“After all, where she goes is mainly a problem for her, and perhaps Mr. Malnik.”
“Well, there’s nowhere else in town for her to stop, is there?” retorted Mrs. Royd with fire. “Not nowadays. She’ll just ’ave to make do. We did for theatricals in the old days. Midgets once. Whole troupe of ’em.”
“I’m sure you’ll make her very comfortable.”
“Can’t see what she wants to come at all for, really. Not at Christmas.”
“Miss Rokeby needs no reason for her actions. What she does is sufficient in itself. You’ll understand that, dear lady, when you meet her.” The speaker was a very small man, apparently of advanced years, white-haired, and with a brown sharp face, like a Levantine. The bar was full, and Colvin had not previously noticed him, although he was conspicuous enough, as he wore an overcoat with a fur collar and a scarf with a large black pin in the centre. “I wonder if I could beg a room for a few nights,” he went on. “I assure you I’m no trouble at all.”
“There’s only Number Twelve A. It’s not very comfortable,” replied Mrs. Royd sharply.
“Of course you must leave room for Miss Rokeby.”
“Nine’s for her. Though I haven’t had a word from her.”
“I think she’ll need two rooms. She has a companion.”
“I can clear out Greta’s old room upstairs. If she’s a friend of yours, you might ask her to let me know when she’s coming.”
“Not a friend,” said the old man, smiling. “But I follow her career.”
Mrs. Royd brought a big red book from under the bar.
“What name, please?”
“Mr. Superbus,” said the little old man. He had yellow, expressionless eyes.
“Will you register?”
Mr. Superbus produced a gold pen, long and fat. His writing was so curvilinear that it seemed purely decorative, like a design for ornamental ironwork. Colvin noticed that he paused slightly at the “Permanent Address” column, and then simply wrote (although it was difficult to be sure) what appeared to be “North Africa”.
“Will you come this way?” said Mrs. Royd, staring suspiciously at the newcomer’s scrollwork in the visitor’s book. Then, even more suspiciously, she added: “What about luggage?”
Mr. Superbus nodded gravely. “I placed two bags outside.”
“Let’s hope they’re still there. They’re rough in this town, you know.”
“I’m sure they’re still there,” said Mr. Superbus.
As he spoke the door opened suddenly and a customer almost fell into the bar. “Sorry, Mrs. Royd,” he said with a mildness which in the circumstances belied Mrs. Royd’s words. “There’s something on the step.”
“My fault, I’m afraid,” said Mr. Superbus. “I wonder—have you a porter?”
“The porter works evenings at the Hippodrome nowadays. Scene-shifting and that.”
“Perhaps I could help?” said Colvin.
On the step outside were what appeared to be two very large suitcases. When he tried to lift one of them, he understood what Mr. Superbus had meant. It was remarkably heavy. He held back the bar door, letting in a cloud of cold air. “Give me a hand, someone,” he said.
The customer who had almost fallen volunteered, and a short procession, led by Mrs. Royd, set off along the little dark passage to Number Twelve A. Colvin was disconcerted when he realized that Twelve A was the room at the end of the passage, which had no number on its door and had never, he thought, been occupied since his arrival; the room, in fact, next to his.
“Better leave these on the floor,” said Colvin, dismissing the rickety luggage-stand.
“Thank you,” said Mr. Superbus, transferring a coin to the man who had almost fallen. He did it like a conjuror unpalming something.
“I’ll send Greta to make up the bed,” said Mrs. Royd. “Tea’s at six.”
“At six?” said Mr. Superbus, gently raising an eyebrow. “Tea?” Then, when Mrs. Royd and the man had gone, he clutched Colvin very hard on the upper part of his left arm. “Tell me,” enquired Mr. Superbus, “are you in love with Miss Rokeby? I overheard you defending her against the impertinence of our hostess.”
Colvin considered for a moment.
“Why not admit it?” said Mr. Superbus, gently raising the other eyebrow. He was still clutching Colvin’s arm much too hard.
“I’ve never set eyes on Miss Rokeby.”
Mr. Superbus let go. “Young people nowadays have no imagination,” he said with a whinny, like a wild goat.
