and beyond that a half-empty swimming pool covered in a thick lid of slime.
It must have been beautiful here once. She imagined the sound of a tennis ball being hit, the splash of water and a shriek of delight as someone jumped into the pool. Why couldn’t she have come when it was like that, instead of when it was all ruined and horrid?
A creaking made her spin round. The door of an enormous wardrobe door was opening slowly, the clothes hangers rattling ominously, and an overpowering stink of mothballs wafted around her. She shrank back against the wall. What if it was the ghost of dead Aunt Alice clambering out of the wardrobe to see who was sniffing about? She was rigid with fear and sure she could hear someone or something breathing heavily inside the wardrobe. Mother of God. What should she do? Sister Lucy said one must always keep calm in a crisis, yet Sister Lucy always flapped and grew flustered at the smallest upset.
She pressed her lips together to hold back a rising screech, eased herself slowly past the open wardrobe door. She glanced quickly inside but all she could see was a pile of old clothes moving in the draught.
A clicking and a sudden squawk made her heart leap out from behind her ribs and she screamed fit to bust.
All night Ella had been restless, drifting in and out of a fitful sleep. She had dreamt that Alice had come back to Shrimp’s. She had seen her walking briskly across the sunlit, manicured lawns, calling out as she hurried towards the hotel.
Ella had run out of the house towards her, but Alice walked straight past her and marched into the house calling a name that Ella couldn’t make out.
She had followed Alice up the stairs and along the corridor calling to her, but Alice merely glanced back once and Ella had seen the look of pure joy on her sister’s face. Ella raced behind her, opened the door to Alice’s room, stepped inside and stood transfixed. Alice was standing in front of the painting of Woman and Child, staring at it fixedly. As Ella put out her hand to touch Alice she had, as if by magic, climbed into the painting and disappeared. Ella had stared in disbelief. It was a conjuring trick. There was no sign of Alice, just the woman in the old painting by that Italian artist her father had so loved. She crept up to the painting and saw with a shock that the woman’s face had changed into Alice’s face. Alice looked out at Ella with that guileless expression of hers and then, as she opened her lips to speak, her face had blurred and the painting had returned to its former state.
Ella came to with a start. At first she thought the bells of Kilvenny church were ringing, but then she realised one of the bells was jangling noisily in the pantry. It was probably an impatient guest, maybe wanting a tea tray or a hot-water bottle. She got to her feet, pushed back her tangled hair, stumbled into the pantry and looked up at the row of bells.
Her hand flew to her neck. The bell was being rung in Alice’s room. Maybe Alice had come back after all.
Catrin threw back her head and laughed, more with relief than mirth. The doors on the cuckoo clock flew open one last time and the bird gave a strangled ‘Cuckoo.’
God almighty. That bloody bird had frightened her to death. She inched towards the wardrobe, shoved the door shut and stepped out into the corridor, where she came face to face with her aunt. Catrin flinched. Ella was a far more frightening sight than a silly old cuckoo and a rickety wardrobe. Ella looked at Catrin through narrowed eyes, her face white and pinched beneath the layers of grime, eyes bright with madness, hair
billowing out like Strewelpeter’s.
Ella pushed roughly into the room then looked back accusingly at Catrin, who was watching her worriedly.
“I thought I heard the bell ringing, thought Alice had called me,” Ella said, looking suddenly crestfallen.
“I’m sorry. That was my fault. I accidentally pushed the bell press by the window.”
“Someone up here was screaming as if a murder was being committed.”
“That was me, too. I’m sorry but I was scared when the cuckoo flew out of the clock. It gave me such a fright.”
Ella sat down heavily in one of the high-backed chairs and put her hands to her face, covering her eyes. For a moment Catrin thought that she was crying but then she stood up, shook her head and regained her composure.
“How silly of me. I was sleeping, you see, when the bell rang and I was startled. Then I heard the screaming.”
