Abroad seemed the obvious place to go—a cruise perhaps?—but this did not appeal. On a cruise he would be thrown into contact with people whom he neither knew nor wanted to know; abroad and alone he would be too much a stranger. It had to be somewhere in England where his isolation would be unremarked: he wanted a place of stillness and solitude with which he had a modicum of familiarity. Norgate came into his mind, the old resort on the Kent Coast. He had been there as a child; in fact he had gone to a school not far away from Norgate near the North Head, a promontory of chalk cliff that jutted into the English Channel.
Savernake was not nostalgic about any aspect of his past, but he liked the idea that he had existed in another world, before his professional life, his marriage and all that went with it existed. It was a world without the embarrassments and obligations that he had come to associate with adult life. Now, wifeless and semi-retired, he felt ready to return to another kind of being. It was in search of this rather nebulous ideal, that he decided to go to Norgate.
He could have afforded to stay at The Cleveland, the most expensive hotel in Norgate, but that would not have suited him. He liked the idea of being obscure, anonymous, part of the landscape. During the annual lunch with Lockwood at his club, Brummel’s, the subject came up, and that was when his friend suggested Happydene, Mrs Carsett’s Bed and Breakfast establishment. Lockwood had recently been on tour with a thriller and the Victoria Theatre, Norgate had been one of the venues, so he pronounced himself an expert on cheap digs in Norgate.
A brief trawl of the Internet yielded the details of Happydene which was in a little side street just off the sea front. This too recommended itself to Savernake’s reclusive frame of mind. He rang up and booked a room for the following week. Mrs Carsett, to whom he spoke on the phone, seemed pleasant and businesslike, but not very forthcoming. Perhaps, that was just as well, he did not want to explain why he was coming to Norgate for a week in early April.
An ambitious tourist, in search of the stupendous, might have chosen Venice or Samarkand, but Norgate seemed to suit Savernake. He congratulated himself on having chosen the right place. The South Coast of England was enjoying a warm spring and Norgate’s modest charms were to be seen at their best. It pleased Savernake to think that the little seaside town fostered tranquil lives—long, featureless, passionless existences—because that was what he craved himself. The slow decline of his wife into sickness and dementia had been, in its sordid way, full of drama, but not of the ennobling kind. It had been relentless: he had felt both grief and anger. Now that final line of Milton’s:
“...and calm of mind, all passion spent.”—seemed to him most beautiful.
He arrived by train and took a taxi to Happydene. He had not been back to Norgate for almost half a century and he wondered how much it had changed. The short drive down to the sea front from the station told him that it had not, at all. There was the same air of worn respectability about the houses; the touch of flamboyance in the pier and the Victoria Theatre. There were the ice-cream parlours, the amusement arcades, the beach of coarse sand divided by military rows of breakwaters. The extent to which it had remained the same made him uneasy. He was not suffused by a glow of nostalgia. Had it been a mistake after all? He tried to suppress his disquiet because he could not explain it.
Happydene was a Victorian terraced house in a street of Victorian terraced houses. Nothing distinguished it except for the sign Happydene in flowing script on a plaque and a small NO VACANCIES sign in the window. Savernake thought he should be reassured by its air of respectability, but he was not. Expectation of the unknown robbed him of all comfort. Here he was, at last a free man and the freedom, even in these dainty surroundings, daunted him.
The door was opened by a woman, perhaps in her thirties with mousy, lustreless hair. She wore an overall.
“Mrs Carsett?” Asked Savernake, even though he knew instinctively that it was not she.
“I’m her daughter Alice. Mr Savernake isn’t it? We were expecting you. Come in.”
Savernake noted that Alice had the pale, shapeless look of someone who had never married, and was probably under the dominion of her mother. Though he was a widower and approaching sixty Savernake had not quite rid himself of the habit of assessing every woman he met for their sexual possibilities. Alice had few it would seem, but this very lack gave Savernake an odd frisson. Elderly and judging himself to be no longer very physically appealing, Savernake recognised that he would have to set his sights conventionally low if he ever wanted another woman. Besides, he had heard from Lockwood about the acronym LDO that actors would put in the visitor’s books of lodging houses. It stood for Landlady’s Daughter Obliges. He would inspect that book later.
