by Paul Magrs
‘Oh, I loved it,’ she tells me. ‘It was a proper rollicking good read. All that fighting and blood and thunder. And strong female characters, as well! What’s not to like?’
I don’t know what to say to her.
Robert, meanwhile, is looking about at the newly done-up bar and I can see he’s comparing it with how it used to be, back when he worked as one of Mrs Claus’s elves. ‘This used to be where we served teas,’ he sighs at one point. ‘It even used to be a little bit elegant.’ He’s talking as if it was decades ago. But in a way, I know what he means. When I first came to Whitby I had tea here with Effie on many occasions and he’s right, it was like something from a more gentle age. We had scones and cream and those fiddly little sandwiches. Silver service and hostess trollies. Now there’s a quiz machine and home-made posters saying that drinks after 8 p.m. on weekend nights are two pounds a throw. I check my watch. It’s ten to.
Robert keeps on lamenting about Mrs Claus letting the old hotel go a bit tacky.
It’s right at the point when I’m about to tell him to stop sighing that I clap eyes on Effie. Squinting between the pillars, I’ve just about got a clear view of the main entrance and reception. There she is, togged up against the inclement weather, stamping her good leather boots and shaking the snow from her cloak. She looks rather svelte and dashing, I realise. She’s got that snooty look about her, staring around the place, as if she can sense me watching as I lean out of my chair.
Then she sees me. Our eyes lock over the expanse of monogrammed carpet. I notice that her first reaction isn’t surprised pleasure. She’s not at all happy to see me here at the Christmas Hotel. Then she smiles and gives me an elegant little wave.
‘At least she’s alone,’ says Robert, seeing who I’m waving back at.
Penny is slow to catch on, and when she does, her face falls. I think she rather wishes that Effie was accompanied by her man friend. Penny would love to meet the nasty old devil properly, though I’ve told her he’s nothing to write home about. She should save her hero-worship for someone more worthwhile.
I know that part of Penny is still sceptical about things we take for granted in this town. Even after what she has already witnessed here in our midst, there is still something in Penny that cries out: ‘You’ve got to be joking, surely? You can’t really mean that Effie’s fancy man is really, actually the most renowned bloodsucker the world has ever known?’
I’ve no patience with her amazement, the daft kid. People have to live somewhere, don’t they? Even the most famous. And this town is where Alucard first landed, back in the 1890s.
He’s the town’s most celebrated illegal immigrant. The most famous import, after haddock.
‘Good evening, everyone.’ Effie smiles, looking nervous. She’s hovering at our bar table as if she doesn’t quite believe we’ll ask her to join us. How have we come to this? And it’s her, surely, who’s alienated herself.
‘Effie, sit yourself down, woman,’ I urge her warmly, as fondly as I can. ‘You look frozen right through.’
‘The snow’s coming down like mad,’ she says. ‘I was trotting down Hudson Street, and it was horizontal.’ She still seems reluctant to actually join us and sit.
‘How did you know we were here?’ Robert asks.
‘I didn’t.’ Immediately she looks awkward. Even more awkward than before. ‘I’m here to see . . . somebody else.’
‘Your fella?’ says Penny, shoving her nose in excitedly.
Effie shakes her head quickly. ‘He’s out on business this evening.’
Business! I raise both eyebrows at her. What kind of business does he have but funny business? He’ll be off sating his unnatural blood lust again, I suppose.
Anyhow, I don’t say anything.
‘May I join you?’ Effie asks. ‘Just for a little while?’
We all budge up and everyone acts surprised that she even has to ask.
Penny gasps, now that she’s getting a good close-up look at old Effie. ‘You look amazing! Your skin! Everything. You look like you’ve had a month’s holiday! What have you been doing to yourself, Effie?’
My friend and neighbour gives a sickly sort of smile. ‘I’ve just been looking after myself, Penny. There’s no secret. I’ve been living well, that’s all it is.’
Robert grins at her. ‘It must be the love of a good man, eh?’
I can’t tell quite how sardonic he’s being with that, but I can see that Effie assumes it’s meant to be cutting. She simply purses her lips and waits for someone to fetch her a drink.
‘I’ll go,’ I tell them. ‘I think Happy Hour’s just about to begin.’
