‘We don’t have one,’ answered the woman. ‘Superstitious people don’t like it.’
‘Which do you want, Savage?’ asked Korky. He could see her hardly suppressed excitement.
The receptionist regarded them oddly because of their names. Savage said he would take number twelve. The woman unlocked both doors and they all walked into his room. ‘Oh, it’s great,’ said Korky. ‘Really big. Look at the windows.’
‘The beach and the sea are just across the road,’ said the receptionist. They followed her to the window. It had begun to drizzle. From window’s edge to window’s edge there was no sign of life, only the raindrops on the glass. ‘I’ll draw the curtains,’ said the woman, deftly doing so as if to shut out the view.
Then they went into the other room. It was almost the same. The receptionist moved towards the curtains. ‘Leave them,’ said Korky. ‘I like them open even if it’s dark. I’ll pretend I can see the sea.’ She smiled without embarrassment. ‘Maybe the moon will come out when I’m in bed.’
The woman delicately showed them the bathrooms and took their orders for morning tea. Then she left them and Savage went back to his room.
Korky followed him. She closed the door and ran across the room and threw herself backwards across the double bed, bare legs flying in the air. John, whom she had placed on the floor, began to scamper around matching her excitement. ‘Oh, Savage,’ she enthused. ‘It’s magic! I’ve never been in a hotel before.’ She regarded him wickedly: ‘Especially with a man.’
‘Pack it in,’ he warned. ‘And get off my bed. Your room is next door.’
‘It’s terrific though, isn’t it. I can’t wait until morning so I can look out and see the waves.’
She embraced him and he held her with their contrived restricted physical closeness, arms about each other, brother-and-sister-kisses, he softly tugging her hair, both knowing the moment when to pull away. Now she drew from him smiling and bending, picking up the sniffing gerbil which had homed in on her feet. ‘John and I are going to our room,’ she announced loftily. ‘To prepare ourselves for dinner.’
The tables in the sadly lit dining room were randomly occupied. Those eating at them spoke in mumbles as though they had food in their mouths. One section had been cordoned off.
‘The no-go area,’ explained the waiter lugubriously. He had a dried cascade of gravy on his waistcoat which he attempted to conceal with his arm while serving the soup. ‘That was where we used to put the worse of the them.’
He spoke solemnly. There was little choice on the menu. ‘You seem to have suffered,’ observed Savage.
‘Everybody has,’ continued the man. He looked worn out. ‘The parents don’t care, and the kids get worse every year. I was personally struck by chips. Our longest-serving waitress was knocked cold by a tray.’ He sighed at the remembrance. ‘It went like a Frisbee.’
Outside the long, gaunt window the wind pushed; there was the regular blink of a lighthouse. The nearest occupied table seated three people, a piled-up old lady whose drooped eyelids swung with her jaw as she ate, a woman in her late thirties with blonde streaks who at intervals stared across at them and a vapid teenage girl who aimlessly spooned her dessert. Marshalled by the younger woman they rose at the end of their meal. She smiled fiercely and paused as they made for the door. ‘Not too many guests around now,’ she observed. Korky eyed her in silence.
‘No. No, it certainly seems quiet,’ agreed Savage. They had finished their main course. Korky took her wine glass and drank with a sophisticated lift of her fingers, watching the young girl from the edge of her eye.
‘I do like a good bottle of wine,’ gushed the woman. The fat lady had her eyes shut, apparently sleeping as she stood. ‘The trouble is wine sends my mother to sleep. Wherever she happens to be.’ She watched her mother nodding, and did so herself as though counting the nods. The girl gave the old lady a nudge and she woke, her eyelids lifting truculently.
‘And Bianca here doesn’t like it,’ said the woman. ‘Wine.’
‘Yes, I do,’ protested the girl. ‘I like pina colada.’
Her mother surveyed her scathingly. ‘We’re not in Majorca.’
She returned her attention to the table. ‘Well, I suppose I ought to introduce us,’ she said as if settling everything for the next week. ‘My name is Margo Bull.’ She looked directly at them as though challenging a reaction. ‘This is my mother Thelma and this is my daughter Bianca.’
