[Brenda & Effie 02] - Something Borrowed

by Paul Magrs

  I drag her on a walk over to the old part of town, to our favourite confectioners, where we can buy home-made dark chocolate and black treacle toffee. So we have something to chew on as we go over our quandaries.

  We often wander like this, pausing to peer in the tourist shop windows as we go by. We are wending, that’s what we’re doing. Wending our way up the cobbled lane that leads to the one hundred and ninety-nine steps going up to the abbey that overlooks Whitby. I’m not sure we’ll clamber all that way today. In recent months Effie and I have kept away from that Gothic monstrosity, and not without reason.

  We’re happy simply peering through the thick pebble glass and sucking on our shards of treacle toffee. Except Effie is crunching hers. I can hear it, as I bend in close to look at a brooch she points out to me. How can she crunch things with her false gnashers in?

  ‘All this jet,’ she says, gesturing to the shelves and shelves of matte black jewellery. ‘In years gone by it was supposed to have a function quite other than being purely decorative, you know. The townspeople would take a cross, say, carved out of jet, and nail it above their front doors.’

  ‘To ward off the devil?’

  ‘Amongst other things.’ She squinches up her mouth. ‘Jet is supposed to emit a foul vapour of some kind, quite lethal to evil spirits or evil-doers . . .’ She harrumphs, as if dismissing the idea. ‘I believe that several of my ancestresses were seen off that way. According to local legend, anyway.’ She shrugs lightly.

  ‘Oh really?’ I go quiet, wanting her to go on. It’s rare that Effie talks about her witchy forebears. She certainly doesn’t expound upon the topic of their ultimate demises. But then she sighs and straightens up and rustles in her paper bag for the last sticky hunk of toffee. We amble up the sloping path and she changes the subject.

  ‘Two names stand out for me,’ she says. ‘Two possible suspects. I don’t know yet why they would be doing such a thing. I don’t know what they have got against Sheila Manchu. But the two women I am thinking of are two who know plenty of secrets. They know more than anyone else here . . .’

  I have dressed up too warm for this spring afternoon. Woolly tights . . . what was I thinking of ? My old heart’s yammering and banging away with all the exertion. My palms and the backs of my knees are itching and trickling with perspiration. ‘Which two women?’ I ask Effie. What I really want to say is: Oh, do let’s have a sit in the Walrus and the Carpenter, Effie. But Effie’s in full flow.

  ‘For one,’ she says, ‘Rosie Twist.’

  The crowds are denser here, near the antiques market and the shop where they smoke kippers. Effie should keep her voice down. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘You just don’t like Rosie. Why would she send letters like that? When she can write whatever she wants – very publicly – in The Willing Spirit every week? Why would she need to sneak around?’

  ‘Hmmm,’ says Effie.

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Mrs Claus,’ Effie says, in a much more tight-lipped and ominous fashion. By now we are at an ironwork bench at the foot of the famous steps. Gratefully I plonk myself down on it and Effie perches beside me, rather more elegantly. From here we can look out and survey all the blue and purple rooftops across the steely sheen of the harbour. We can see right over the other side and the Georgian splendour of the hotels on the Royal Crescent.

  ‘You’ve a point there,’ I mutter, and find that I’m staring at the tall windows of the Christmas Hotel. I am glaring at that gaudy tribute to bad festive taste: that tawdry establishment where the grotesque Mrs Claus rules her own fantasy empire.

  ‘She knows many things she oughtn’t,’ Effie says.

  ‘Don’t I know it.’

  ‘She is malign and powerful. She will stop at nothing.’

  ‘I know that too,’ I say. In fact, thinking about it now, I am astonished that no one has tried to put a stop to her. Why haven’t the authorities intervened? Are the police all terrified of her? She seems to run the whole town. Her fingers are in every single pudding. How come no one has got rid of that monstrous yuletide hag?

  I am embarrassed that Effie and I – after tangling briefly with her evil schemes last year – haven’t been back in order to sort her out. We have just let her continue, getting up to whatever nefarious doings she fancies.

  Surely it’s about time that someone put an end to the evil reign of Mrs Claus?

  ‘But why would she be threatening Sheila Manchu in particular?’ Effie sighs.