###
The room to which he was shown by Alice who insisted, very much against Savernake’s gentlemanly instinct, on carrying one of his bags, was on the third floor and faced onto the back of the house. From the window he could make out a band of blue sea across and between the slate roofs of other houses.
“We thought you would like a sea view,” said Alice. She was staring at Savernake, awaiting his reaction. He obliged with a nod.
“Is there anyone else staying here?”
“Just Mr. Milson,” said Alice. “He’s our regular.”
“No-one else?”
Alice shook her head and smiled.
“But there’s a No Vacancies sign in the window.”
“Mum’s very particular about who comes to Happydene.” There was again that smile, as if Alice wholly approved of her mother’s actions and had joined her in a secret conspiracy against the world. For a fleeting moment she looked up at the ceiling and Savernake followed suit. It was not particularly high, but the plaster ceiling rose was of a peculiar design. It was shaped like a classical head of indeterminate sex, surrounded by wavy hair—or were they tiny serpents? From the open mouth came the stem of the chandelier which lit the room.
“Unusual design,” said Savernake. Alice suppressed a giggle.
“Will you be having your evening meal here tonight?”
“Yes. Thank you. I think I shall.”
“The evening meal is at six thirty. We like to offer our guests a complimentary glass of sherry in the lounge at six beforehand. I’ll leave you now to settle in. Here is your front door key and the key to the room.” These she handed to him while turning away her face. Savernake thought she was hiding a smile, but why? Had he become, for some reason, an object of mockery? Alice left the room quickly. Savernake thought he heard a choke of repressed laughter outside his door.
Unpacking restored, to some extent, his poise and self-regard. The air in his room was cool and refreshing in an unaccustomed way. Savernake realised that it was a contrast to the stale, overheated atmosphere of his home during his wife’s last illness, and the sterile warmth of the hospice where she died. The air would do him good, he told himself, but without much conviction.
Having settled himself Savernake found that there was over an hour before he could enjoy his “complimentary glass of sherry” in the lounge. Probably some awful supermarket “pale cream”, thought Savernake who could be a wine snob. He would go out to explore the town.
Once out of Happydene, Savernake turned to his left and walked the hundred or so yards to the sea front. It was a clear evening. Clouds were scarce, high and tinged with yellow. A cool wind fumbled with him and made him tighten the scarf about his neck. The houses along the front were white stucco, the sea pale blue; the whole suggested the delicate, light tones and meticulous detail of a Victorian watercolour. Little or nothing seemed to have changed in half a century.
Savernake expected to be invaded by a flood of memories, but it was not so. It was curiously like the first time he had seen the dead body of his wife. She had died in the night at the Hospice and he was summoned over the following morning. It was expected of him that he should want to see the body and be alone with it, and he complied with the expectation, but it was not a significant expe
rience. He looked at the familiar features, now robbed of all sense and meaning. He held his breath, half believing that a movement from her would return all to normality, but no movement came and he felt shamefully relieved that it was so. Now here he was in Norgate, enduring a pale reflection of that event. It was all familiar; it was all meaningless.
Nevertheless Norgate was a pleasant place, and in April free of the noisy crowds he would have detested. Savernake was beginning to find the wind that buffeted him with its faint, sticky smell of sea, bracing. Or that was what he told himself: such a hearty, old fashioned, private school word, “bracing.” He turned left again along the broad sea front esplanade and made towards the North Head promontory, behind which and a little further inland had been his old school, Stone Court.
Walking ahead of him was an elderly man in a grey tweed overcoat, his back to him, slightly hunched so that only the very top of his white head was visible. He used a walking stick and his manner of walking, though brisk, was curiously jerky, as if one leg were shorter than the other. It was a characteristic movement, and suddenly, unpleasantly, familiar.