Next day.
Sunday is often the day that Effie and I take a little wander about the shops in town. Being slightly quieter than most other days, it rather suits us to dawdle and take our time, gawking and gossiping as we will.
There’s no answer at Effie’s front door when I give her a try this morning. It’s hard not to feel a bit glum as I head off by myself. The street decorations and the tinselled trees in each shop window seem taunting, somehow. It’s as if Mrs Claus’s tawdry tastes have overtaken the whole town.
Finding myself on LeFanu Close, I happen past the new bookshop and can’t help peering in again by daylight. I might as well have a little look. What did Penny say they specialised in? Mystery? Fantasy? Hmmm. But I feel like I should support a new business in town, especially if I’m thinking of attending their Wednesday-night group.
The door’s stiff and gives a macabre little tinkle when I totter over the threshold. At first I think it’s a bit gloomy within, but then as I shuffle forward on the polished boards I find that the place has a delightful atmosphere. Straight away I feel steeped in a gorgeous, honeylike warmth and glow. I don’t know what it is that causes this. The strange, spicy incense that laces the air? The soft glow of the coloured, shaded lamps? The almost labyrinthine layout of the shop, which has ceiling-high bookcases arranged in such a cunning way that I soon lose track of where I am?
The place seems to go on and on, further and further back. And the books! They appear unusual somehow. Some are brand spanking new, slick and colourful. Others are hand-stitched hardbacks, soft and fraying with use. Lurid paperbacks and penny dreadfuls mingle promiscuously with volumes that are clearly worth a few bob. But the variousness and apparent chaos of it all isn’t what makes the books in The Spooky Finger strange. The obscurity and the weirdness of the books themselves are what give me pause for thought. Only a very few titles I recognise. The rest are things I’ve never heard of in my life. They’re like books from a different world.
After a little while I realise that there’s queer, gentle music playing. Tinkly music that seems to enter into my head, pacifying me, before I even notice it’s there. And something else: sound effects. I can hear whooshing waves and the distant cries of some kind of exotic beasts.
And I haven’t seen a sales assistant or any sign of the owner. It feels like I have wandered alone into some kind of forest of books.
Then I round the corner and there’s a short, dumpy, smiling woman sitting on a stool by the ancient cash register. She’s knitting something in lilac wool and is quite oblivious to my presence. I give a little cough, to let her know she has a customer.
Her counter is wreathed in a lingering mist from a variety of fountains and miniature waterfalls that decorate this end of the shop. She’s got more water features than a garden centre back here. Also, there are some stunning bonsai trees dotted about on the smaller bookcases and cabinets. They make her look rather like a giant, sitting there, pursing her lips as she plies the soft, spangly wool.
‘Penny says you’re going to join our little gang,’ she warbles at last. Her voice is very high-pitched, girlish and breathy.
‘Pardon?’ I frown at her. I don’t like people being familiar straight away like that. I date that back to my years on the run. I feel highly suspicious of people you don’t know using your name.
‘The book
group,’ says Marjorie Staynes, biting into her wool to snap it. Her teeth are tiny and worn down. ‘My little Wednesday-night group. Penny told me that you were the friend she’d like to introduce.’
‘Yes, well,’ I say, sounding gruff, especially next to this dainty, feminine little person, ‘I’ve made no promises. I may come down, if there are no other demands on my time.’
‘Ha!’ chortles Marjorie Staynes. ‘You’ll be here.’
‘What?’ I raise both eyebrows at her. ‘How can you be so sure? I might have any number of other things to do.’
‘You won’t. You’ll want to be here. Where it’s all happening!’ She casts on again, magenta wool this time, yanked from her knitting bag on the counter. ‘You won’t be able to keep yourself away!’ Then, staring straight at me, she asks: ‘How are you getting on with Warrior Queen of Qab?’
I purse my lips in what feels like a very Effie-like way. ‘I think it’s rotten, to be honest.’
‘Oh dear!’
‘Yes, it’s not my kind of thing at all. What do you call it? Sword and sorcery? Sci-fi?’
Marjorie Staynes gives a happy little shrug. ‘Some people might call it that. Vulgar people might look at it on that surface level, yes indeed. But I . . . I prefer to look deeper.’