Colvin was not surprised when Mr. Superbus did not appear for tea (pressed beef and chips that evening).
After tea Colvin, instead of going for a walk, wrote to his mother. But there was little to tell her, so that at the end of the letter he mentioned the arrival of Mr. Superbus. “There’s a sort of sweet blossomy smell about him like a meadow,” he ended. “I think he must use scent.”
When the letter was finished, Colvin started trying to construct tables of output from the lead and plumbago mines a century ago. The partitions between the bedrooms were thin, and he began to wonder about Mr. Superbus’s nocturnal habits.
He wondered from time to time until the time came for sleep; and wondered a bit also as he dressed the next morning and went to the bathroom to shave. For during the whole of this time no sound whatever had been heard from Number Twelve A, despite the thinness of the plywood partition; a circumstance which Colvin already thought curious when, during breakfast, he overheard Greta talking to Mrs. Royd in the kitchen. “I’m ever so sorry, Mrs. Royd. I forgot about it with the crowd in the bar.” To which Mrs. Royd simply replied: “I wonder what ’e done about it. ’E could ’ardly do without sheets or blankets, and this December. Why didn’t ’e ask?” And when Greta said, “I suppose nothing ain’t happened to him?” Colvin put down his porridge spoon and unobtrusively joined the party which went out to find out.
Mrs. Royd knocked several times upon the door of Number Twelve A, but there was no answer. When they opened the door, the bed was bare as Colvin had seen it the evening before, and there was no sign at all of Mr. Superbus except that his two big cases lay on the floor, one beside the other.
“What’s he want to leave the window open like that for?” enquired Mrs. Royd. She shut it with a crash. “Someone will fall over those cases in the middle of the floor.”
Colvin bent down to slide the heavy cases under the bed. But the pair of them now moved at a touch.
Colvin picked one case up and shook it slightly. It emitted a muffled flapping sound, like a bat in a box. Colvin nearly spoke, but stopped himself, and stowed the cases, end on, under the unmade bed in silence.
“Make up the room, Greta,” said Mrs. Royd. “It’s no use just standing about.” Colvin gathered that it was not altogether unknown for visitors to the Emancipation Hotel to be missing from their rooms all night.
But there was a further little mystery. Later that day in the bar, Colvin was accosted by the man who had helped to carry Mr. Superbus’s luggage.
“Look at that.” He displayed, rather furtively, something which lay in his hand.
It was a sovereign.
“He gave it me last night.”
“Can I see it?” It had been struck in Queen Victoria’s reign, but gleamed like new.
“What d’you make of that?” asked the man.
“Not much,” replied Colvin, returning the pretty piece. “But now I come to think of it, you can make about forty-five shillings.”
When this incident took place, Colvin was on his way to spend three or four nights in another town where lead and plumbago mining had formerly been carried on, and where he needed to consult an invaluable collection of old records which had been presented to the Public Library at the time the principal mining company went bankrupt.
On his return, he walked up the hill from the station through a thick mist, laden with coal dust and sticky smoke, and apparently in no way diminished by a bitter little wind, which chilled while hardly tr
oubling to blow. There had been snow, and little archipelagos of slush remained on the pavements, through which the immense boots of the miners crashed noisily. The male population wore heavy mufflers and were unusually silent. Many of the women wore shawls over their heads in the manner of their grandmothers.
Mrs. Royd was not in the bar, and Colvin hurried through it to his old room, where he put on a thick sweater before descending to tea. The only company consisted in two commercial travellers, sitting at the same table and eating through a heap of bread and margarine but saying nothing. Colvin wondered what had happened to Mr. Superbus.
Greta entered as usual with a pot of strong tea and a plate of bread and margarine.
“Good evening, Mr. Colvin. Enjoy your trip?”
“Yes, thank you, Greta. What’s for tea?”
“Haddock and chips.” She drew a deep breath. “Miss Rokeby’s come . . . I don’t think she’ll care for haddock and chips do you, Mr. Colvin?” Colvin looked up in surprise. He saw that Greta was trembling. Then he noticed that she was wearing a thin black dress, instead of her customary casual attire.
