“Brenda Friel. She’s tops. Her daughter used to baby-sit me.”
“Baby-sit you? You sure it wasn’t the other way round?”
Johnny laughed, then said more soberly, “It was years ago. Ramona died when she was only-what?-twenty-two or twenty-three? It was really sad, that. She was pregnant, too.” He reddened slightly at this passing along of gossip. “Chris told me. Brenda, well, you can imagine. But Brenda and Chris, they’re a good team. Chris works harder than anyone I know.”
Except you, Melrose wanted to add.
“I know she’d pay my way through university; she’d pay the whole thing. Only I can’t keep taking from her. A fellow’s got to stand on his own two feet, right?”
“Which you appear to do admirably.”
“She’s really pretty, too,” Johnny said, following his own line of thought. “Not very old, either… your age, maybe.”
Melrose turned his head toward his window, not wanting the boy to see him smile.
Johnny went on, enumerating his aunt’s virtues: amiable, wonderful cook, patience of a saint.
Melrose had never known a person of this age to pay such compliments to a member of the family. It was not that he doubted the virtues of the aunt-after all, someone had provided an excellent role model for this lad-it was the boy’s playing Cupid.
Melrose was flattered. He did not think Johnny recommended just any unmarried stranger for his aunt.
“It’ll be nice if you rent Seabourne. We could all get together, maybe.” Johnny looked at Melrose almost imploringly. “Have some chicken, maybe.”
They both laughed.
Remember the chickens, Melrose thought, the next time I start going broodingly romantic. Do you remember -?
But remember was not a good word to turn one’s self away from romantic lunacy.
Remember was a goad, a bully, and a trap.
4
The Drowned Man was a typical country pub, but tipping its hat toward inn, since they let out rooms. It was pleasantly dark and quiet-perhaps a little too much of both, as an inn or pub or hotel calls for a bit of bustle, and it was clear Mr. Pfinn, when he had finally appeared to give Melrose a room assignment, was not the bustling type. Slope-shouldered, wispy-haired, small, and wiry, he had seemed to resent Melrose’s taking him up on the offer made by the sign outside: ROOMS TO LET. It was as if Melrose had burst into a cherished private home, ignoring the black wreath on the door. It was a sad and solemn pub. Over the two days he’d been there, Melrose saw no other people about, but there were dogs. They had all come to an inner doorway to watch Melrose check in and make his way unassisted up the darkling stairs.
There were five of them, and they liked coming to the door of the lounge bar when Melrose was there. They stood and stared. This appeared to be their chief form of amusement, a bit of cabaret that Melrose supplied. He tried to ignore them, but it is almost impossible not to succumb to a dedicated stare; one simply has to look up. The dogs did not come to the doorway together, but separately. He had identified a caramel-colored Labrador, an Alsatian, a sheepdog, and two huskies. They came one by one as if each were handing back information to the next in a kind of relay. It was disconcerting.
He had broached this topic of the dogs’ queer behavior to Mr. Pfinn. No joy there. Mr. Pfinn was, for a publican, strangely taciturn. He was a moper, disliking equally every topic introduced, including the weather reports. Small talk, around Mr. Pfinn, was nearly microscopic.
Melrose sat debating where he would have dinner and decided here was probably as good as anywhere. Last night he’d tried Bletchley’s other pub, the Die Is Cast. Wondering at this penchant for names of ill omen, he remarked on it to the pub regulars but raised no smiles. So he bought a round of drinks and still raised no smiles. Melrose thought of himself as a fair raconteur and a fairly generous one. His ego really took a beating in the Die Is Cast. There was also a café called the Poor Soul up the street in the opposite direction, but seeing on the menu in the window that “fish fingers” figured prominently among the selections, he decided against it. Bletchley might be “village noir,” destined to become a turning point in Britain’s representation in films.
Agatha had rung and left a message she was dining with Esther Laburnum. He would be dining alone. Oh, happiness! Agatha had put up at a bed-and-breakfast called Lemon Cottage, which was owned by one Miss Hyacinth Rose, who was quick to tell them she was processing milk into clotted cream and pointed out the pans all round the house sitting atop radiators. This was the real way of making the Cornish clotted cream that tourists went so daft over.