There was an uneasy silence in the room except for the ticking of the clock.
“What were you doing in here?” There was a sharp edge to Ella’s voice.
“I was on my way downstairs. I just wanted to have a peep at the place before I leave. I was trying to imagine it as it must have been in the old days, that’s all.”
“It was very lovely,” Ella said, a dreamy look coming over her face. “You should have been here when we had the summer ball. There were coloured lights strung out all along the terrace, piano music and people dancing on the lawns.”
For a moment Catrin imagined her mother waltzing in the garden, enjoying everyone’s admiring glances. How she would have loved that. Catrin would have hated it and found a quiet spot to hide in. She couldn’t bear people staring at her, especially since she’d started to grow up.
“Why did you think Alice was ringing? You said last night that she was dead.”
“Alice is dead. You’re too young to understand. When you’re alone so much you start hearing things, things that aren’t really there. You know, sometimes I think I can hear her walking about up here.”
Catrin eyed her warily. A floorboard moved beneath Catrin’s feet and the wardrobe door creaked ominously.
Pull yourself together, Catrin Grieve. That’s what Sister Lucy would have said. Once you let your imagination loose, you gave in to fear. Sister Lucy was full of daft sayings.
Sister Matilde was quite the opposite. What was it she’d once said? Something about imagination being part of the human soul, a restless and unbridled longing to create worlds anew.
She’d give anything to speak to Sister Matilde now. She must ring the school as soon as possible and then get the first train back to London.
“Would you like some breakfast before you leave?” Ella asked. “I could serve you some in the dining room. There’s a very fine view from there.”
Catrin looked away in embarrassment. What was wrong with this woman? She was talking as if Catrin were a real guest and the hotel was still open. She seemed to flit between the past and the present as if she wasn’t sure where she belonged.
Catrin pressed her hand against her stomach to muffle the rumbling that the mention of food had triggered. She ought to eat something. She had to be careful that she didn’t go too long without food in case she fainted and got carted off to the doctor. It was a balance that she’d almost got the hang of now.
She couldn’t eat in this place, though. The state of that kitchen would put a rat off its food.
“Thank you, but I’m not hungry,” she lied. “May I use the telephone?”
Ella nodded. “If you’d care to follow me, I’ll show you the way.”
They set off along the corridor. As Catrin was about to step past the rotting green curtain she glanced behind her and her mouth fell open in astonishment.
A man in a wide-brimmed hat had slipped out of Aunt Alice’s room and was hurrying along the corridor. So there had been someone hiding in the wardrobe in Aunt Alice’s room all the time. But why would anyone in their right mind do that?
Catrin stood riveted to the spot as he hurried soundlessly down the servants’ staircase.
So Aunt Ella wasn’t as alone as she imagined she was. No wonder she thought she could hear someone wandering around up here. This was such a weird place with peculiar men who hid in wardrobes and newly found aunts who were definitely short of a few marbles.
Down in the hallway Ella pointed out the telephone booth and Catrin picked up the dusty receiver and with a shaking finger dialled the number of St Agnes’s. She waited impatiently, imagining Sister Matilde pausing in what she was doing, then hurrying through the dim corridors, past the silent saints and the guttering candles to answer the telephone.
The phone rang and rang but no one answered. Surely any moment now a breathless voice would say, “Saint Agnes’s Convent School, Sister Matilde speaking…”
She was close to tears as she replaced the receiver. What on earth was she supposed to do? She couldn’t have stayed here even if it had been a proper hotel, because Aunt Ella had said that she didn’t want her here, didn’t want anyone. She wiped her eyes, rang the number again, but to no avail.
“I can’t get through and it’s really odd because there’s always someone at the convent,” she said, stepping out of the telephone booth.
“You’re at a convent?” Ella enquired with surprise.
“Yes, Saint Agnes’s Convent School, just outside London.”
“When did your mother become a Catholic? Or was that another of her five-minute fads?”
