by RA Williams
‘Up the Road of Remembrance.’
He pointed towards a steep road and the Heights above.
‘Folkestone’s grass promenade is quite notable.’
A hoot from his whistle attracted the attention of a taxi driver collecting his breakfast from a vendor hawking whelks and jellied eels.
‘Don’t bother,’ Elle replied. ‘I’ll hoof it.’
‘Up to The Leas?’ he said. ‘A lady does not walk up the Road of Remembrance. That sort of thing just isn’t done in Folkestone.’
Elle turned without reply, heading towards the steep road. Beautiful day it might very well have been, but the fact was she didn’t have a single penny to pay the driver. And considering the state of her, she couldn’t blame the porter for wanting her to push off.
A footpath edged with rosemary ran along the side of the narrow road. Beginning the climb, she heard a howl from the harbour below. She looked back, saw steam billowing from the twin funnels of Twickenham Ferry as she prepared for her return journey to France. Continuing up the road, she saw what looked like roadworks ahead. As she got closer, she thought it wasn’t roadworks after all but rather earthworks burrowing into the tree-covered hillside. With mere inches to spare between the entrance and the road, it seemed a precarious location. Workmen in overalls came and went from under hessian netting that concealed a concrete bulwark.
It turned out not to be earthworks either; it was a bunker in preparation. A soldier stood guard beside another entrance, unconcerned by anyone happening by and having a good look. Another soldier appeared from the principal entrance, rifle slung, sipping a mug of tea.
‘Hello darlin’,’ one of them called out, tipping his Tommy helmet back for a better look at her. ‘Cor, blimey. Had a rough night of it then?’
‘What you, then? A refugee? Fancy a cuppa?’ said the other, lifting his tin cup.
Elle gave them a brief glance back before going on her way. She didn’t fancy small talk. She wanted a bath and a bed. As she walked away, she heard one of them call her a rude name.
Reaching the Road of Remembrance’s height, she passed a forlorn statue of victory. Facing France, her open arms held a cross in one hand and a laurel wreath in the other – a memorial to those killed in the Great War. Glancing back to the bunker being prepared, Elle wondered if it foretold the coming of another.
To her surprise, a trap pulled by a llama passed her with half a dozen well-dressed children in sun hats all giggling at her attire.
Llamas and a bunker. Folkestone was at odds with itself.
Following behind the llama as it made its way along a promenade fringed with manicured grass and flower beds bursting in late-summer splendour, Elle realised that even at half past seven in the morning, Folkestone was alive with holidaymakers. Little girls in spotless white sundresses played shuttlecock on flawlessly clipped grass, a matron shooting Elle a disapproving scowl as she passed, attesting to the state of her: grubby dungarees, shirt smeared with rail grease, bandaged head not well hidden under a Tigers baseball cap. Probably she niffed as well. Passing one Regency-style hotel after another without a vacancy, she began losing hope of finding a room, much less a bath.
An elderly Wall’s ice cream man parked up his tricycle, Warrick box mounted at the front, filled with frozen tubs and bricks of ice cream. He looked a bit of a lunatic in his polished Sam Browne belt and white officer’s cap, yet it was he who gave Elle a perplexed look.
‘Cripes. Where have you come from?’
‘The Continent.’ She indicated the Channel.
The Wall’s man humphed. ‘That what they’re sporting over there these days?’
‘Long few days of travel.’
He nodded, looking her over. ‘Yank, are you?’
‘Detroit,’ she said. ‘Eleanor.’
‘Dagenham. Wally.’ He put a finger to his neatly groomed moustache before asking, ‘That clobber you’ve got on don’t especially blend in with Snobbington-by-the-Seaside.’
‘So it seems. If only I could find a hotel.’
‘Hotel, you say? Well, the Clifton is just behind old Harvey there.’ He pointed beyond a statue across the road. ‘A fine establishment as well.’
‘I’d have an ice cream if you accepted Reichsmarks.’
‘Ho ho, you is lost. I’d have Hong Kong dollars and Indian cents, English pounds and Eskimo pence over Hitler money.’
Opening the lid of his Warrick box, Dagenham Wally handed her a raspberry and orange Snofrute.
‘Call it charity,’ he said with a wink. ‘The brats round here only want Choco Bars and wafer biscuits anyway.’