Mrs. Laburnum would probably come away from the meal with a quite different view of (the profligate, the irresponsible, the dandified) Lord Ardry from that which she had formed earlier of (the easygoing, well-heeled, thoughtful) Melrose Plant. Indeed, given the dramatic difference between Ardry and Plant, he might have been the Scarlet Pimpernel. There was nothing, though, that Agatha could say that would put Esther Laburnum off letting Seabourne to him; he had the money to pay the rent all at once, if she chose. Also, given the house had been standing there for four years or more, she would probably simply like to get it off her hands.
Throughout these warm and pleasant ruminations before the fire, where licks of flame were turning the gray logs black, the Pfinn dogs had now come to join not Melrose but themselves, one by one to flop down on the hearth like big beanbags, snoring or whinnying in the grip of some dream. Why was it that dogs could fall asleep in five seconds? Mr. Pfinn could start a kennel. Another husky or two and there’d be enough of them to run the Iditarod. He enjoyed that image, picturing himself in a fur-lined hooded parka, yelling mush as the dogsled knifed its way across some frozen tundra.
He yawned. Time for the Drowned Man’s dining room. He hoped there was a decent bottle of wine. Lord knows there would have to be a decent piece of fish. He polished off the excellent malt and hove himself up from the wing chair. The dogs did not mark his exit except for the quarrelsome sheepdog, who bared her teeth and growled halfheartedly and put her head down again.
“I don’t believe it!” exclaimed Melrose.
“Mr. Plant,” said Johnny Wells, filling up his water glass, setting the jug down, and whisking both menu and tasseled wine list from under his arm.
“Do you ever stop in this job-crazed life you lead?”
“Not much custom this time of year.” Johnny extended his arm out over the dining room. “As you can see.”
“Yes. Still.” Melrose studied the menu. Not bad, really.
“The special tonight’s the cod with cucumber sauce or apricot confite. That’s kind of emulsified apricots.”
“I prefer the word confite, thanks.” He was going over the wine list with some care. “This is extensive, I must say. Here’s a Côtes-du-Rhône ’85, here’s a Côtes-du-Lubéron ’86, here’s a Bourgeuil from Domaine des Raquie‘res.” Melrose looked at Johnny over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses. “Tell me another.”
“What about the Puligny-Montrachet?” Johnny dusted the table a bit, whisking imaginary crumbs.
“Yes, well, that’s certainly another!” He closed the list. “Do you have a nice little Bordeaux? In a bottle, I mean?”
“That’s doable. But depends on what you’re having, doesn’t it?”
“What would you recommend?”
“The cod, hands down.”
“Since that’s the only thing you’ve mentioned, I believe I’ll have it.”
“Righto. And a white Bordeaux?”
“Whatever.”
Johnny left for the kitchen. He was back within five minutes with bread and the bottle of wine. And an elaborate corkscrew which he seemed to enjoy working. He got the cork out, poured a bit into Melrose’s glass.
Melrose pronounced it excellent-of its kind-and asked, “Listen, in addition to the chicken king, what do you know about the Bletchley family? Incidentally, is this village named after them?”
“Could be. Way back in time imme
morial, there was a Bletchley gave the place its name. Maybe they’re descendants, I don’t know.” Slapping the napkin over his arm, Johnny said, “I heard it’s a bit of a strange family.”
“All families are strange until they’re something else. I was thinking of the children.”
“Oh, aye. That was awful. I wasn’t here when it happened; I was away at school. The house has been empty since that. I mean, the parents moved back to London or Penzance or somewhere. There was a spell when a couple of men moved in, always spoken of as ‘the Decorators,’ wink wink nod nod, you know. Gay, I guess. They were quite nice. They did things to the house-decorating, I mean. Moved out suddenly.” Johnny frowned.
He did not ask why. It’s written in the script. Somebody always moves out suddenly.
Johnny shook his head. “That’s all I know. I’ll get your starter.”
“Did I order one?”
“You’ll want it. It’s avocado baked with Roquefort. Outstanding.”