Warily Savage said: ‘My name is Frank Savage and this is Kathleen.’
With difficulty they all shook hands across the table. The old lady had to be prompted. ‘I’d better take her up,’ sighed Margo. ‘Otherwise she’ll just drop off where she is. That’s what she does.’ She smiled fully, attentively, at Savage, then reduced the size of the smile for Korky. ‘Perhaps we could have a drink a little later. It can get quite jolly in the bar.’
Awkwardly Savage told her: ‘I think we’ll have to make it another night. We thought we might take a walk and then watch television. We’re tired.’
‘You’ve come a long way?’ pried Margo.
‘All the way from England,’ answered Korky.
The night was dark with a slight glow around the edges and as they walked there was a wind brisk enough for Korky to have to shout against it. ‘She’s after you,’ she warned.
‘Who?’ shouted Savage. They were pressing forward buttoned into anoraks. Not far away the invisible sea growled and the lighthouse beam flew around like a lost thing.
‘That Margo. She’s after you.’
‘She won’t catch me.’
‘She’d better not! Couldn’t you see it in her eyes?’
They walked for half a mile and then turned and, with the gusts behind them, went back to the grimly lit hotel. ‘We can always move,’ suggested Savage. ‘We don’t have to stay here.’
He detected her affronted movement in the dark. ‘There’s no way I’m moving,’ she said, her voice lower now without the combat of the wind. ‘Not for Margo.’
They went into the hotel lobby. The porter had returned from his prolonged break and was now resting stoically in his cubby-hole.
‘ ’Evening, sir, miss,’ he greeted. ‘Sorry I wasn’t here to take up your bags. I’ve been having a bit more time off. Now they’ve gone.’
‘What did they do to you?’ asked Korky. Her interest was growing.
‘Do? What didn’t they do, miss?’
‘What then?’ insisted Korky. Savage was collecting the keys from the same receptionist. ‘Poor soul,’ the woman confided. ‘He still hobbles.’
‘I can’t tell you,’ said the porter. ‘It upsets me too much. Baby vandals, four-year-old hooligans. And they bring them all here.’
Savage and Korky ascended the stairs, the faded goodnights of the porter and the receptionist following them. On the landing Korky put her hand over her mouth. ‘He still hobbles,’ she whispered.
Savage began to limp thumpingly along the carpet. ‘What didn’t they do, miss?’ he mimicked.
She squealed and he put his finger to her lips in warning. They were at their doors now. Korky leaned against the side of hers as he was inserting his key in his door. ‘Goodnight, Daddy,’ she said mischievously.
‘Don’t start that,’ he warned. She pushed her face towards him and they kissed lightly on the lips. She had her door open and then he opened his. ‘Let’s hope the sun shines tomorrow,’ he said.
‘I don’t care,’ she answered. She yawned. ‘I’m having such a good time. Goodnight, Savage.’
‘Goodnight, Korky.’
She went in, slowly closing the door behind her. The bed-head was against the wall which separated the two rooms and the wall was thin so she could hear him moving. She went to the bathroom and when she returned she heard the flush from his. She even heard his bed-springs creak. Grinning to herself she got on to her bed on her hands and knees and, putting her mouth close to the wall, called: ‘Goodnight, Savage.’ There was a pause an
d another creak from his bed-springs before the call was returned: ‘Goodnight, Korky.’ Her tentative smile remained as she leaned forward and briefly kissed the wall at the place opposite where she thought his head would be. Then she slid down into the bed and lay with her eyes open. ‘You’re bloody stupid, you are,’ she told herself.
Twenty-One
They brought the hired car to the hotel the next morning and, sitting in the driving seat, Savage fumbled nervously. Taking his hands from the wheel he lowered them into his lap. ‘It’s three years since I drove anything,’ he said.
‘On the day you got shot,’ she guessed.
‘That was the last time.’
‘In that case go slow,’ she suggested practically. ‘There’s not much on the roads. Pretend you’re a learner.’
