‘Is it always this quiet?’
‘Oh, we have our little excitements!’
A wary silence settled on the room. Geraldine sipped her tea. Mrs Williams sat down on the sofa, still wearing her camel-coloured coat despite the central heating. She seemed almost to be examining the interior, covertly inspecting it for dirt, Geraldine thought, or other signs of her, Geraldine’s, slatternliness. A minute or two more passed in silence as Mrs Williams sipped her tea. Geraldine was beginning to feel a twinge of impatience, although she supposed she should be pleased that such pains were being taken to make sure that she was satisfied. Hunger gnawed at her belly.
‘Well I think it’s lovely,’ Geraldine said at last, a shade over-brightly. ‘I’m going to enjoy myself even if it rains all weekend.’
Mrs Williams took another sip of tea.
‘And there must be lots of interesting things to do locally,’ Geraldine went on, ‘Walks and such like … The pub?’
For the first time Mrs Williams smiled. Her smile was surprisingly attractive; it made her look younger and more sympathetic. She set down the mug on the low table in front of the sofa.
‘I’m sure you’ll find plenty to do. Well, if you are all right, I’d better leave you in peace. If you need anything, all you have to do is ask.’
The relief of her departure lasted for several minutes. It was difficult to be sure whether or not the woman had been deliberately disapproving; it could have been a certain bluntness of manner, characteristic, so it was said, of northern folk. In fact she had really shown little other than concern for Geraldine’s welfare. At least she would be unlikely to see her again, although the woman had said that she lived in the village.
It was at this point, as Geraldine was finishing her second cup of tea and had begun to feel better, that she realised that she did not know where Mrs Williams lived, or have her telephone number, and although she braved the drizzle and put her head out of the front door to see if she could see which way she had gone, there was no one to be seen.
**
The lounge bar, devoid of life, was bathed in an orangey glow. Geraldine nursed her glass of house red at the table nearest the coal fire. The firelight and the dim wall-lamps did not quite reach the corners of the room. Hunting scenes of uncertain date bedecked the walls, along with puzzling agricultural implements, probably made en masse in a factory somewhere.
It was a cosy room, though, providing just the sort of comfort necessary on such an evening. In braving the fifty yards between the cottage and the pub in a city raincoat, Geraldine had been soaked to the skin, and her hair, hanging in two limp, unbecoming hanks, dribbled small puddles of rainwater onto the table. Hopefully no presentable men would choose this night to visit the pub, although of course she was not on the lookout for men. She had ordered steak-and-kidney pudding from the bar; comfort-giving, nursery food. Not that Geraldine herself had had a nursery at home, and they hadn’t eaten things like steak-and-kidney pudding.
When it came the food was good, a cut above the usual pub fare, and the barmaid who brought it smiled and wished her bon appetit. Geraldine asked for another glass of wine. The wine was good too. Geraldine attacked her steak-and-kidney. The vegetables were fresh-tasting and the boiled potatoes were excellent. She hadn’t realised that the food would be this good, and she found that she was having to try quite hard not to wolf it down without chewing properly. In order to slow down her eating she began to take more frequent gulps of wine; the second glass was emptying rapidly and a feeling of comfortably warm muzziness soon overtook her.
The clatter of the door opening and closing and the abrupt entry of the man in the glistening wet rain cape provided a somewhat rude awakening. He stood there for a moment, steaming and dripping before, with a great deal of throat clearing and coughing, shaking off the hood and unhooking the, to Geraldine, unfamiliar and slightly sinister garment. It was a bit of a shock, too, when he was fully revealed, red-faced, bestubbled and flat-capped, the image of the man in her dream. It took a couple more gulps of the excellent wine to restore her equilibrium, and it helped that he, catching sight of her alone at her table, the only other customer in the bar, bestowed upon her an ear-to-ear grin followed by a nod of the head and a hearty ‘Now, then!’