“I’ll take your word. As in all things.”
Melrose sat looking out over the empty room at the dozen white-clothed tables, each with its small vase of blue cyclamen. He turned his spoon over absently, thinking about that house. He would be insane to buy it. If not structurally unsound, it must still have a lot of problems-with the heat or the water supply or the electricity. And there was that eerie atmosphere…
… which he himself was fabricating, as he’d been doing ever since walking into the place. No, it was not sinister, not macabre. His trouble was that he was bored at Ardry End, and this was Cornwall, this was Daphne du Maurier territory, Manderley-inflames country.
Johnny brought his starter and then whizzed off again as Melrose was entertaining thoughts of hauntings. Could any serious spirit choose to haunt the house of Chick’nKing? He wondered how chickens were dispatched around here. Tell them they were going for a weekend to Brixton-on-Sea and slam the door of the crate down?
He was beginning to feel sorry for the chickens. Were it not for this divine avocado and Roquefort dish, he’d be unable to eat. If he started identifying with doomed fowl he would be setting his feet straight on the road to vegetarianism. He would have to send back his cod! He hit his head with the heel of his palm, trying to dislodge these morbid thoughts. A little compassion is fine; too much and you wind up calling a dish of peas or potatoes “veggies.” He could end up carrying a sign in front of poor Jurvis the Butcher’s shop. Nobody would boycott Jurvis (“What? Give up my Sunday joint? You must be mad!”).
“Something wrong, sir?”
Johnny stood with his dinner, steam rising from the fish and from the divided dish of cabbage, roast potatoes, peas.
“No, no. Just trying to get water out of my ear.” He took another swipe at his head as Johnny set down his plate. It looked delicious, the pearl-white flesh just done enough to make it segment. The sauce was in a cup on the side.
Melrose picked up his fork and the conversation they’d been having. “What about this, John, if they’re heirs to the Chick’nKing fortune, why even bother with selling or renting? They’d hardly need the money.”
Johnny thought about this as he filled Melrose’s glass again. “Maybe that’s why the fortune got to be one in the first place.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Mr. Bletchley might have been a man who understood money. Might be, I mean. How’s the cod?”
The cod was silky-smooth and so fresh-tasting it might have leapt from the water and into the pan. “Excellent. My compliments to your chef.” He saw the smile begin on Johnny’s lips, one that lent itself to only one interpretation. “Don’t tell me, please. You’ve already shamed the entire working world into silence.”
“Only when we’ve just one or two. Mr. Pfinn, he doesn’t want to call in the real chef unless there’s several customers, which there isn’t very often in the fall and winter. I don’t do any cooking in the summer, only when it slacks off like this. I learned from years of watching Chris cook. She’s sublime. Really.”
“Chris?”
“You know, my aunt who I told you about.”
“Oh, yes. She owns the tearoom.”
“Along with Brenda Friel. Chris’ll be doing the baking right now for tomorrow. About three times a week she makes meringues and scones and things. When I finish here I’ll go home, give her a hand.”
“I hope I’m not holding you up!” Though Melrose doubted there would be very many things or people that could hold up Johnny Wells. He would find his way out of or around them.
“No, not at all.” Johnny checked his watch. “There’ll be a bit of a floor show in just a few minutes.”
“Need I ask who-”
“I’m a magician, remember?” He sighed. “I don’t have enough time to practice, though. You know where I’ve always wanted to go? Las Vegas, Nevada. There’s a place for magic! Siegfried and Roy, ever heard of them?”
“Does sound familiar.”
“I figure with a name like John Wells, I can’t miss.”
Melrose frowned. “I don’t follow.”
“Here you are, such an educated gent, and you’re saying you never heard of John Wellington Wells?” Johnny started in singing.
“My name is John Wellington Wells,
I’m a dealer in magic and spells,
In blessings and curses,
And ever-filled purses,
In prophecies, witches, and knells.
If anyone anything lacks,
He’ll find it all ready in stacks,
If he’ll only look in
On the resident Djinn,
Number seventy, Simmery Axe!”
Johnny finished off with a flourish of the white napkin draped over his arm.
