[Brenda & Effie 00] - A Treasury of Brenda and Effie

by ed. Paul Magrs

  Penny shrugged. “But it was just a false alarm,” she said. “It was spirits of the usual variety she was communing with.”

  Effie sniffed. “That old bag could do with a good intervention. Always sticking her nose in everywhere, stomping around town in a grump.”

  Robert smiled benevolently. “That as may be,” he said. “Anyhow—exciting news! Remember I said the inspector from that website was going to come and review the Miramar? Well, he's coming on Thursday! Penny's even coming back to the hotel to help me.”

  “That's wonderful, Robert,” I told him. “I'm sure the Miramar will be spectacular! He'll love it.”

  Effie cleared her throat. “Oh yes,” I said. “Effie has news too.”

  “Indeed,” she said. “As Whitby's premier antiques expert...”

  *

  Tuesday morning I was dusting around the parlour while sausage and eggs were sizzling cheerily in the pan. My last guest of the morning, Mr Turlough, was sat in the dining room, perusing the stack of Whitby Whisperers I’d amassed. He always wore a long trench coat to the table which I’d at first I’d found odd (and a little lacking in etiquette, if I was quite honest) until I’d noticed this morning that it was hiding the furtive point of a tail. It takes all sorts—and there’s nowhere better than my B&B for the strange of this world. I’d occupied myself with making him a very special breakfast that morning. It’s always appreciated when the world shows a little extra kindness to us strange kind. I’d made him the full works, even though he’d only paid for a boiled egg, and even slipped a few special ingredients in the scrambled eggs to give them an extra pizazz.

  I was just spooning the full breakfast array onto his plate when my telephone rang. I ignored it whilst I arranged the triangles of toast just right on the rack, and poured a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, but it carried on ringing insistently.

  “Here you are, lovey,” I told Mr Turlough, presenting the tray before him. The telephone was practically bouncing on its cradle. “Enjoy your breakfast.”

  “Brenda!” Effie sounded breathless on the other end of the phone.

  “Effie? Are you alright?” I asked, full of concern for my friend. She’s as bad as me for getting herself into nasty scrapes.

  “Of course I’m alright, Brenda, you know me. I’m at the Wildthyme Ragged School For Girls.”

  “Oh,” I said. Twang. “And how is it?”

  “It’s beautiful, Brenda, but that’s not the point. Look—I think you need to come and have a look for yourself.”

  “Oh, Effie, I can’t—I have guests, it’s a busy week—”

  “Brenda,” Effie said, and I could picture her glaring sharply even all those miles away at the other end of the phone. “There’s something you should see.” She was using that particular tone she usually reserved for rude check-out girls, the voice that reminded you she was from a generation of witches and had no problems casting hexes.

  I sighed. Oh, we might have our little tiffs, me and Effie, but if the chips were down I trusted her with my life—and I also trusted that she knew when something was important. And so it as that I found myself standing on the steps of Wildthyme's Ragged School. A gravelled drive had led me through a pair of vast wrought-iron gates up the hill to the imposing doors. The building was gripped tightly by a twisted collection of vines and creepers, as if nature itself had crept from the moors to swallo the school. The hills, bruised purple with heather and wreathed in mist, stared back at the school with a wild menace.

  Oh, Effie, I thought, what have you gotten yourself into?

  I knocked on the door. It echoed threateningly. Come on, Brenda, I told myself. You’ve been watching too many of Penny’s silly horror films.

  The door swung open. The woman in the doorway was tall and thin—not unlike Effie, but rather more chic and severe in a sharp woolen business suit. A pair of dark black glasses were perched sternly on her nose. “Can I help you?”

  It occurred to me that I hadn’t thought about what I was going to say, or how I was going to explain what I was doing here. I could hardly say I was coming to have a look around the school because my best friend had called me in a flap. You couldn’t just do that sort of thing in this day and age.

  “Wait, you must be Brenda!” Her face creased into a warm smile. “Effryggia said you’d be coming to assist her. Do come in. I’m Miss Finch, the headmistress.”