When she thought about it later, Geraldine, who had soon moved on to a third, then fourth and even, perhaps, fifth glass of wine, was unable to recall the exact sequence of events from then to the time when she found herself alone, back at the cottage, and climbing unsteadily into bed. Roger, for that was the name of the man in the flat cap, was the first of several arrivals, and soon the small bar was alive and packed with a gaggle of local men, regulars she supposed, as they all seemed to know each other. It had all been very jolly, and soon Roger and one of the others, whose name she couldn’t remember, had come over to her table and they had all struck up a lively conversation in which, she was ashamed to recall, she had indulged in some rather outrageous flirting. She had also imparted a good deal of information about herself, even some of the Michael saga, in exchange for much less about them. Roger, she thought, had said that he ran a garage somewhere near the ‘top end’ of the village. The other man was a gamekeeper, although his dry demeanour had not corresponded with her own idea of the breed, based almost entirely upon the Lady Chatterley version.
From then on Geraldine’s memory of events was even more hazy. In her hung-over state the next morning, she could only recall a general impression of the crowded warmth and appreciation of the bar full of men, the added heat from the orange-glowing fire, the babble of conversation. She had no idea how she had got back to the cottage. It was quite probable that she had made a complete fool of herself.
But then she probably wouldn’t be meeting any of them again. Geraldine’s watch told her that it was already half-past ten. At least she hadn’t had another nightmare, although the dull hammering inside her head necessitated a trip to the bathroom in search of paracetemol.
After what proved to be a satisfyingly hot and powerful shower, she lingered in the bedroom for a while, watching the rain from the window. Now it was piling into the road in vertical, stair-rod like jets. The outline of the craggy hill opposite was just visible through a thin, settled mist. A ragged flock of crows flapped past unhurriedly. Geraldine’s stomach rumbled in an unlady-like manner, reminding her that her meagre supplies could only provide toast. She took one last look at the still-deserted village and then went downstairs to make breakfast.
**
Toast was all very well in its place, but she was on holiday, and a little more luxury was called for. The holiday brochure had described the market town five miles to the east as ‘well-provided for’, with an ‘excellent’ delicatessen, and, much restored by the paracetemol, Geraldine put on her still-damp raincoat (retrieved from the living-room floor where she must have dropped it on her drunken return from the pub) and scurried through the rain to her car.
She should not have been so surprised, she supposed, when the motor refused to come to life. Although her knowledge of mechanics was limited, it seemed a fair bet that the all-pervading dampness had somehow entered the car’s electrics. In any case, the turn of the key in the ignition failed to produce the usual flutter of acknowledgement from beneath the bonnet. Geraldine had relinquished her membership of the A.A. several years before: alternative transport was easy to find in the city. Here, however, it was a very different matter. Geraldine sat forlornly in the car as the rain beat an intrusive tattoo on the roof. Then she remembered Roger and his garage, somewhere at the top of the village.
Trudging up the road in her inadequately waterproofed shoes, it struck Geraldine that she had never before seen such a tidy village. The closely-spaced houses were well-maintained, of chocolate-box prettiness, with immaculate paintwork, highly manicured road-side gardens and, as far as she could make out through the rain-spattered windows, spotless rooms inside. Mini-torrents of rainwater spurted along renewed gutters into regularly cleaned-out d
rains. It seemed, though, that the villagers, perhaps tired of all the tidying, must have found something else to do, because nobody seemed to be at home. Unless they were all hiding from her. At least it allowed her to give her curiosity full rein.
The garage was easy to spot. To Geraldine’s eyes it looked almost unbelievably old-fashioned; its unaltered, utilitarian style could date from the 1930s. The tall, shed-like, tin building was fronted by large double-doors, currently closed, furnished only by a discreet sign:
Roger White—Agricultural Machinery Repaired.
It was all as spruce and deserted as the rest of the village. She could find no windows and no signs of life. Geraldine knocked tentatively on one of the doors.