“It’s showmanship, magic. It’s all showmanship.”
5
He called out “Chris!” as he always did when he got in. There was no “In here!” called back from the kitchen.
Johnny walked across the small front parlor. The cluttered Tudor cottage was still warm from a fire that had recently gone out. The kitchen was warmer yet. On the long white porcelain table and the top of the cooker were pans of freshly baked cookies and scones. The oven door was open, and another cookie sheet of meringues sat inside the oven. Lightweight and sweet, they vanished quickly and magically on the tongue. A bit too sweet for him.
Johnny looked around for some sign of his aunt and found an apron tossed across the back of a chair. He studied the pastries and recalled that meringues took an hour to bake and then another hour to cool down. Chris did this by turning the oven off and leaving the meringues inside. The oven was cool but not cold.
Right now it was a quarter to ten. That meant she had probably been here until nine o’clock, maybe even later. That meant she’d just left.
But for where? Nothing was open now except the pubs, and she didn’t often go to them, and never as far as he knew on a bake night. What she did was to go upstairs, get in bed, and read. She loved to read. She loved routine. It’s just another word for “ritual” and ritual’s always a comfort. She was right; it was a comfort knowing you were expected at certain places at certain times. That people depended upon you. He could have guessed at Chris’s movements on any given day and more than likely been right. It was a comfort, he thought, that she was like that, always right where you expected her to be, a person you could hang on to.
Johnny tried to emulate her in this way. If he didn’t appear at the Woodbine exactly at 10 A.M. or at 3 P.M., the old ladies would complain. The girls who served there were a bit scatterbrained and couldn’t seem to get in the spirit of afternoon tea at the Woodbine.
It was another ritual that Johnny understood. Chris had once said, “See, it isn’t just food and drink; it’s more like regeneration. I’m not sure how it works, but I’ve seen these customers come in out of sorts and grumpy and leave renewed in some way.”
Although he was sure she wasn’t upstairs (he would have heard her), still, he had to check. H
e went up the narrow, dark, piecrust staircase to the bedrooms above. There were three. His bedroom and her bedroom had a view of Mounts Bay. Although the door was open a crack, he still knocked. Perhaps she was in bed, sick. But he knew she wasn’t. The mind tossed up all sorts of flotsam for one to cling to before it started to sink.
He looked at her dressing table with its three-sided mirror, hoping something-spilled powder, open lipstick tube, uncapped cologne-would give him a clue as to where she’d gone, what she was doing. But it was as neat as always.
He sat down in a rocker that faced the window that faced the square. Beneath the moon, the grass was silvery, the square luminous. He tried to think of emergencies. Maybe she’d cut herself and had to go looking for a doctor. Up to Bletchley Hall, maybe. There was always a doctor on the premises there, or so he thought. Or maybe something had happened to one of her “ladies,” as she called them, one of the old people she volunteered to help at Bletchley Hall. An emergency, that must be it. Or maybe his alcoholic Uncle Charlie had called her from Penzance for help. He’d done it before.
Ridiculous. Chris hadn’t gone on a trip, for God’s sakes. Not without leaving him a note.
“Ah, dear, I hope she’s not sick, sweetheart,” said Brenda, over the phone. “Shall I call the Hall? Could she have-?”
Johnny had already done it. And the pubs; he’d called them too.
“How about the newsagent’s?” said Brenda.
“Compton’s? It’s half-ten, Brenda. Anyway, why would she go there at this hour?”
“For cigarettes?”
“No. She stopped smoking.”
Brenda sighed. “Sweetheart, I know for a fact she’s sneaked round there a couple of times.”
Johnny had to laugh. Chris’s vanishing had not settled on him fully yet. It hadn’t reached the point of hardening into fact. It was still fiction, a vaguely alarming story that would of course resolve itself into just that: a story. “Come on, Brenda. Can you really see Chris sneaking round?”
“Well… no, I expect not. But I know you think she’s always fine. I mean that she’s got no problems. But she does. Same as us.” She said this without a trace of sarcasm, said it with a kind of sadness.
The Lamorna Wink Page 3