  ‘They’re business rivals. Vying for the holiday trade.’

  ‘They have very different clienteles. Mrs Claus has the elderly and the Christmas-obsessed. Sheila caters for an altogether racier crowd.’

  ‘That’s true.’ I think again. I click my fingers. ‘What about Robert? He left the Christmas Hotel in order to go and work for Sheila. Perhaps Mrs Claus is very sore about that?’

  Effie gives me a withering look. ‘You may think a lot of Robert, Brenda, but I hardly think Mrs Claus would declare war over the loss of a single elf.’

  I shrug. ‘We don’t know how her mind works. There could be any number of twisted reasons behind this.’ I sit back on the groaning bench and pretend to be mulling it over. My mind is elsewhere, of course, and Effie realises it. She turns on me with a shrewd look in her eye.

  ‘What is it?’

  I’ve been caught out. ‘I’ve remembered who he is. The old bloke I’ve seen round and about the town; staying at the Miramar. He’s someone I used to know, a great deal of time ago.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  I nod firmly. ‘And I’ve got a funny feeling in my water’ – Effie makes a squeamish face at this – ‘that Henry Cleavis is here in order to see me.’

  ‘You?’ Effie cries. ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘You don’t understand. A lot went on in the past. Between me and Henry. I don’t recall all of it – yet. But it’s coming back to me in dribs and drabs. Like his name did. I’m sure the whole thing will click into place, and then I’ll know. I’ll know why dear old Henry has come looking for me . . .’

  Effie’s face softens. Now she looks concerned. She shields her eyes against the sun’s glare and stares at me. I know I must sound a bit crackers to her. So sure. So convinced. ‘Oh, Brenda. Don’t go setting yourself up for a disappointment. ’

  I assure her that won’t happen.

  ‘I mean, if he was here to see you, then surely he would have popped over by now and said something? He’s noticed you, hasn’t he? He’s looked straight at you. So how come he hasn’t come over and said anything. Hmm?’

  Cheeky mare. And she’s finished the last of the toffee.

  These midweek days with no guests booked in, I’m at the mercy of my nightly brouhahas. The skittering and pattering on the staircase. The terrible footfalls. The profound pauses – which are even worse. At least there is no one to hear me crying out in the night. I have no need to stifle my shrieks of alarm. I don’t have to be embarrassed by these terrors of mine. Terrors that are growing wilder and more uncontrollable with each passing night.

  But why should I be scared?

  Who on earth could hurt me, really?

  I am the indestructible woman. I have survived so much. So many years. So many adventures. I’ve always come through the other end. I’ve hardly ever been injured or ill. Nothing much has disturbed the remorseless plod of my life. So why should these noises get under my skin like this? What is the matter with me? Am I turning soft in my advanced old age?

  Wednesday morning and the phone goes early.

  It’s Robert, on an early desk shift at the Miramar. It’s his first chance to check the bookings. ‘You’re right,’ he tells me, without preamble. ‘Henry Cleavis is his name. He booked in a week ago. Gives an address in Cambridge.’

  My heart’s banging and I’m starting to see whirling spots. I grip the receiver more tightly and thank Robert profusely. ‘I knew it was him.’ But it’s something else again to hear proper confirmation.

  Robert says,
‘You sound disturbed by all of this. Is he an old friend of yours? Aren’t you glad to see him again?’

  I swallow hard and tell Robert: ‘I last saw Henry Cleavis in . . . it must have been 1946.’

  ‘That’s a long while,’ Robert says, clearly unsure of my point.

  ‘Sixty years or more.’

  ‘So? Were you brought up in the same place?’

  I smile. ‘You flatter me, Robert. But you know I’m considerably older than that.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘So you are.’

  ‘And so is Henry Cleavis,’ I add. ‘If I recall correctly, he was in his mid-fifties in 1946. He was a don and erudite as anything. He was bald as a coot even then. He must be well over a hundred now and he hasn’t aged a day. So what’s that all about, eh?’