Colvin smiled up at her. “I think you’d better put on something warm. It’s getting colder every minute.”
But at that moment the door opened and Miss Rokeby entered.
Greta stood quite still, shivering all over, and simply staring at her. Everything about Greta made it clear that this was Miss Rokeby. Otherwise the situation was of a kind which brought to Colvin’s mind the cliché about there being some mistake.
The woman who had come in was very small and slight. She had a triangular gazelle-like face, with very large dark eyes, and a mouth which went right across the lower tip of the triangle, making of her chin another, smaller triangle. She was dressed entirely in black, with a high-necked black silk sweater, and wore long black earrings. Her short dark hair was dressed like that of a faun; and her thin white hands hung straight by her side in a posture resembling some Indian statuettes which Colvin recalled but could not place.
Greta walked towards her, and drew back a chair. She placed Miss Rokeby with her back to Colvin.
“Thank you. What can I eat?” Colvin was undecided whether Miss Rokeby’s voice was high or low: it was like a bell beneath the ocean.
Greta was blushing. She stood, not looking at Miss Rokeby, but at the other side of the room, shivering and reddening. Then tears began to pour down her cheeks in a cataract. She dragged at a chair, made an unintelligible sound, and ran into the kitchen.
Miss Rokeby half turned in her seat, and stared after Greta. Colvin thought she looked quite as upset as Greta. Certainly she was very white. She might almost have been eighteen . . .
“Please don’t mind. It’s nerves, I think.” Colvin realized that his own voice was far from steady, and that he was beginning to blush also, he hoped only slightly.
Miss Rokeby had risen to her feet and was holding on to the back of her chair.
“I didn’t say anything which could frighten her.”
It was necessary to come to the point, Colvin thought.
“Greta thinks the menu unworthy of the distinguished company.”
“What?” She turned and looked at Colvin. Then she smiled. “Is that it?” She sat down again. “What is it? Fish and chips?”
“Haddock. Yes.” Colvin smiled back, now full of confidence.
“Well. There it is.” Miss Rokeby made the prospect of haddock sound charming and gay. One of the commercial travellers offered to pour the other a fourth cup of tea. The odd little crisis was over.
But when Greta returned, her face seemed set and a trifle hostile. She had put on an ugly custard-coloured cardigan.
“It’s haddock and chips.”
Miss Rokeby merely inclined her head, still smiling charmingly.
Before Colvin had finished, Miss Rokeby, with whom further conversation had been made difficult by the fact that she had been seated with her back to him, and by the torpid watchfulness of the commercial travellers, rose, bade him, “Good evening”, and left.
Colvin had not meant to go out again that evening, but curiosity continued to rise in him, and in the end he decided to clear his thoughts by a short walk, taking in the Hippodrome. Outside it had become even colder; the fog was thicker, the streets emptier.
Colvin found that the entrance to the Hippodrome had been transformed. From frieze to floor, the walls were covered with large photographs. The photographs were not framed, but merely mounted on big sheets of pasteboard. They seemed to be all the same size. Colvin saw at once that they were all portraits of Miss Rokeby.
The entrance hall was filled with fog, but the lighting within had been greatly reinforced since Colvin’s last visit. Tonight the effect was mistily dazzling. Colvin began to examine the photographs. They depicted Miss Rokeby in the widest variety of costumes and make-up, although in no case was the name given of the play or character. In some Colvin could not see how he recognized her at all. In all she was alone. The number of the photographs, their uniformity of presentation, the bright swimming lights, the emptiness of the place (for the Box Office had shut) combined to make Colvin feel that he was dreaming. He put his hands before his eyes, inflamed by the glare and the fog. When he looked again, it was as if all the Miss Rokebys had been so placed that their gaze converged upon the spot where he stood. He closed his eyes tightly and began to feel his way to the door and the dimness of the street outside. Then there was a flutter of applause behind him; the evening’s audience began to straggle out, grumbling at the weather; and Malnik was saying “Hullo, old man. Nice to see you.”
Colvin gesticulated uncertainly. “Did she bring them all with her?”