‘I feel I am,’ Savage replied wryly. He turned the key; his head jolted back as the engine started. It was a manual gear change. He slotted the lever carefully remembering the clutch and the car moved forward nervously.
‘Take it around this bit,’ suggested Korky. The gravelled area in front of the hotel was limited but he said: ‘All right. I’ll practise.’
The hotel staff, alerted by the observant porter, gathered at the windows to see the car going around in a tight oval. It did so a dozen times in second gear. Then Savage stopped and gingerly attempted reversing.
‘They’re all looking at us,’ warned Korky spotting the silent faces. ‘Nosy lot.’
‘I’m ready now anyway,’ said Savage only briefly examining the audience. ‘I’ve driven an armoured car, so this shouldn’t be any harder. Let’s go!’
‘Let’s go!’ she echoed. He bent the car in a tight circle and turning down her window, Korky raised a caustic finger to the observers. They drove on to the road. He felt more confident now and he increased speed and almost hit a corner. She hooted: ‘It’s not an armoured car.’
He slowed and apologised with a grin. ‘Sorry, I forgot.’
The way took them along windy clifftops into clefts where there was sometimes a beach and some late, hopeful souvenir shops. They drove inland into the island countryside, into valleys and through villages where they could not even see the sea. ‘Can’t we stop for a while?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure I can stop,’ he laughed. They swung off the tight road into a lay-by, gravel flying as he hurriedly braked. He switched off the engine and they sat laughing. ‘Oh, Savage, look at it!’ she exclaimed swivelling to look through the rear window. He turned, towards her, and saw the English Channel like a blue hammock between two plunging green hills. ‘Let’s go and see,’ he said. She climbed out of the car and he checked the handbrake and followed. She was running ahead, her hair and her jacket blowing in the salt breeze.
Animated as a child she began mounting a zigzag path. He followed and stood beside her at the top. ‘Lovely,’ she breathed. ‘And to think it all belongs to us.’ She corrected herself. ‘It’s England’s.’
As if to prove the claim he pointed to the edge of a huge flag to the extreme right of their vision. She held his hand and they went to the top of the brief hill where they saw the immense Union Jack, flying flat out in the wind. ‘That’ll show them!’ exclaimed Korky.
‘Who?’
‘Foreigners in boats,’ she said as if it were obvious. ‘They can see this is England.’ She glanced at him. ‘In case they’re lost.’
They remained standing in the sunny wind for a few moments, then descended the way they had come. An odd, embarrassed silence fell over them. They got back into the car unspeaking and he continued driving along the coastal road, turning and bending before them in the September light.
They reached another tight beach with a harbour sheltering a few small boats in the lee of its wall; they walked along the sand and the tide mark. Korky took off her shoes and kicked at the water. Her feet and legs were as pale as her urban face. They sat against the wall, silently, feeling the sun.
Then Korky said: ‘There’s not a soul here.’ She scanned the beach. There was only a distant dog. ‘I like being lonely,’ she said. ‘As long as there’s somebody near.’
‘Weren’t you lonely before?’
‘Before you?’ she said. ‘Not all that much. Most people with no homes hang on to each other. We even used to sleep in piles.’ She watched the waves. ‘There’s plenty of lonely people around. The world’s full of people who haven’t met. Look at Kensington Heights. Look at Freddie.’
‘You think Freddie’s lonely?’
‘Everybody’s lonely in some way. Freddie, Stephen Stevens, Mr Furtwangler, Mr Kostelanetz, even Miss Bombazine though she meets so many people. She goes for a walk by herself.’
The silence came to them again. The dog began to bark remotely; otherwise only the sea sounded. ‘You’ve never told me about getting wounded,’ she mentioned.
‘It’s not something I like to think about.’
‘I’ve often looked at that grey bit in your hair,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t far off, was it?’ She moved closer to him against the wall. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘I don’t know, really,’ he said. ‘Only what I’ve been told or read.’
‘What happened?’ she repeated.
