The Wine-Dark Sea

by Robert Aickman

  ‘Hadn’t we better try to find out exactly where we are?’ suggested Margaret.

  ‘Does it really matter?’

  ‘There’s lunch.’

  ‘That doesn’t depend on where we are. So long as we’re in the country it’s all one, don’t you think?’

  ‘I think we’d better make sure.’

  ‘OK.’

  Mimi again got out the map. As they were anchoring it by the roadside, a train roared into being and swept down the gradient.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Margaret, struggling with a rather unsuitable stone.

  ‘Waving, of course.’

  ‘Did anyone wave back?’

  ‘Haven’t you ever waved to the driver?’

  ‘No. I don’t think I have. I didn’t know it was the driver you waved to. I thought it was the passengers.’ The map now seemed secure.

  ‘Them too sometimes. But drivers always wave to girls.’

  ‘Only to girls?’

  ‘Only to girls.’ Mimi couldn’t remember when she hadn’t known that. ‘Where are we?’ They stared at the map, trying to drag out its mystery. Even now that they were on the road, with the railway plain before them crossing contour after contour, the problem seemed little simpler.

  ‘I wish there was an instrument which said how high we were,’ remarked Mimi.

  ‘Something else to carry.’

  Soon they were reduced to staring about them.

  ‘Isn’t that a house?’ Mimi was again pointing the initiative.

  ‘If it is, I think it must be “Inn”.’ Margaret indicated it. ‘There’s no other building on the map this side of the railway tunnel, unless we’re much lower down the valley than we think.’

  ‘Maps don’t show every small building.’

  ‘They seem to in country districts. I’ve been noticing. Each farm has a little dot. Even the cottage by the reservoir yesterday had its dot.’

  ‘Oh well, if it’s a pub, we can eat in the bar. OK by me.’

  Again they left behind them four grey stones at the corners of nothing.

  ‘Incidentally, the map only shows one house between the other end of the tunnel and Pudsley. A good eight miles, I should say.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s one of your farms. I won’t face a night in Pudsley. We’re supposed to be on holiday. Remember?’

  ‘I expect they’ll put us up.’

  The building ahead of them proved long deserted. Or possibly not so long; it is difficult to tell with simple stone buildings in a wet climate. The windows were planked up; slates from the roof littered the weedy garden; the front door had been stove in.

  ‘Trust the Army,’ said Mimi. ‘Hope tonight’s quarters are more weatherproof. We’d better eat. It’s a quarter past two.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s the Army. More like the agricultural depression.’ Margaret had learnt on her father’s estate the significance of deserted farmhouses and neglected holdings.

  ‘Look! There’s the tunnel.’

  Margaret advanced a few steps up the road to join her. From the black portal the tunnel bored straight into the rock, with the road winding steeply above it.

  ‘There’s another building,’ said Margaret, following the discouraging ascent with her eyes. ‘What’s more, I can see a sign outside it. I believe the map’s wrong. Come on.’

  ‘Oh well,’ said Mimi.

  Just as they were over the tunnel entrance another train sped downwards. They looked from above at the blind black roofs of the coaches, like the caterpillar at the fair with the cover down.

  It was hard to say whether the map was wrong or not. The house above the tunnel, though apparently not shown, was certainly not an inn. It was almost the exact opposite: an unlicensed Guest House.

  ‘Good for a cup of tea,’ said Mimi. ‘But we’d better eat outside.’

  A little further up the road was a small hillock. They ascended it, cast off their heavy rucksacks, loosened their belts a hole or two, and began to eat corned beef sandwiches. The Guest House lay below them, occupied to all appearances, but with no one visible.

  ‘Not much traffic,’ said Margaret, dangling a squashed tomato.

  ‘They all go by train.’

  The distant crowing of an engine whistle seemed to confirm her words.

  The sharp-edged clouds, now slightly larger, were still being pushed across the sky; but by now the breeze seemed to have dropped and it was exceedingly hot. The two women were covered with sweat, and Mimi undid another button of her shirt.’

  Aren’t you glad I made you wear shorts?”