  She ushered me into a sumptuous hallway. It certainly was as opulent as the outside has suggested—suits of armour, stags heads and the like, and a huge oak staircase that divided left and right halfway up. The idea that this had once been a school for the poor orphans seemed almost laughable.

  “It is rather grand, isn’t it?” Miss Finch said, catching sight of my face. “They’ve done a marvellous job with the restoration. It’s almost just like it once was. And I should know better than most—I was a girl here myself, you know. Through this way.” She led me through to door into a small oak-paneled office. Its walls were hung with black and white photographs, groups of students arranged in neat lines, smiling awkwardly at the camera. Miss Finch closed the door behind me.

  “Effryggia is just with our first year class at the moment. She’ll be finished shortly. The bell for recreation will be going any second.” She sat down behind her desk. “You know, you look ever so familiar, Miss...”

  “Just Brenda is just fine,” I told her.

  “Brenda.” Miss Finch smiled, but this time I noticed it didn’t touch her eyes. For the second time that morning I admonished myself. Honestly, this town was starting to make me into a paranoid wreck, seeing trouble in every corner. Miss Finch was just an innocent headmistress of a remote girls school in the middle of desolate moors—nothing sinister about that. “So, what was your field of expertise again? Effryggia said you were indispensable to her work at her Antiques Emporium.”

  Emporium! I wondered if Miss Finch had seen Effie’s shop.

  “I’m an expert in nineteenth century literature,” I told Miss Finch, thinking of my bookshelves at home. “Shelley is my specialty.”

  “Ah, of course. Shelley, Stevenson, Dickens, Stoker and the like?” Miss Finch simpered. “I do admire Bram Stoker. Wonderful chap.”

  “I never met him,” I said, without thinking.

  Miss Finch looked at me oddly, but I was saved by a knock at the door, which swung open to reveal Effie. had dressed up for the occasion, in a newly ironed blouse and skirt, and a wide-brimmed hat decorated with a small bunch of plastic fruit.

  “Effryggia!” exclaimed Miss Finch, arising from her desk. “How did it go?”

  “Oh, wonderful, wonderful!” Effie babbled. “I think the girls loved me. I mean, I’d prepared my talk, and I did have a few problems getting through it, what with the girls gossiping and talking and what have you, but they did seem to enjoy it when I got them riding the penny farthing. Which reminds me—Lucy, is it? She’s down at the infirmary now. I’m sure she’ll be fine though. I wouldn’t worry.”

  “Excellent, Effryggia, excellent.” Out in the hallway a deep, booming bell sounded, twice. Quick on its heels, the sound of doors opening and a clamour of footsteps deep in the corridors of the school. “I must be going to oversee Recreation. Can’t have the girls getting out of hand, can we? Do excuse me a moment.” And with that she vanished into the hallway towards the increasing noise of girls’ voices.

  “Effie!” I hissed. “Why on earth have you brought me all the way here? What is it you want to show me?”

  “Follow me!” she said. “Come on, Brenda!”

  I trailed her into the hall, and up the enormous staircase. At the split she turned right, and led me to the overlooking landing. She was moving at quite a pace, and I had to haul myself unceremoniously up by the oak banister, my skirts flapping around my legs.

  “Honestly, Effie, slow down!” I admonished her, but she took no notice. Down a long panelled corridor she led me. At the end, she paused by a thick wooden door, resting her hand on the handl
e.

  “Are you ready for this, Brenda?”

  “Why are you being so mysterious, Effie?” I said, huffing and puffing.

  “Come look,” she said, and opened the door.

  The room within was a trophy room. There were glass cabinets all the way round, filled with cups and medals and certificates and photographs of groups and teams. “The Wildthyme School must have been a very successful one,” I remarked, moving form one cabinet to the next. “First Place in the Female Fencing League!”

  “Never mind all those,” Effie said, pacing. “This is what you’re here to see.”

  Fixed in pride of place on the wall was a large black and white photograph. It showed those big stone steps at the front of the school, and lined up, row upon row, were all the pupils of the school, in their neat black dresses, their knee-high socks and their pigtails. Beneath it was a gold plaque labelling this the cohort of 1942, the year the school closed. “What am I meant to be seeing, Effie?” I asked her.