  Of course, Robert can’t possibly know what it’s all about. Once again the poor boy is out of his depth. Just as he was last year, when he and his poor Aunty Jessie ran into trouble at the Christmas Hotel, and Effie and I had to do our best to rescue them (with mixed results). Anyway, I thank Robert for his efforts and the info, and I struggle into my housecoat and the day ahead. I’ve a family of six called the Pinkneys invading this afternoon.

  Downstairs, picking up provisions in the grocery store beneath my B&B, I discover that my pre-dawn hullaballoos haven’t gone unnoticed by shop-owners Leena and Rafiq. They live right next door, of course. I hadn’t even thought they might hear my shrieks and wails. Now Leena is staring at me, full of concern, as she rings up my comestibles on her antiquated till. ‘I really wouldn’t be complaining,’ she’s telling me, ‘and it’s not like we really mind about the noise and everything. It’s just that we are worrying about you, Brenda. This cannot be right. Shouting out like that in the dark.’

  I am mortified, packing my stuff into my shopping bag as quickly as I can. I want to be out of here, and right away from Leena’s unctuous care. ‘It won’t happen again. I’ve got some sleeping pills now.’

  ‘Nightmares, is it?’ Leena simpers. ‘Only Rafiq could have sworn he heard you running up and down your stairs. Throwing things about. Heavy things, too. I told him, don’t be silly, Raf. Anyone can have nightmares.’

  ‘Quite,’ I say stiffly, thrusting cash into her eager mitts.

  At last I escape from the shop. And I try to put all of that nonsense out of my head. The hauntings are something best kept for the night. If I think about them at all in the daytime I could really start to believe that I’m cracking up. And I don’t want to think about that possibility.

  I hurry home. It’s time to get to work.

  But: on my doorstep there’s a hand-delivered letter.

  I frown as I stoop to snatch it up. Someone’s dashed up the side passage with this in the small span of time that I’ve been fetching my groceries. It isn’t one of Effie’s urgent spurs to action. And then I think – jarringly – what if it’s a poison pen letter? What if I have received my very own envelope crammed full of bilious hatred and spite? What if persons unknown – armed with a rattly typewriter, somewhere out there, at large in Whitby – what if they know me and all my (admittedly terrible) secrets?

  I quell my ragged breathing. I slam the front door shut. I struggle with my bag up the stairs to the cool seclusion of my kitchen. And I make sure I am quite settled and calm when I rip open the mysterious communication.

  The handwriting is awful. Erratic, all over the place. The stationery is serviceable and plain. There’s an air of distraction about the whole thing: as if it’s been written by a man (I see at once that it must have been written by a man) with much on his mind. A very brilliant mind.

  Halfway down there is a spot of what might be jam.

  My dear Brenda –

  Oh, my dear, is it really you? Why haven’t you said anything? Why don’t you say hello? At first I couldn’t be sure. You were squinting at me, and I was squinting at you. The two of us were squinting like mad across the crowded dance floor, weren’t we? And then I was sure. And I saw you again in the town! And I knew, I knew it had to be you.

  I would love to take you to dinner this – no – tomorrow night – evening – Thurs. We have so much to say to each other, I am sure. I hope you are free and available.

  All this time! So long! So much to say! Hello, my dear!

  I thought you must – felt sure you must be – dead – deceased – by now. Luckily you are not.

  I thought you were long gone. Remember the last time? You ran out on me, didn’t you? I never saw you again after that terrible scene down in London. What happened then, Brenda? How did you survive?

  I’m sorry. I am being impolite. Firing questions at you like this. But I can hardly believe it! Who would have thought we’d just bump into each other like this, all these years afterwards.

  Here we are! Two great survivors of the twentieth century! In the land of the living!

  How do you feel about fish and chips? I’ve noticed somewhere down on the harbour front – looks promising – Cod Almighty. Do you know it?

  Well – enough of me for now. There will be time enough to discuss everything on Thursday night. Don’t go dressing up.

  I will call for you at seven, shall I?

  Oh, you are a treasure! You always were!

  With very best wishes and my admiration,

  Henry (Cleavis).

  I should have guessed it, but Effie is sceptical about the whole thing. Thursday morning, we’re having coffee together, and I wish I hadn’t told her anything about my impending date.

  ‘I thought you’d gone a bit coy,’ she says, sucking liquid sugar off her spoon.