I draw myself up to my full height, clutching my handbag to myself. ‘Oh, you do, do you?’
‘I see it as an allegory, myself. An allegory about women and what they might achieve. If they work together. If they bond together and work towards their goals and desires.’
I roll my eyes. ‘An allegory! And not just some cheapie pulp adventure novel about a land where women enslave men and seem to do just what they blummin’ well like?’
Marjorie Staynes gives that infuriating shrug again. ‘Like I say, you have to look past the surface, Brenda. Things are often in disguise, you see. Things that look simplistic or obvious or ugly or crass. Why, they might be hiding all kinds of complexities and strange depths within.’
Well, that’s decided me. There’s no way I’m attending any kind of group run by this lumpy old madam. I’m not sitting here being patronised by the likes of her.
‘Beatrice Mapp was a clever old stick,’ Marjorie sighs happily. ‘She hid all kinds of interesting things inside her books. Especially her books about the world of Qab. All kinds of signs and clues. Oh yes. She knew what she was doing, old Beatrice Mapp.’
The incense and the dry ice from the water features are making me feel giddy and nauseous. Suddenly I want to be away from here. I rock backwards a little on my feet and have to take a tight grip on myself.
Beatrice Mapp? Why does that name make me feel so strange? Especially the way Marjorie is saying it? Enunciating each syllable like that. Almost tauntingly, the way she’s saying the name to me . . .
‘Old Beatrice Mapp,’ she goes on. ‘All those years ago. Back in Bloomsbury, eh? Back at the start of the twentieth century. Oh, she knew what it was all about. Old Beatrice.’
‘Stop saying that name!’ I burst out.
Marjorie looks honestly surprised at this. ‘What’s the matter? Brenda?’ She struggles off her stool and ambles over to me. ‘Have I said something to upset you?’ She starts patting me.
I actually snarl at the woman. ‘Get away from me! Get your hands off me!’ I shrug her off and back away, turning to get myself out of that awful shop. On the way I stumble into her sales assistant: a pale young man who’s standing in my way, clutching a pile of hardbacks. I only just manage to avoid knocking him over, and he hisses as I go past. With alarm or dismay, I can’t tell. I brush past him and the flesh of his bare arm feels chilly to me.
I’m glad to get out of there. The Spooky Finger indeed. Creepy place. Nasty old woman. She was getting at something. I don’t even know what. But I know it’s best if I keep right away.
I hurry home, and though it’s an awful thing to do to a book, I toss Warrior Queen of Qab into my wheelie bin as I shuffle up the side passage. It’s something I feel compelled to do.
Though I’ve got a website these days, I don’t have the internet at home. I have to draw the line somewhere, in letting the world of the future encroach into my cosy nook. Anyway, I know that the Miramar Hotel boasts something called broadband and wi-fi, and those are what I suppose I need now, this evening, so I go yomping up the hill on Sunday as the darkness settles over town.
I pause for a bit to glance back at the strings of lights across the bay, and the silkily darkening skies behind the abbey. It never fails to send a shudder through me, this view. Quick breather, and then I’m hurrying on again.
‘Beatrice Mapp, Beatrice Mapp,’ I keep repeating under my breath, as if I’m in danger of forgetting the name. Curse this memory of mine. It’s like carrying jelly about in a string bag for decade after decade.
Maybe I shouldn’t be too hard on myself. I’ve been through a bumpy life so far. Of course bits of my past have dropped out of my ken.
Not too long ago, when my father came back on the scene – albeit briefly – I was hoodwinked into believing that he could somehow renew me. I fondly imagined that he could bring his magical surgical skills to bear on my ancient and ailing form. Of course I got let down again. My fault for raising my own hopes. We have to struggle along with what we’re given in the first place, don’t we? We’ve got to make the best of what we’ve got!
My old dad’s in hell now, of course. Along with his fancy woman, and possibly my estranged husband. (It sounds melodramatic, to say they’ve been sent to hell, but it’s literally true, and not as far away as you might think.)