She thanked him before crossing the street and making her way to the hotel, pausing for a moment before the statue.
‘Discovered the circulation of the blood, our Dr Harvey did,’ shouted Dagenham Wally. ‘From Folkestone as well.’
Opening the paper wrapper of the Snofrute, she bit off an ice-cold chunk of frozen fruit. It went down a treat. Taking another bite, she read the inscription in the plinth at the statue’s feet: Dr William Harvey. 1 April 1578 – 3 June 1657. Physician in Ordinary. His Majesty Charles I.
She stopped chewing. ‘Not Dr Harvey Folcanstan,’ she said, looking up at the statue’s face. It was he who had travelled to the Tor Externsteine’s cwicseolfor mine and led her to the Crimen hollow.
‘Not Dr William Harvey Folcanstan,’ she repeated, having to remind herself there was no such thing as coincidence. ‘Dr Harvey of Folcanstan.’ Suddenly, her failure at the Externsteine and the beating she took at the hands of the Nazis were forgotten.
Looking towards the hotel, she let loose a Michigan holler in front of the holidaymakers in their tropical suits and flower-print summer dresses on the terrace. ‘Yahoo!’
They replied with sharp glances over their morning tea.
‘Eleanor,’ she told herself, finishing the Snofrute and hitting her stride as she ascended the terrace steps, ‘you are exactly where you’re meant to be.’
A porter intercepted her, a cross look on his face. ‘Oi! Go off. Gypsies not welcome here.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘We won’t have your lot disturbing guests,’ he tut-tutted. ‘No charity to be had here, miss.’
‘I am not a “miss”, you impertinent little twerp,’ she barked at him. ‘I have a PhD in ethnology, and you’ll address me as Doctor.’
The terrace fell silent. A teaspoon clattered to the ground, and a lady drinking tea at a table nearby gasped loudly.
‘I’m dirty. I’m tired. And I’m vexed. Now, wipe that stupid look from your mug and step aside.’ Brushing by the shrinking porter, she mounted a second step to the entrance of the hotel before turning to rearrange her baseball cap. ‘And, I’m an American.’
Entering the lobby, she took stock. Ahead, double doors led to a dining room, glorious white tablecloths spread across them. To her right, a small sitting area with a grandfather clock ticking away. To her left, a clerk in a dark blue suit stood behind a reception counter. No greeting was forthcoming.
She gave him her best American smile before she spoke up. ‘I would like a guest-room, please.’
‘We’re quite booked,’ the clerk replied politely, when really he was saying: Piss off.
‘Young man,’ she interrupted, leaning across the counter. ‘Before you inform me you don’t want the likes of me in your lovely hotel, hear me through. I’m Eleanor Annenberg. Three days ago, I was bashed in the head by a pair of Nazi thugs and thrown out of Germany on my backside. I’ve spent the days since on God only knows how many trains.’
The clerk laughed. ‘Nazis? That’s fantastic. Best whopper I’ve heard in ages. What have you really done to yourself? Fallen from a funfair ride down by the pier, have we?’
‘Nazis?’ a voice repeated from behind an open door. The hotel manager, sleeve folded back where his left arm once was, joined his subordinate at the reception counter. He threw Elle a fixing glance as only an old Englishman could. Then he smiled.
‘The Hun can be cheeky, can’t they?’
‘Did you lose that in the war?’ Elle asked.
‘This?’ He turned his shoulder, showing her where his left arm had been. ‘It went to the bottom with Titanic.’ He smiled.
Then she did too, remembering him. ‘First Class Steward Swinburne.’
‘Miss Annenberg. Or is it Mrs?’
‘It’s Doctor. But by now you should call me Eleanor,’ she replied.
‘And by now you should call me Tony.’ He gave his subordinate a little thump on the shoulder. ‘Only this one addresses me as Mister Swinburne.’
Turning, he addressed the clerk directly. ‘A long time ago, Eleanor saved my life. Least we can do is offer her a superior room at one pound ten.’ Turning his attention back to her, he continued, ‘Afraid it hasn’t an en suite, but there’s a nicely sorted bath down the hall. Shall I send a maid to launder your things?’
‘Thank you,’ she replied.
‘Portmanteau?’