The rain was now seeping through her thin raincoat, and after several minutes’ fruitless waiting, she decided to give up and find a public telephone box. There wasn’t a telephone at the cottage and she had already discovered that her expensive mobile would not work in the village. Presumably the signal could not penetrate the surrounding fells.
It was only a last ditch burst of stubbornness that took her around the side of the garage. And there she found Roger, still in his flat cap, bending down away from her over some twisted heap of metal on the scruffy wasteground behind the building.
‘Oh Roger, just the man, you’ve saved my life, really you have. I can’t think what I would have done if I hadn’t found you!’
He took his time in turning round, then stared at her dully as if they had never met. The eyes under the brim of the cap were completely devoid of expression.
‘What is it that you want?’
His face looked quite rigid, like a resting puppet. Geraldine, feeling her legs beginning to tremble, told herself firmly that she was beginning to over-dramatise the situation, a tendency she realised she had had to suppress in herself on this holiday several times already. It was quite likely that he was acting as he was simply out of shyness. Perhaps he was just as embarrassed as she was about all the flirting she had indulged in the night before.
‘Don’t be silly, Roger, it’s me, Geraldine.’ She tried to get the tone right; playful and pleading, but not too grovelling. ‘I’ve got myself into an awful fix. The car won’t start, and I don’t know where else to turn. Could you have a look at it for me?’
She wished he wouldn’t stand there staring at her in that gormless manner. Men could be such hypocrites.
‘Roger. Please. I’m stuck without my car. I think it’s the electrics, nothing too serious. If you can’t do it, would you be able to recommend someone who can?’
He gave his head a small shake.
‘No, no. I’ll have a look at it for you.’ His tone was still grudging, but a bit more friendly.
‘Good. Thank you. Will you come down to the cottage?’
‘I’ll pick it up and look at it here.’
Geraldine looked around in vain for any sign of a rescue vehicle. ‘Have you any idea how long it will take?’
He scratched his chin. ‘Depends what’s wrong with it,’ he said without humour. ‘Depends if I have the parts …’
**
Geraldine couldn’t understand it. It was one of those minor mysteries which, because unyielding of explanation, assume a greater importance than they otherwise merit. The walk back from the garage had taken only a few minutes, around ten she thought, and she had spent only two or three of those inside the pub enquiring about opening hours. And yet in that short space of time Roger must somehow have collected her car, because when she arrived back at the cottage the parking space was empty. Geraldine was unable to fathom how he could have driven down and back up the only village road within that time without being seen by her. But there it was, and at least her car was, presumably, on its way to being restored to health.
Before Geraldine had time to remove her coat, there was a loud knock on the door. It was Mrs Williams, dressed, so far as Geraldine could make out, exactly as she had been on her previous visit.
‘Mrs Williams. How nice to see you. Do come in.’
The woman went through the same ritual of wiping her feet with exaggerated thoroughness. She smiled her rather attractive smile.
‘What a miserable day. I was just passing and thought I’d better pop by.’
‘So what can I do for you, Mrs Williams?’
‘I hoped to find you in. It’s not really the weather for sightseeing …’
Geraldine began to explain about her car, but Mrs Williams continued, ‘And I wanted a quick word,’ she said, her voice all at once hushed and concerned, ‘about The Woodsman’s Arms.’ She shifted around uncomfortably. ‘You see, it’s a respectable pub, and this is a small village. We all know each other. Do you have the W.I. in London?’ She caught Geraldine’s uncomprehending look. ‘The Women’s Institute?’
‘What? Yes of course we do. At least I think we do, but …’
‘Are you a member, Mrs … Miss … ?’
‘Geraldine, call me Geraldine.’
‘… Miss Geraldine. Are you a member of the W.I.?’
‘Well, no, I’m not.’
‘I didn’t think you would be. Most of us are here. The women that is.’
Geraldine repressed a snort.
‘But what does that have to do with the pub?’
‘I should imagine that London is a very different place to here,’ said Mrs Williams. ‘Not much guidance. Too many people inclined not to take their marriage vows seriously. I imagine that it would be all too easy for a young person to stray …’
The light was beginning to dawn. Geraldine began to feel angry.