  She pointed. “There!”

  Along the front row of the group were all the teachers. A particularly stern bunch of diminutive women, it appeared. Not a single one had a smile on their face.

  Except for one, very tall, very broad-shouldered woman three in from the end.

  “Effie!” I exclaimed. “That’s me!”

  And that was the last thing I remember before I blacked out.

  *

  “Are you alright, Miss?”

  I blinked. Where on earth was I? Ah yes—the West Wing.

  “Miss?”

  A small girl was nervously shaking me.

  “Harriet!” I sat up. “What are you doing out of bed at this hour?”

  “I was just... going to use the bathroom, Miss. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have been out of bed. And then I found you there on the floor, and I thought you were hurt...” Her face scrunched, and tears welled up. Poor mite. She’s only been here for a few weeks: a mistake made in her evacuation and now her parents lost in the Blitz. None of us had had the heart to tell her yet.

  “Oh, come here, dearie, don’t you fret.” I pulled her to my shoulder and wrapped my big arms around her. “No need to cry. A Miss B hug makes everything better, doesn’t it?”

  Harriet nodded into my neck. I stroked her hair gently. Bless her soul. She was one of my favourites here, so timid and yet so full of spirit at the same time. I often looked at her in the corridors and thought that she was what I might have been like as a child. If I hadn’t been—well, you know.

  She mumbled something. “What was that, dear?”

  “I heard the sounds again.”

  “Oh, I’ve told you, time and time again, Harriet—they’re nothing to be afraid of.”

  Harriet pulled back and looked at me, her eyes brimming with tears, and my heart went out to her.

  “They are, Miss B. No-one heard them before Gertrude went missing. And now we hear them all the time.”

  I stroked her hair and pretended that I hadn’t thought much the same as her myself. “Now now, Harriet. You know Gertrude ran away, and that’s very sad, but there’s nothing we can do about that. But it had nothing to do with the sounds—not that there are any sounds to hear, of course.” I stood her on her feet. “I tell you what, how about I come show you something you’ll like. Cheer you up? Does that sound nice?”

  Harriet nodded silent. I heaved myself up from the floor, and took her hand. “Come on then.”

  I led her down the back passages to the kitchens and let myself quietly in. I might be a teacher here, but Cook would still give me what for if she found me lurking around in her kitchen at night. But nothing ventured...

  In the corner of the kitchen, I opened the door to one of the old, empty pantries.

  “There now,” I told Harriet. “You can’t be sad when you see these little lovelies, can you?”

  In the centre of the floor was a round basket, packed with newspaper and old pillowcases. Curled around each other in a jumbled ball in the middle were eight black kittens. “Look at them,” I told Harriet. “Their mother gave birth and then left them for us to look after. Isn’t that sad?”

  Harriet knelt down and stroked the sleeping head of one of the kittens. “Do they have names?”

  I knelt down beside her. “Not all of them, but that one there, the one with two white ears? I like to think of him as Charlie.”

  Harriet smiled. “Charlie. That’s a nice name!”

  “Now, if you ever get scared again, or you hear those sounds, I want you to remember that you’re big and brave and that nothing scares you. And if you still need cheering up, you come and find me and I’ll bring you down here and we can say hello to Charlie and his sisters again. How does that sound?”

  Harriet nodded happily.

  “Now, off to bed with you.” I walked her to the hall, up the staircase, and watched from the landing as she toddled the rest of the way to the dormitory. At the door, she turned and waved. “Goodnight, Miss B,” she whispered.

  “Goodnight!” I waved back. Harriet closed the door quietly behind her. I stood in the shadows of the hall. The gloom settled around my shoulders like a cloak. The girls might be frightened of darkness but I was quite used to it. Darkness made me feel safe: no-one to look at me strangely, sizing up my odd proportions or thick makeup or to notice that I might have one foot bigger than the other.

  And then, from the bottom of the stairs, came something that all of a sudden made the dark feel much less safe than moments before. Quiet at first, and then louder, came the sound of scratching. A frantic, hurried scratching, like the sound of someone inside the walls, trying to get out.