‘I travel light,’ she replied, showing him the rucksack on her shoulder.
‘You really were tossed out of Germany.’
‘I’m organising a counter-attack.’
Swinburne offered an amused nod. ‘I shouldn’t expect anything less.’ Taking the oval key chain and room ticket off his clerk, he presented them to her. ‘Welcome to the Hotel Clifton, Eleanor.’
Max and Moritz, as she named them, cawed from the ledge. The herring gulls and Elle were fast becoming friends, and they crouched outside her bay window, preening their feathers. After room service delivered her cheese and cucumber sandwiches, the cheeky birds, like the two terrible boys in Wilhelm Busch’s A Story of Seven Boyish Pranks, made such a racket that she surrendered her crusts to them. It kept the birds quiet. For a while.
After a hot bath, she curled up in a comfy armchair by the window, succumbing to exhaustion both physical and mental. Every muscle. Every bone. Every last joint ached. The avalanche of events that had brought her to Folkestone caught up with her and, despite doing her level best to sort the lot of it out, she could hardly keep her eyes open.
She awoke to the terrible twosome making a racket, their big webbed feet padding back and forth outside her open window. Rubbing her eyes, she squinted at her watch. It was near five in the afternoon. She had slept for nine hours.
Remaining in her armchair as her lethargy slowly melted away, she watched the world outside her window. Despite the time, the sun remained high. The Leas lay below, chock-a-block with parading holidaymakers. Children’s laughter waned in the breeze. A Punch and Judy show was in progress. Porters in blue boiler suits lined up folding chairs around a bandstand, their supervisor adjusting the distance between them with a measuring stick.
Elle felt the taut corners of her mouth turn upwards into a smile. If Germany was ominous and austere, Britain overflowed with cheer and hope, lazy summer days at the seaside a reminder there was plenty of good in the world yet. She had a few things to put straight in her head before she quite understood what had brought her to this place. How did all of this bring her closer to Balthasar?
A hotel maid took pity on her attire and brought her a laundered blouse, left behind by a guest. A box outside Elle’s door contained her sponged-clean dungarees and brown work boots, polished up and strung with new laces. Letting her robe fall to the floor, she stood naked in front of the mirror hanging in a wardrobe door, examining herself. It felt like a long time since she’d had such a luxury.
She was rested, if bruised. The dark circles surrounding her eyes – like them, not brown nor green but something in between – had begun to disappear after a good rest. But not the smile lines around her eyes. They weren’t smile lines, really.
Her bobbed chestnut hair had nary a grey strand. She was still slim and her legs strong from the endless climbing up and down the excavation site’s switchbacks. Even her breasts had yet to go south like a snowbird in winter.
‘You held up pretty good for a forty-five-year-old broad who took a beating from the Nazis.’
Sliding into her dungarees and the second-hand peach linen blouse, she left her baseball cap on a hook behind the door. Giving herself a last looking over, she had to admit she managed to pull off quite pretty effortlessly.
Descending to the lobby, she was met with hushed tut-tuts from ladies and lingering glances from gents. Tony Swinburne stood at reception, thumb in the pocket of his waistcoat, his patient smile welcoming. ‘You are feeling rested?’
‘Hot water and tea do wonders, Tony.’
‘Noggin on the mend?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied, touching the stitches on the back of her head. ‘Feeling more like myself.’
‘A scrub and a pot of tea can do that,’ he replied with a nod. ‘I am in receipt of a wire from your stateside banker. It is quite in excess of your stay. Are you in need of a few pounds sterling for the pocket?’
She raised her arms, showing off her dodgy attire. ‘Are you suggesting I’m inappropriately dressed for Folkestone?’
‘I am happy to recommend several fashionable dress shops on the high street. They can arrange for a selection to be brought to the hotel, if you’d like.’
She smiled. ‘I’d like. Just nothing too frilly.’
‘Clearly.’
‘I was wondering…’ she started.
‘How can I help?’ he asked, with a little smile that reinforced to Elle she was safe now.
‘… might you direct me to a local church?’
‘Any denomination especially?’
‘The Parish Church of St Emiliana?’
‘On The Bayle.’
‘The Bayle?’
‘Folkestone’s oldest street. Just down The Leas from here. You can hoof it in under five minutes.’