  Margaret had to admit to herself she was glad. There had been some dissension between the two of them upon this point; Margaret, who had never worn shorts in her life before, feeling intensely embarrassed by Mimi’s proposal, and Mimi unexpectedly announcing that she wouldn’t come at all unless Margaret ‘dressed like everybody else’. Margaret now realised that for once ‘everybody’ was right. The freedom was delightful; and without it the weight of the rucksack would have been unendurable. Moreover, her entire present outfit had cost less than a guinea; and it mattered little what happened to it. That, she perceived, was the real freedom. Still she was pleased that none of her family could see her.

  ‘Very glad indeed,’ she replied. ‘I really am.’

  Mimi smiled warmly, too nice to triumph, although the matter was one about which Margaret’s original attitude had roused strong feelings in her.

  ‘Not the ideal food for this heat,’ said Margaret. ‘We’ll come out in spots.’

  ‘Lucky to get corned beef. Another girl and I hiked from end to end of the Pilgrim’s Way on plain bread and marge. It was Bank Holiday and we’d forgotten to lay anything in.’ Then, springing to her feet with her mouth full, she picked up her rucksack. ‘Let’s try for a drink.’ She was off down the road before Margaret could rise or even speak. She was given to acting on such sudden small impulses, Margaret had noticed.

  By the time Margaret had finished her final sandwich, Mimi had rung the Guest House bell and had been inside for some time. Before following, Margaret wiped the sweat from her face on to one of the large handkerchiefs Mimi had prudently enjoined; then from one of the breast pockets of her shirt produced a comb and mirror, rearranged her hair so far as was allowed by sweat and the small tight bun into which, with a view to efficiency on this holiday, she had woven it, and returned the articles to her shirt pocket, buttoning down the flap, but avoiding contact as far as possible with her sticky body. She approached the front door slowly, endeavouring to beget no further heat.

  The bell, though provided with a modern pseudo-Italian pull, was of the authentic country house pattern, operated by a wire. The door was almost immediately opened by a plain woman in a Marks and Spencer overall.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could I possibly have something to drink? My friend’s inside already.’

  ‘Come in. Tea or coffee? We’re out of minerals.’

  ‘Could I have some coffee?’

  ‘Coffee.’ The word was repeated in a short blank tone. One would have supposed she had to deal with sixty orders an hour. She disappeared.

  ‘Well, shut the door and keep the heat out.’

  The speaker, a middle-aged man wearing dirty tennis shoes, was seated the other side of a round wooden table from Mimi, who was stirring a cup of tea. There was no one else in the room, which was congested with depressing café furniture, and decorated with cigarette advertisements hanging askew on the walls.

  ‘You know what they say in New York?’ He had the accent of a north country businessman. His eyes never left Mimi’s large breasts distending her damp khaki shirt. ‘I used to live in New York. Ten years altogether.’

  Mimi said nothing. It was her habit to let the men do the talking. Margaret sat down beside her, laying her rucksack on the floor.

  ‘Hullo.’ His tone was cheekier than his intention.

  ‘Hullo,’ said Margaret neutrally.

  ‘Are you two
friends?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His gaze returned to the buxomer, nakeder Mimi.

  ‘I was just telling your friend. You know what they say in New York?’

  ‘No,’ said Margaret. ‘I don’t think so. What do they say?’

  ‘It isn’t the heat. It’s the humidity.’

  He seemed still to be addressing Margaret, while staring at Mimi. Giving them a moment to follow what he evidently regarded as a difficult and penetrating observation, he continued, ‘The damp, you know. The moisture in the atmosphere. The atmosphere’s picking up moisture all the time. Sucking it out of the earth.’ He licked his lower lip. ‘This is nothing. Nothing to New York. I lived there for ten years. Beggars can’t be choosers, you know.’

  A door opened from behind and the taciturn woman brought Margaret’s coffee. The cup was discoloured round the edge, and the saucer, for some reason, bore a crimson smear.

  ‘One shilling.’

  Startled, Margaret produced a half-crown from a pocket of her shorts. The woman went away.

  ‘Nice place this,’ said the man. ‘You’ve got to pay for that these times.’