Good God, could it be Hoppy?
Hoppy, as he had been universally known, in fact a Mr. Twells, had been a master at Stone Court. Already then, half a century ago, Hoppy had seemed to Savernake’s admittedly young eyes to have lapsed into a tweedy, seedy middle age. He was unmarried and taught Geography, French, and, to a select few, Greek. The strange hopping movement as he walked which had earned him the sobriquet, had been acquired in the war when he had lost his right foot and had it replaced with an artificial extremity. Heroic reasons had been attributed, and not denied by Hoppy himself, but it was subsequently found to have been caused by a fragment of falling masonry in the London Blitz where Hoppy had been fire watching.
But this man on the esplanade couldn’t be Hoppy, could he? He would have to be at least ninety, and he seemed, despite the limp, to be so spry. Savernake did not want to find out, so he turned round and began to walk in the opposite direction towards the pier. It was all nonsense; it was a coincidence. Nevertheless, Savernake found himself trembling uncontrollably.
Shortly after six Savernake entered the lounge of Happydene. A short stout man whom Savernake guessed to be in his seventies, was seated in the corner of the room. He wore fawn slacks, a beige cardigan, a check shirt and a striped tie, all of them crisp and clean. Savernake thought he detected the drab, unfashionable neatness of a former military man: the tie looked regimental.
“Ah, you must be Savernake,” he said. “Jack Milson.” Milson rose and they shook hands. “Help yourself to a sherry. Ma Carsett always likes us to help ourselves.”
He indicated a sideboard on which stood a small sherry glass and a half empty bottle of supermarket Pale Cream Sherry. Savernake poured himself an exiguous mouthful.
“First time here, isn’t it? How did you find out about us?”
Savernake explained that he had been recommended Happydene by an actor.
“The actors, eh? I don’t go in for all that theatre stuff. Not an actor yourself, are you?” Savernake shook his head. “Don’t go in for all that argy bargy and bum tickling nonsense. I like to keep regular. I expect you’ve gathered, I’m a permanent fixture here. Not a bad sort of billet, Happydene. The grub’s okay. Keeps you regular. That’s the secret, you know. I have a good big breakfast; go out for a constitutional. Lunchtime, I might have a pint or two in the local, have a read of the paper. I don’t socialise much; don’t go in for all these clubs and things. To me it’s a waste of time, all these cliques and talking shops. Keep yourself to yourself and keep regular. People ask me: ‘Jack, what’s your secret?’ They ask me, you see. I tell them. I say: ‘strong drink, weak women and regular bowel movements.’ That always gets them!”
Milson laughed heartily at his maxim and Savernake felt it impolite not to join in.
“I could tell you a thing or two about life. I’ve seen it all. I was at Dunkirk, you know, Normandy Landings, the lot. Sergeant in the Fusiliers. Became a fitness instructor after the war.”
“You were in the war? But you must be -?”
“Want to know how old I am? Have a guess. Go on, have a guess.”
“Well, I suppose you must be -”
“Ninety three! That’s what I am! Ninety three! And I’ll tell you something for nothing: I’ve a few good years yet before I hand my papers in. Oh, yes! If you want to know a thing or two about life, Jack Milson’s your man. I can tell them.” There was a faint clanging sound. “Hold your horses! That’s the gong for grub. Mustn’t keep Ma Carsett waiting. This way. Follow me!”
Two separate tables for one were laid out in the dining room. The tablecloths and napery were white and crisp. Milson sat down and tucked his napkin neatly into the top of his shirt. Alice brought in two plates of greyish coloured soup. She was wearing a frilly white blouse and a tight black skirt which seemed only to accentuate her dowdiness.
The soup was followed by some sort of fish in bread crumbs with vegetables. Like the soup it was bland but edible. During the meal Milson appeared to concentrate all his energies on eating, barely looking up from his food. Towards the end of the main course Savernake asked him if Mrs Carsett was likely to put in an appearance.
“Don’t see her much, to tell the truth,” said Milson briskly. “She likes to keep herself in the background, if you know what I mean.” And he winked at him.