Thanking Tony, she turned for the entrance. Five minutes? She’d be there in three.
Leaving The Leas behind, Elle passed the war memorial, finding a narrow lane Tony had directed her to, shaded by poplar and ash. Down a steep slope to her right, hidden among the trees, she picked out sounds of the bunker worksite on the Road of Remembrance. To her left stood the Parish Church of St Emiliana, its Gothic ragstone tower stained by centuries of Channel wind and rain.
Turning off the lane, she strode through the graveyard, the feather-shaped leaves of an ancient weeping ash welcoming her as she passed rows of askew headstones. A plump woman with her hair in a bun pulled weeds from between flower-laden rose bushes along the cemetery walls. She wiped her hands on her apron, acknowledging Elle with a smile.
Following the path through the churchyard, Elle turned a corner and arrived at the front porch. The hinges of the heavy wooden door creaked as she pushed it in, the heat of the day vanishing in the coolness of the chancel arcade as she entered. She inhaled. She hadn’t breathed so easily in a long while. There was calm in the old church that soothed her. Diffused light filtered through stained-glass windows in the chancel, falling upon an altar covered in velvet. To its left, a small brass hatch was set within the wall. The vestry door opposite swung in, and a thin, but hardly frail, vicar stood before her.
‘Hello, ma child.’
Still skittish from the last days’ trauma, Elle had to fight off her instinct to step back. ‘Oh. I’m sorry. Just came in for a look round.’
‘It’s God’s house. His door is never locked to they who wish to have a look round.’ The vicar stepped away from the vestry door, leaving it open. ‘American?’
‘Detroit.’
‘Henry Ford?’
‘Ty Cobb.’
The vicar had a little chuckle. Elle smelled whiskey. With an “e”. Irish.
‘Not seen many of you round about here since war’s end.’
Elle looked over his shoulder into the vestry. A narrow gated archway in the corner led into darkness. ‘Folkestone wasn’t on my travel plans. Just passing through.’
‘That was what them doughboys done: passed through. Down the Road of Remembrance by the thousands. Off to
France to fight the Hun. Was a long time ago, so it was.’ He sighed. ‘I’m Duigan, the vicar. This ’ere is my church.’
‘Dr Eleanor Annenberg.’ There was something familiar about the vicar, but she couldn’t quite place him from her memory. ‘Have we met before?’
‘Oh, I don’t expect so. You’ve a face I wouldn’t soon forget.’
She nodded and didn’t say any more about it.
‘You was looking at that, was you?’ he asked, resting a hand on the brass hatch set in the wall. ‘Within be the relics of our patron saint.’
‘Relics?’
‘Aye. Behind that hatch is a hollow containing the remains of St Emiliana.’
‘A hollow?’
The mention of it sparked her interest.
‘Rare, so it is. She rests within a simple stone coffin. Done so for hundreds of years.’
‘Who was she?’
‘Who was she?’ The vicar looked aghast. ‘You mean to say you don’t know the story of St Emiliana?’
Elle shook her head. ‘Dopey Americans.’
‘Emiliana was incorruptible, so she was. A princess who did sacrifice all worldly splendour, providin’ relief to unfortunate souls.’
‘How did she come to be in there?’
‘Came to the aid of one unworthy soul in particular,’ he said, voice tinged with bitterness. ‘A soul giving her cause to sacrifice her life.’
‘Sad,’ Elle replied, with condolence. ‘It’s a dear story.’
‘A truer one I never spoke. May the Lord smite me if it not be.’
‘A poignant way to remember her, I’m sure.’ Elle’s eye wandered, drawn to a recumbent effigy upon an altar-tomb set in a niche. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Him?’ Duigan asked. ‘Deception.’
Elle detected disdain in Duigan’s voice.
‘Placed in that niche in 1643 for keepin’ Cromwell’s iconoclasts from discovering the crypts.’
‘There are crypts here too?’
‘Aye. There be an entrance through the vestry. Don’t go down there much these days. Keep losing the infernal keys, you see.’
Moving closer to the recumbent noble, feet resting upon a lamb, she swallowed a gasp. Hands clasped, eyes closed, was the face she thought she had forgotten. ‘Who was he?’ she was just able to force out.