  Margaret lifted up her cup. The coffee was made from essence and stank.

  ‘What did I say? How’s that for a cup of coffee? I’d have one myself, if I hadn’t had three already.’

  ‘Are you staying here?’

  ‘I live here.’

  The woman returned with one and sixpence, then departed once more.

  ‘There’s no need for a gratuity.’

  ‘I see,’ said Margaret. ‘Is she the proprietress?’

  ‘It’s her own place.’

  ‘She seems silent.’ Immediately Margaret rather regretted this general conversational initiative.

  ‘She’s reason to be. It’s no gold mine, you know. I’m the only regular. Pretty well the only customer by and large.’

  ‘Why’s that? It’s a lovely country, and there’s not much competition from what we’ve seen.’

  ‘There’s none. Believe me. And it’s not a nice country. Believe me again.’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ This was Mimi, who had not spoken since Margaret had entered.

  ‘Why nothing really, sister, nothing really. Not for a little girl like you.’ Margaret noticed that he was one of the many men who classify women into those you talk to and those with whom words merely impede the way. ‘I was just kidding. I wouldn’t be here else. Now would I? Not living here.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the place?’

  Margaret was surprised by Mimi’s tone. She recollected that she had no knowledge of what had passed between the two of them while she had been combing her hair on the little hill.

  ‘You know what the locals say?’

  ‘We haven’t seen any locals,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Just so. That’s what I say. They don’t come up here. This is the Quiet Valley.’

  ‘Oh really,’ cried Margaret, not fully mistress of her motives all the same. ‘You got that name out of some Western.’

  But he only replied with unusual brevity, ‘They call it the Quiet Valley.’

  ‘Not a good place to start in business!’ said Margaret.

  ‘Couldn’t be worse. But she just didn’t know. She sank all she had in this place. She was a stranger here, like you.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the valley?’ persisted Mimi, her manner, to Margaret’s mind, a little too tense.

  ‘Nothing so long as you stay, sister. Just nothing at all.’

  ‘Is there really a story?’ asked Margaret. Almost convinced that the whole thing was a rather dull joke, she was illogically driven to enquire by Mimi’s odd demeanour.

  ‘No story that I’ve heard of. It’s just the Quiet Valley and the locals don’t come here.’

  ‘What about you? If it’s so quiet why don’t you move?’

  ‘I like quiet. I’m not one to pick and choose. I was just telling you why there’s a trade recession.’

  ‘It’s perfectly true,’ said Margaret, ‘that there seems very little traffic.’ She noticed Mimi refasten the shirt button she had undone to cool herself. The man averted his eyes.

  ‘They all take the railroad. They scuttle through shut up like steers in a wagon.’

  Mimi said nothing, but her expression had changed.

  ‘There seem to be plenty of trains for them,’ said Margaret, smiling.

  ‘It’s the main line.’

  ‘One of the drivers waved to us. If what you say is true, I suppose he was glad to see us.’

  For the first time the man concentrated his unpleasing stare on Margaret.

  ‘Now as to that –’ His glance fell to the table and remained there a moment. ‘I was just wondering where you two reckon on spending the night.’

  ‘We usually find a farmhouse,’ said Margaret shortly.

  ‘It’s wild on the other side, you know. Wilder than here. There’s only one house between the tunnel and near Pudsley.’

  ‘So we noticed on the map. Would they give us a bed? I suppose it’s a farm?’

  ‘It’s Miss Roper’s place. I’ve never met her myself. I don’t go down the other side. But I dare say she’d help you. What you said just now –’ Suddenly he laughed. ‘You know how engine drivers wave at girls, like you said?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Margaret. To her apprehension it seemed that an obscene joke was coming.

  ‘Well, every time a train passes Miss Roper’s house, someone leans out of the bedroom window and waves to it. It’s gone on for years. Every train, mark you. The house stands back from the line and the drivers couldn’t see exactly who it was, but it was someone in white and they all thought it was a girl. So they waved back. Every train. But the joke is it’s not a girl at all. It can’t be. It’s gone on too long. She can’t have been a girl for the last twenty years or so. It’s probably old Miss Roper herself. The drivers keep changing round so they don’t catch on. They all think it’s some girl, you see. So they all wave back. Every train.’ He was laughing as if it were the funniest of improprieties.