‘Stray where, Mrs Williams? I’m not sure that I understand you.’
The woman blinked and looked even more uncomfortable.
‘I’ve always thought that, well, because some kinds of behaviour are acceptable in some quarters, that doesn’t make them right.’
Geraldine took a deep breath, and made a concerted effort not to lose her temper.
‘That’s all very well, but I can’t imagine what any of this has to do with me. Now, I hope you won’t think I’m rude, but I have a few things to do, so I’d better let you get on.’
Mrs Williams got to her feet. She seemed not to have taken offence.
‘We’re all so busy these days aren’t we. I’ll drop in again, perhaps tomorrow? To see how you’re getting on?’
‘If you really think it’s necessary,’ Geraldine couldn’t resist saying to Mrs Williams’s departing back.
Geraldine shut the door firmly. So it was true what they said about village gossip. If it wasn’t so funny it would be quite sinister. She must have let slip more about herself in the pub than she had realised, otherwise how else could the woman have got to hear about Michael? There was a saying, wasn’t there. If you want privacy, live in a city.
**
The lounge bar of The Woodsman’s Arms was much quieter tonight. In fact destiny seemed to have decreed that Geraldine would remain the sole customer, sitting alone in the now rather chilly room eating her sausage and mash with only the pub’s black cat for company. It had jumped onto her thighs and settled itself, unpurring and stiff, the moment she had taken her seat and it refused to shift even when the food arrived.
She could not help but be disappointed that the place was so much less comfortable than she remembered it. They had even neglected to light the fire. Perhaps because the village was such a small, isolated place they had trouble recruiting staff. Indeed, now she came to notice it, the hearth had not even been swept. Beneath the iron bars of the grate a pile of clinker, the dregs of last night’s comfort, lay cold and grey, a dim reminder of the glowing orange coals of the previous evening.
Sipping her chaste glass of sparkling water, Geraldine found herself unable to prevent further embarrassing details of that evening from floating into her consciousness. The cat resettled itself into an equally uncomfortable-looking position. It would help, Geraldine thought, if she could learn to exercise more self-restraint and drink less
alcohol in such situations, although she was well aware that she had made similar feeble promises to herself many times before.
Had she really been the only woman in the pub? Apart from the barmaid, Geraldine was unable to recall another female face. She could remember only the crowd of men, aroused and attentive, plying her with drinks and laughing at her jokes, encouraging her on to new levels of outrageousness …
As she climbed into bed later that evening, Geraldine finally admitted it to herself. She had been a bit foolish. In London, with her friends from the office, her behaviour would have been all right, almost de rigueur, but here in this very different environment it must have seemed out-of-place. But for all her discomfort, Geraldine could see that there was little to be gained by agonising over it. It was time to move on, both figuratively and literally, she supposed, for soon she would be returning to London. How strange that she could feel little except relief at the prospect, when only a few days before she had been so very glad to get away.
**
It wouldn’t work. Nothing would. Not a single chink of light penetrated into the cupboard. There was no one to hear her and she could not get out. Her shouts faded to a low, whining whimper. Soon, the others would be here, wanting to take her away. Curling herself up on the floor, she tried not to imagine whatever it was that they wanted to do to her …
It took some time for Geraldine to become fully awake, and a few seconds more before she understood that she had been dreaming again. She sat up in the bed, cold and sweaty, the misery of the nightmare clinging to her like a thin plastic coat. The bedroom was almost dark, although her watch told her that it was half-past seven: the narrow chinks of dawn light which slunk around the edges of the curtains were of a distinctly greyish hue. Against the window the rain pittered unceasingly.
Why did she still feel that there was something familiar about these dreams? Something she should remember. Geraldine drew the duvet more closely around herself.
All at once the repressed memory oozed into a recognisable shape.
The Old Knowledge and Other Strange Tales Page 2