‘It sounds ridiculous,’ he said wryly. ‘But they got us on our tea break.’ He shook his head. ‘It was unbelievable. I’d told the section to stand down. There was a canteen wagon. It came to the same spot every day. Usually we checked the area but this day I didn’t do it. There was an explosive device, a big one, planted in a telephone box. They’d put “Out of order” on the door and we believed it. It was detonated while the boys were lining up for tea. Three killed outright. Then we came under fire from a barn just opposite. That’s when I was hit. That’s when my friend Henry Barnard caught it as well. He died months after. I went and saw his grave once.’
‘That’s it?’ she said.
‘That’s all there is to tell,’ he told her.
They got to their feet. As they walked the way they had come, treading in their own footsteps, she asked quietly: ‘What are we going to do, Savage?’
‘You mean what’s to become of us?’
‘Yes. What are we going to do?’
They continued walking as though discussing someone else’s problem. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I thought you were going to move.’
‘Mrs Longbottom’s not moved out yet,’ said Korky. They began to walk up the inclined sand towards the car.
‘It’ll be better,’ he forecast without conviction. ‘Then we can still be friends and see each other . . .’
‘Without getting in each other’s way,’ she finished.
‘Right.’
Standing a little apart, they regarded the sea in silence, then, thoughtfully, they got into the car. On a whim, he drove away from the coast and up a climbing and winding way which became steep towards the top. ‘It goes up and up,’ she said looking high and ahead to where the road had become indistinct. The car was in second gear. ‘I never realised islands could be high like this.’
Around the descending corner came a boisterous red bus. Savage made an exclamation and stopped the car’s laboured climb. There was no room for both vehicles. The bus halted and they faced each other. Savage saw the bus driver flapping his hand from his window. ‘Go back!’ shouted the man. ‘I can’t go back up. You have to go down.’
‘God,’ muttered Savage fumbling for the gear lever. ‘Go on, Savage,’ encouraged Korky sternly. ‘You can do it.’
He managed to put the car into reverse. Korky looked behind; there was nothing coming up the hill.
‘It’s all the same if there is,’ he muttered. Twisting in his seat he began the tortuous journey down the bent road. The vehicle wavered from one side to the other and once hit the roadside bank and he had to go forward before reversing again. The bus driver, the conductor and several passengers had left their vehicle and stood in a watching group. ‘Go on, have a good laugh,’ grunted Korky.
He inched t
he car down the narrow road, around one bend, and then one in the opposite direction, descending a mercifully straight piece and then negotiating two more hairpins. The bus was now following them, big, red, threatening. Korky could see the driver sitting smugly. ‘Arsehole,’ she said.
At last there was space at the side of the road. He inched into it, his arms aching, his back stretched. The bus continued its heavy downward journey. As it passed the driver leaned benignly out of his cab. ‘There ain’t nothing up there anyway,’ he called.
That evening there was to be a dance. ‘Last of the season,’ said the dining room waiter with a sigh of regret or relief. ‘People come in from outside. Real, proper dancers. Strictly ballroom,’ he said. ‘And they always kept those kids out.’ He clanked the dessert dishes together then laid them on the table lugubriously. ‘The Punch and Judy man will never work again,’ he said rolling his head.
Near the end of the meal they saw the streaky blonde making towards them followed at a sulky distance by her daughter and, some further way behind, by the ponderous mother, eyelids half-lowered, mouth munching as though she had not quite finished her dinner. Margo smiled winningly. ‘Had a lovely day?’ she enquired and without waiting for their report added: ‘There’s dancing this evening.’ She eyed Savage speculatively. ‘The band is rather good.’
‘They come from Ryde,’ put in her daughter. The contribution was determined, almost desperate, but she seemed at a loss to continue. Her mother stepped a couple of decisive paces in time to prevent the old lady toppling, taking her fat hand and wrapping it like sausage meat around the top rail of a dining chair.
Bianca tried again: ‘If all the people in the world came to the Isle of Wight, they could stand next to each other and not tread on each other’s toes.’
‘Excepting China,’ put in Korky.
The girl appeared peeved. ‘Well, yes, excepting them.’
Kensington Heights Page 27