  ‘If the drivers don’t know, how do you?’ asked Mimi.

  ‘It’s what the locals say. Never set eyes on Miss Roper myself. Probably a bit of line-shooting.’ He became suddenly very serious and redolent of quiet helpfulness. ‘There’s a Ladies Room upstairs if either of you would like it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Margaret. ‘I think we must be getting on.’ The back of her rucksack was soaked and clammy.

  ‘Have a cigarette before you go?’ He was extending a packet of some unknown brand. His hand shook like the hand of a drug addict.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Mimi, very offhand. ‘Got a match?’ He could hardly strike it, let alone light the cigarette. Looking at him Margaret was glad she did not smoke.

  ‘I smoke like a camp fire,’ he said unnecessarily. ‘You have to in my life.’ Then, when they had opened the door, he added, ‘Watch the weather.’

  ‘We will,’ said Margaret conventionally, though the heat had again smothered them. And once more they were toiling upwards beneath their heavy packs.

  They said nothing at all for several minutes. Then Mimi said, ‘Blasted fool.’

  ‘Men are usually rather horrible,’ replied Margaret.

  ‘You get used to that,’ said Mimi.

  ‘I wonder if this really is called the Quiet Valley?’

  ‘I don’t care what it’s called. It’s a bad valley all right.’

  Margaret looked at her. Mimi was staring defiantly ahead as she strode forward. ‘You mean because there are no people?’

  ‘I mean because I know it’s bad. You can’t explain it.’

  Margaret was inexpert with intuitions, bred out of them perhaps. The baking, endless road was certainly becoming to her unpleasant in the extreme. Moreover, the foul coffee had given her indigestion, and the looseness of her belt made it impossible to loosen it further.

  ‘If you hadn’t heard that train, we’d never have been here.’


  ‘If I hadn’t heard it, we’d quite simply have been lost. The path on the map just gave out. That’s apt to happen when you merely choose paths instead of making for definite places.’

  In her vexation Margaret raked over another underlying dissimilarity in their approaches to life, one already several times exposed. Then reflecting that Mimi had been perfectly willing to wend from point to point provided that the points were Youth Hostels, Margaret added, ‘Sorry Mimi. It’s the heat.’

  A certain persistent fundamental disharmony between them led Mimi to reply none too amicably, ‘What exactly do you suggest we are going to do?’

  Had Margaret been Mimi there would have been a row: but, being Margaret, she said, ‘I think perhaps we’d better take another look at the map.’

  This time she unslung her rucksack and got out the map herself. Mimi stood sulkily sweating and doing nothing either to help or to remove the sweat. Looking at her, Margaret suddenly said, ‘I wonder what’s become of the breeze we had this morning?’ Then, Mimi still saying nothing, she sat down and looked at the map. ‘We could go over into the next valley. There are several quite large villages.’

  ‘Up there?’ Mimi indicated the rocky slope rising steeply above them.

  ‘The tunnel runs through where the mountains are highest. If we go on a bit, we’ll reach the other end and it may be less of a climb. What do you say?’

  Mimi took a loose cigarette from a pocket of her shirt. ‘Not much else to do, is there?’ Her attitude was exceedingly irritating. Margaret perceived the unwisdom of strong Indian tea in the middle of the day. ‘I hope we make it,’ added Mimi with empty cynicism. As she struck a match, in the very instant a gust of wind not only blew it out but wrenched the map from Margaret’s hands. It was as if the striking of the match had conjured up the means to its immediate extinction.

  Margaret, recovering, closed the map; and they looked behind them. ‘Oh hell,’ said Margaret. ‘I dislike the weather in the Quiet Valley.’ A solid bank of the dark grey cloud had formed in their rear and was perceptibly closing down upon them like a huge hood.

  ‘I hope we make it,’ repeated Mimi, her cynicism now less empty. They left their third set of grey stones demarcating emptiness.