  ‘Coy!’ I laugh.

  ‘No wonder, if you’re running about the town with old men. No wonder you’ve lost interest in the job we’ve been asked to do.’

  I sigh, mashing up the layers of my custard slice. ‘I haven’t lost interest . . .’

  ‘Have you asked me about the latest development then?’

  I frown. ‘Is there one?’

  ‘I received a phone call early this morning. Sheila had thought of someone who she has confided in in the past. Someone she told all her secrets to.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘The Reverend Mr Small,’ Effie says. ‘I’ve never liked him much. Fancy telling that old gossip all your secrets!’

  ‘But surely he would never write a letter like that . . .’

  Effie shrugs. ‘Who knows? But I’m going over to the church to have a word with him, this afternoon. I’m going to check him out. Will you come?’

  Now I’m torn. I’ve work to do. I’ve got to get a lot done this afternoon, if I’m going out this evening. I tell Effie this as we leave the Walrus. She doesn’t look impressed. ‘You need to prioritise,’ she tells me, clipping off down the cobbles.

  ‘That’s what I am doing!’

  ‘So I have to go and see the Reverend myself? While you go gallivanting? I thought we were a team, Brenda!’

  She’s laying it on a bit thick. ‘It’s hardly gallivanting, Effie. It’s only Cod Almighty. And can’t you see? There’s a mystery here, too. I mean, how can Henry Cleavis be as old as he is? And why’s he here? In my experience of him, wherever he was, there was always something fishy going on.’

  We’re striding out over the low bridge, across to our part of town.

  ‘He’ll be after something from you,’ Effie warns me. ‘You mark my words. This isn’t some cosy, harmless little reunion. This old chap will have ulterior motives in getting in contact with you. It won’t make you happy.’ She’s shaking her finger at me. Suddenly I want to be away from her. I make my excuses and dart away to Woollies. I’m embarrassed when she starts yelling at me across the busy road: ‘Hanging about with strange men only leads to disaster, Brenda! You should nip this one in the bud straight away!’

  People are looking. They’ll think we’re both crazy. I give her a hurried wave and slip into the shop. I’m using it as an escape route, for the door at the back – but while I’m here there’s
no harm in picking up my usual bag of pick ’n’ mix.

  As I’m scooping up my favourites and having them weighed, and then hurrying off again, Effie’s words are ringing inside my head. I try to clear it. She’s gone bitter because of Kristoff Alucard. He gave her the proper runaround. I was the one warning her about him. Does she think this is payback time? Has she been put off men for ever? Can’t she even conceive of a gent’s wanting to take me out on his arm?

  Poor Effie. Beneath that respectable frontage of hers, it’s all confusion and just a little bitterness. She’s not a very happy soul.

  Now. Put it all out of my thoughts. I have the Pinkneys’ rooms to attend to. They’ve left such a mess. They’ve come through my house like a boisterous whirlwind. I’ve my work cut out for me today. But that’s okay. Tending to them will take my mind off my nervousness. I need to press my new outfit, and tease my best wig into some sort of style. I’ve got to exfoliate. Consider my make-up. Consider what to say to him. And try to remember as much as I can.

  I feel as though Cleavis is coming towards me across a vast gulf of years. He’s bringing me gifts. That’s how he was in my troubling and nebulous dreams last night. He was bringing me the gift of myself. Bits of forgotten me. Whatever it was we got up to together, in the 1940s, he’s bringing those memories back with him. On a funeral barge, moving through the mists. Like something from the Egyptian Book of the Dead. He’ll have organs of mine, and slices of my raddled mind in ornate jars with dinky lids and handles. His job will be to reunite me with these forgotten parts. In my strange dream of last night he was passing me these beautiful vases and jars and restoring me to myself.

  Everything I have deliberately put away and forgotten. He’ll be bringing pieces of it back to me.

  I slept so deeply, so contentedly, I never woke once. I don’t even know if those wicked noises came again.

  I was standing on a sandy beach, clutching these jars with my organs inside, and my memories were flooding back. Then I was watching Cleavis set sail again in his ancient barge, on the black and oily water. He cut an impressive figure in his tweedy suit, drifting away from me across Lethe or Styx or whatever it was.