“She didn’t become a Catholic. My father was a Catholic,” Catrin replied.
“You said was – your father was a Catholic – in the past tense.”
“That’s because my father’s dead, if you must know. He died when I was a baby. Now I really must go.”
Ella looked with irritation at the girl’s brimming eyes. She was like Kizzy, able to turn on the waterworks whenever it suited her.
She watched Catrin walk away through the long grass, pause near the old swing and put down her suitcase.
Catrin looked back at the house and there was something despondent in the droop of her shoulders, a fragility which would have brought a lump to Ella’s throat once upon a time.
She wasn’t a well child at all, by the look of her; there was a shocking thinness about her that wasn’t natural. Surely Kizzy would have noticed that something was clearly wrong with her own child? Then again, the feckless article only ever saw what she wanted to see.
Ella turned briskly away from the window, made her way to the telephone booth, found the address book and turned the dusty pages. With a trembling hand she dialled a London number and listened with bated breath. A few moments later a man answered and it was all Ella could do to keep her erratic breathing under control and not drop the telephone. He called loudly down the line. How awful it was to hear his voice after all these years. Ella, her throat tight with emotion, put down the telephone quietly. One thing was certain. Kizzy Grieve was playing silly buggers because Catrin Grieve’s father was most certainly not dead.
9
Catrin was dismayed when she arrived at the station. It was deserted, the CLOSED sign hanging on the window of the ticket office. She made her way outside and down towards the village.
In an hour or so she would go back, buy a ticket and get the first train to Swansea and then on to London, forget all about stupid Shrimp’s Hotel, dead Aunt Alice and peculiar Aunt Ella.
The morning was already warm and the sky above Kilvenny was blue and cloudless. Rooks were circling above the castle, early bees busied themselves among the wild flowers, and butterflies hovered and dipped on currents of air.
Most of Kilvenny Castle lay in ruins but one wing still stood and the sun reflected off the latticed windows and a coil of smoke spiralled up from the enormous chimney and drifted away over the tall trees of Gwartney’s Wood beyond the castle’s high walls.
To kill time Catrin wandered aimlessly through the gardens, breathing in the smell of herbs and the fragrance of t
he small white roses that grew in profusion up the ancient walls. It was so good to get the stench of Shrimp’s Hotel out of her nostrils, to blow the musty smell of decay out of her hair.
The door to the castle was ajar and a key, the biggest key she had ever seen, had been left in the lock. She knocked on the door but the wood soaked up the sound made by her small fist. She’d need a hammer to make herself heard. Hopefully, whoever lived here had a telephone they would let her use and she could ring her school and warn them that she was on her way back.
The door rasped as she pushed it inwards, the old wood catching on the stone-flagged floor. She stepped hesitantly inside and called out. Her words echoed eerily in the silence. No one answered.
She was standing in a high-ceilinged room with a fireplace big enough to house a couple of carthorses and walls covered in battered shields and gloomy portraits of the long-since dead. There was an enormous table which would seat about twenty people, with high-backed chairs set round it.
She tiptoed across the flagged floor, made her way through a door to her right and along a dimly lit corridor past sleeping suits of armour and a stuffed bear wedged tightly between a bookcase and a hallstand hung with moth-eaten coats. There was a curious smell of dying flowers and burrowing woodworm, mingling with the sweet scent of rosemary and thyme.
She stepped through a doorway into an enormous kitchen. As she stood there a shaft of sunlight pierced through the high windows and she had to shield her eyes from the momentary brightness.
The room had a dreamlike feel to it, as though she had stepped unwittingly into a fairy story. Big pots and pans hung from nails hammered haphazardly into the thick walls. A bunch of oversized keys dangled from a brass ring above the range, and giant ladles and oversized spoons splayed out of an earthenware pot on the kitchen table. Everything was massive, as if it was a room waiting for a giant to return.
Feefifofum, I smell the blood of an Englishman.