Before Savernake could ask Milson what he did mean, Alice entered to clear the plates. She carried a leather-bound book under her arm.
“I wonder if you could sign our register,” she said, addressing Savernake and placing it open on the table where the remains of his fish had been a moment before. “Just put your name and address,” she added, as if Savernake might otherwise have included a résumé of his life, or a short poem. Savernake complied, noting that there was a column in the register headed “Remarks”. There were some entries in this section made by previous guests, but all had been heavily blacked out with a marker pen. He flipped back through previous pages, guiltily searching for the acronym LDO. All the entries under “Remarks” had been crossed out, some more effectively than others. On one page Savernake thought he could detect the initial letters LD, but the third letter was not clearly decipherable: a K perhaps or an N? Just then the book was snatched from him and in its place was put a bowl of apple crumble and custard.
“Thank you, Mr Savernake.” He looked up at her. Alice’s usually pale, indeterminate features had a harder look to them. A hint of menace and sexual allure showed itself and then vanished. Alice was best seen from below: it suited her.
When the meal was over Milson rose, folding his napkin as he did so.
“Well, I’m off to the lounge to watch the news. Never miss the news. Care to join me?”
“Not tonight,” said Savernake. “I think I’ll go to my room and read.”
“Ah, yes,” said Milson. “I like a good book myself, but none of this fiction malarkey. I like a good book of facts. Guinness Book of Records, that sort of thing.”
Savernake said goodnight and went upstairs to his room. On the landing he met Alice. She seemed a little agitated.
“I’ve just been turning down your bed, Mr Savernake,” she said. “Is there anything further you wanted?”
Savernake shook his head and thanked her.
“All right. Sleep well, then, Mr Savernake.” She seemed to take pleasure in uttering his name. She was about to go, then halted. “Oh, Mr Savernake, do you like a Continental or a Full English in the morning?”
For a moment Savernake was utterly baffled by her question. Then his brain began to work once more.
“Ah. Breakfast, you mean?”
Alice’s pale lips were visited by the suggestion of a smile. “That’s right, Mr Savernake.”
“Er... Full English, then.”
“Full English it is, Mr Savernake. Good night, Mr Savernake.” As she passed him to go down stairs she brushed her body against hi
s which she needn’t have done, or so it seemed to Savernake. It was strange that during the whole of his wife’s illness the thought of sex never entered his head, now he couldn’t stop thinking of it. And Alice Carsett was not an attractive woman.
In his room Savernake went to the window and looked out. It was dark now and he could see fragments of the necklace of lights threaded along the promenade. He opened the window. Norgate was quiet. There was no sound except the gentle rush of the sea, but it was bitter cold. He shut the window and stared out again, but his eyes could not focus on anything beyond the glass. They stubbornly refused to see anything but the grey ghost of his own reflection on the window. A semitransparent old man stared back at him, a stranger and afraid.
For a while he sat in the armchair in his room and tried to read the poems of George Herbert, a writer he and his wife had once enjoyed, but he could not concentrate enough. He tried a novel, but that failed too. Eventually he gave up and went to bed. Suddenly he was very tired.
As so often when Savernake went to bed thoroughly exhausted, he slept heavily for three or four hours and then woke up abruptly. It was shortly after midnight when he was aroused. Because the window was closed and the heating, as so often in small hotels, could not be turned off, he found himself in a stuffy atmosphere with a headache. The heaviness of his limbs made him reluctant to get up and fetch himself a glass of water and an aspirin. He lay on his back, hoping that his headache would disappear if he kept himself as still as possible. He stared at the ceiling in the dim light that filtered in from the window whose curtains he had forgotten to draw. It did look higher than he had remembered it, though, curiously, the Gorgon’s head ceiling rose had expanded to cover almost the whole space above him. Savernake felt giddy and blinked several times to rid himself of these unpleasant impressions, but they had not adjusted themselves to normality when he looked again.
Year's Best Weird Fiction, Volume Three Page 30