Anyway – I’m wandering. Sunday evening I’m full of purpose, and directing my feet towards the Miramar Hotel. It’s Sixties Night, I discover, as soon as I arrive. It’s very noisy and I have to shout at Penny across the reception desk. ‘Paper Sun’ by the Small Faces is playing, and there is something different about Penny – it takes me a second or two to realise that she’s shed her usual Goth look for a minidress in Bridget Riley patterns. Her lipstick is pale pink rather than her usual unflattering black.
‘You can use our business suite,’ she tells me, coming round the desk. ‘It’s a new initiative of Robert’s.’
There’s a kind of office hidden away behind the main dining room. Penny sits me at a sleek computer and fires it up for me.
‘What is it you’re wanting to do?’
‘I want to look for a name. A person.’
She gets me up a page on to which I have to type the name ‘Beatrice Mapp’, and about ten thousand different options suddenly display themselves.
‘Beatrice Mapp?’ Penny frowns. ‘But that’s the writer of. . . the book group book! Have you read it?’
Ah, awkward. How can I tell her I binned the thing? I should fetch it out, really, given that it was a gift from Penny. Oh help, Monday morning the bin men come. I’ll have to remember. It’s probably already covered in eggshells and clarts and tea leaves.
‘Er, yes, it piqued my interest,’ I tell her. ‘So I thought I’d do a little further exploration, before the meeting on Wednesday, is it?’
Penny looks delighted. ‘Oh, brilliant! So you’re coming along, are you?’
I hadn’t intended to. But now I’ve gone and committed myself. Never mind. I’ve a feeling that further investigation is required. ‘Where do I start with this lot?’ I shrug, gazing at the results my search has come up with.
Penny – like most young people – is completely unfazed by all the computer stuff. She homes in and chooses a page. Some kind of encyclopedia thing. She says it’s written by just ordinary people, all pooling their knowledge about stuff. About everything in the world, which sounds a bit rum to me. Whatever happened to experts? Did they fall out of favour or something?
‘Here she is,’ Penny says. ‘Beatrice Mapp. Quite a short entry, actually. Quite surprising. I meant to look her up myself, before the book group met. I was intrigued . . .’
There’s a pageful of bland information, telling me littl
e more than the back of the paperback did. That Beatrice Mapp (1878-1969) lived for many years in Bloomsbury. Tavistock Square. ‘Goodness, but she wrote a lot of books!’ I gasp, as Penny scrolls down the list of titles.
‘Twenty-eight of them were in the Qab series,’ Penny muses. ‘The other fifteen were stand-alone spooky thrillers. All of those are forgotten now. It’s the Qab books she’s remembered for. Hmm. Let’s see if we can find a piccy of her.’
I want to tell Penny to stop. I want to knock her hand off the mouse and prevent her from clicking. I’ve no idea why. For some reason I feel like nipping this line of enquiry – this whole investigation - in the bud right now. I have a premonition that we are getting ourselves into something that we’re going to regret. Or this might be down to the stuffiness of this business suite. It’s got no windows and it’s a bit dusty in here.
And up comes a photo of Beatrice Mapp. She’s a proper sepiatinted Edwardian lady, in a high-necked blouse and her hair all swirled up like a French loaf. Her expression is one of shrewdness and vital intelligence. The way she’s done up makes her seem older than she was . . . She must have been thirty-one just then? Her eyes seem to glare out at us from 1909 as if she can see right into us, here in 2009, up on the north-east coast, hidden away in the depths of a tacky hotel.
‘She looks quite a severe character,’ Penny says.
‘She was,’ I tell her. Then I blink.
Penny looks at me. ‘What?’
‘Yes?’
‘You said “she was”. Like you knew her.’
I sigh. ‘Could you print some pages off for me, pet? And have a look at these . . . erm, linky things – is that they’re called? – at the bottom of the page. There might be more info there. Look, the Qab fan website. Can we gather as much information as we can? I think we’re going to need it.’
‘Robert charges ten pence a page for printing.’
‘Does he indeed!’ I smile.
‘But I’m sure he’d do this for free.’
I grin at her and hoist myself up, feeling my knees crack. This desk is too low. ‘I’m hobbling off to my B and B. Could you bring all the pages to my place this evening, Penny? I’ll cook some supper for you and Robert, if you can both get away. Then we can go over these documents together.’