“Not a bit of it, old man. Millie found them when she opened up.”
“Where did she find them?”
“Just lying on the floor. In two whacking great parcels. Rokeby’s agent, I suppose, though she appeared not to have one. Blest if I know, really. I myself could hardly shift one of the parcels, let alone two.”
Colvin felt rather frightened for a moment; but he only said: “How do you like her?”
“Tell you when she arrives.”
“She’s arrived.”
Malnik stared.
“Come back with me and see for yourself.”
Malnik seized Colvin’s elbow. “What’s she look like?”
“Might be any age.”
All the time Malnik was bidding good night to patrons, trying to appease their indignation at being brought out on such a night.
Suddenly the lights went, leaving only a pilot. It illumined a photograph of Miss Rokeby holding a skull.
“Let’s go,” said Malnik. “Lock up, Frank, will you?”
“You’ll need a coat,” said Colvin.
“Lend me your coat, Frank.”
On the short cold walk to the Emancipation Hotel, Malnik said little. Colvin supposed that he was planning the encounter before him. Colvin did ask him whether he had ever heard of a Mr. Superbus, but he hadn’t.
Mrs. Royd was, it seemed, in a thoroughly bad temper. To Colvin it appeared that she had been drinking; and that she was one whom drink soured rather than mellowed. “I’ve got no one to send,” she snapped. “You can go up yourself, if you like. Mr. Colvin knows the way.” There was a roaring fire in the bar, which after the cold outside seemed very overheated.
Outside Number Nine, Colvin paused before knocking. Immediately he was glad he had done so, because inside were voices speaking very softly. All the evening he had been remembering Mr. Superbus’s reference to a “companion”.
In dumb-show he tried to convey the situation to Malnik, who peered at his efforts with a professional’s dismissal of the amateur. Then Malnik produced a pocket-book, wrote in it, and tore out the page, which he thrust under Miss Rokeby’s door. Having done this, he prepared to return with Colvin to the bar, and await a reply. Before they had taken three steps, however, the door was open, and Miss Rokeby was inviting them in.
To Colvin she said, “We’ve met already”, though without enquiring his name.
Colvin felt gratified; and at least equally pleased when he saw that the fourth person in the room was a tall, frail-looking girl with long fair hair drawn back into a tight bun. It was not the sort of companion he had surmised.
“This is Myrrha. We’re never apart.”
Myrrha smiled slightly, said nothing, and sat down again. Colvin thought she looked positively wasted. Doubtless by reason of the cold, she wore heavy tweeds, which went oddly with her air of fragility.
“How well do you know the play?” asked Malnik at the earliest possible moment.
“Well enough not to play in it.” Colvin saw Malnik turn grey. “Since you’ve got me here, I’ll play Rosalind. The rest was lies. Do you know,” she went on, addressing Colvin, “that this man tried to trick me? You’re not in the theatre, are you?”
Colvin, feeling embarrassed, smiled and shook his head.
“Cornelia is a masterpiece,” said Malnik furiously. “Nethers was a genius.”
Miss Rokeby simply said “Was” very softly, and seated herself on the arms of Myrrha’s armchair, the only one in the room. It was set before the old-fashioned gas-fire.
“It’s announced. Everyone’s waiting for it. People are coming from London. They’re even coming from Cambridge.” Myrrha turned away her head from Malnik’s wrath.
“I was told—Another English Classic. Not an out-pouring by little Jack Nethers. I won’t do it.”
“As You Like It is only a fill-up. What more is it ever? Cornelia is the whole point of the Gala. Nethers was born in this town. Don’t you understand?”
Malnik was so much in earnest that Colvin felt sorry for him. But even Colvin doubted whether Malnik’s was the best way to deal with Miss Rokeby.
“Please play for me. Please.”
“Rosalind only.” Miss Rokeby was swinging her legs. They were young and lovely. There was more than one thing about this interview which Colvin did not care for.
“We’ll talk it over in my office tomorrow.” Colvin identified this as a customary admission of defeat.
The Late Breakfasters and Other Strange Stories Page 33