  *

  “Are you alright, Miss?”

  This time I awoke to the acrid aroma of smelling salts. They turned my stomach, and I sat bolt upright.

  “Brenda, you’re awake!” Miss Finch was saying. “You seem to have taken a bit of a turn, are you alright?”

  Effie was stood over her should, rubbing her hands together fretfully. “Oh, she’ll be quite alright, I don’t think a doctor is necessary,” she said. “Aren’t you Brenda? Happens all the time doesn’t it. Must be all the excitement. I did have her climbing the stairs at quite a rate of knots.”

  I hauled myself unceremoniously to my feet. “Don’t go to any trouble, Miss Finch. I do apologise—an old lady like me, unsteady on her feet, I really should be going more carefully. It’s all my fault, I’m so sorry.”

  “Well, are you sure, I—“

  “Thank you, Miss Finch. I think I’d better be going,” I told her, firmly. I didn’t want to stay inside the walls of this school a moment longer. I wanted to be back in my sitting room, with a nice warm fire, and a strong cup of tea.

  “But I’ve got another lesson to teach—” Effie said. “If you hold on a bit, I’ll…”

  But I was having none of it. Refusing all their ministrations, I buttoned up my coat and hot-footed it best I could down the drive to the bus-stop just in time for the Number Eight cresting the hill.

  Later that evening, Robert popped around. He told me Effie hadn’t asked him to, but I was sure she had. I must have looked quite shaken when I left the Wildthyme Ragged School. I told him what had happened, including the strange memory I had found myself waking into. “It gave me a proper fright, I’ll tell you,” I said.

  “So you were a teacher there?” Robert asked.

  “Apparently. I don’t remember anything other than what I saw today when I blacked out.”

  “You amaze me, Brenda,” he told me, patting my hand. “The things you’ve seen. If only you could remember them all. Someone should write a book about you.”

  I stayed quiet. One was quite enough. Who’d want another bunch of people coming in and mucking up the story?

  Truth be told, I rarely seemed to remember anything very happy. I was probably best off forgetting. But Robert’s words cheered me up. It reminded me how good it was to have found myself my little slice of home up here by the sea. How won
derful was it to find a young man who not only appreciated the lives the elderly had to offer, but didn’t mind that the elderly person in question might also be something of a monster. A remarkable fellow, our Robert, really. So kind and caring.

  “How is the Miramar doing?” I asked, changing the subject. He’s very proud of the Miramar, ever since he took over as manager from Sheila.

  “Great!” Robert said. “I’ve had everyone working around the clock, it looks beautiful! You’d be proud, Brenda, it’s cleaner than here!”

  “I’m glad,” I said. “I’m sure it’ll go wonderfully for you. Is Penny enjoying herself?”

  “A little too much, if you ask me.” Robert said. “We have a new waiter. He’s very... handsome. I haven’t the heart to tell Penny that he doesn’t exactly, uh, play for her team.”

  “Oh!” I said. “How exciting!” Bless the lad, it’s about time he found himself a nice young man. And Penny too, for that matter.

  Robert looked at his watch. “I must be going, Brenda, I’ve got to turn down the top floor before he arrives in the morning. Will you be alright here on your own?”

  “Don’t be silly, Robert. I’ve been to hell and back, do you think I’m easily frightened by a memory? Off with you!”

  “Of course, Brenda!” He hugged me goodnight. “Sleep well.”

  But sleep well I did not. Instead, I lay awake staring at the ceiling. I kept replaying the day’s events in my mind. How odd it was to see a photograph of yourself and have no memory of when it was taken. Surely I should remember? But I could turn up nothing—no memory of standing on those big steps, none of my first class, and none of leaving as the school closed. Nothing.

  Time to put this nonsense out of your head, I told myself. You’re up bright and early in the morning. Mr Turlough has an eight o’clock appointment and wants his breakfast at seven.

  I turned over in my bed and thought again how daft I was being, and yet somehow, unable to see the room behind me, I could do nothing but imagine eyes watching me from the darkness. And far off, somewhere several floors below, I would have sworn I could hear a quiet scratching noise.