by Paul Magrs
Effie and I part company down on Harbour Street. I have a suspicion that she’s dabbling with the spells in those Books of Magic she has hidden away in her upper rooms. There’s a glint in her eye that tells me she’s been exploring her witchy roots of late.
While I’m enjoying a decent cuppa on my own, I’m having another read of the newspaper profile of Professor Keyes. This time he comes over as a bit smug, as if he’s bringing civilisation and sophistication to the unwashed hordes who dwell upon the North Yorkshire Coast. I must have skimmed the article earlier, because now I’m finding out about his fixation on Ancient Egypt.
‘It all dates back to my earliest boyhood and my upbringing at the hands of my Great Aunt and Uncle. They allowed me to accompany them on their expeditions to some of the most fabulous and hidden regions on the planet. As a child my playgrounds were in ruins and among treasures lost to time. We girdled the world many times over, staying in the most luxurious hotels and the humblest encampments. We drank a lot of tea, wherever we went. We tried every kind of tea that the world has to offer. A fascination with tippling was born in me, and it has endured all my life. I am as obsessed with the reviving properties of the humble leaf as I am the dusty relics of bygone eras.’
What a show-off! Like anyone cares about his blummin’ back-story! Still, he is quite a dish, with his streaky auburn hair, his pink cheeks and that lavish moustache.
That night I sit up in my sumptuous bed with a murder mystery and a tot of sherry. When I drop off I dream about being back in Tipple. Professor Marius Keyes himself comes over to our table. The stars are bright through the spotless glass of the conservatory. His head is bent over Effie’s upturned teacup and we are in suspense. Then he whisks the cup away, revealing a mound of wet leaves, to which he gives careful consideration.
‘What have we here? What spicy secrets do these leaves divulge?’
Effie rolls her eyes and gives a highly sceptical tut. Even in my dreams she is borderline rude to people.
‘Ever since antiquity folk have believed much truth has been revealed by the leaves left at the bottom of a tippler’s teacup.’
‘My Aunt Maud was a dab hand,’ Effie tells him. ‘What do you see in my dregs, then?’
‘Tea leaves aren’t just something to discard. They were in your cup. You blew on the tea and sipped and sipped until it was all gone. And so these fragments of leaf are inextricably bound up with you. They are connected to your very soul.’
‘And what do you see there?’ Effie snaps.
‘I see… Why, a glowing cat! Prowling the dark and misty streets. And I see… an evil bat with long velvety ears…!’
‘That’s the past,’ I tell him.
‘I also see… terrible things in your future. I see blood… and suffering. And meat pies. And garden furniture that has been manufactured from evil bamboo. And I see… the undead! They are rising out of their tombs and seeking out a reckoning with you two…!’
Professor Keyes looks at the pair of us, appalled. I’m just glad he hasn’t had a peek at my dregs. At this point I’m glad to remember that this is all just a dream.
Except, the next morning, I’m up and about serving Full English Breakfasts to my half dozen guests and Effie gives me a tinkle. It turns out that she’s had a dream, too, and we were having our leaves read by Professor Keyes.
‘Is it possible to share the same dream?’ she squawks. ‘Without something nefarious going on?’
I muse, still holding a plateful of congealing Eggs Benedict. ‘What did he foretell in your dream?’
‘That I’m going to be a Vampire Queen! And that a great big brute of a man whisks you off your feet! And we’re going to be on a TV show about haunted houses!’
As I finish the call I’m glad that we never had the precise same dream. I just know that I don’t want to be sharing all my thoughts with my neighbour.
In my break I reread the article about the Professor. Something snags at my memory. Oh, this memory of mine. Did I ever travel to the exotic places he mentions? I don’t think so. I can’t recall ever being taken up the Valley of the Kings.
Effie phones later in the day, having decided we’re using some vouchers she’s had popped through her front door. Two-Eat-for-One at the Hotel Miramar. She tells me she could just murder Scampi-in-a-Basket.
‘I thought you always said the Miramar was insalubrious,’ I say.
‘There’s always been a lot of scandal about that place,’ she agrees. ‘Swingers’ Weekends and things. I remember one, when the fire brigade got called in. It was the talk of the town.’
‘Perhaps it’s more respectable these days?’
She harrumphs. ‘It’s still owned by the same blousy, common, bloated old bag. They call her Sheila Manchu.’
‘So why are we going?’
‘Like I say, ducky. I’ve got a voucher. Plus, I’ve heard tell it’s where a certain Professor Marius Keyes is staying.’
Effie has her investigating head on. It seems she’s avid for dirt on our mystery hunk.
We meet at six pm, both reasonably dolled up. Tramping through steep and convoluted streets, I can see Effie’s ran to more effort than yours truly. She’s sprayed herself with something musky, but that could just be the whiff from the harbour.
When we reach the Miramar we’re both a bit lathered, but there’s some picnic benches out in what might make a nice beer garden, if it was done up properly. It’s pleasant to sit in the breeze, but for some rowdy-looking youths at the other benches.
When Effie opens the door to the bar to place our orders all this music comes out. Thrash metal, they call it. I feel conspicuous in my lilac woollen two-piece amongst all this black leather. Never mind. And I won’t have a word said against Goths after a gaggle of them fished me out of the harbour last week during Beltane.
It’s while Effie’s at the bar that I spot our quarry. Professor Keyes is in a linen safari suit, being flirted at mercilessly by a largish woman in a tangerine polyester nightie. They’re standing by a half-hearted rockery, looking very much in cahoots. The early evening light makes her nightwear well-nigh see-through, but the Professor seems not to be embarrassed in the least.
Effie brings our drinks and I point them out. ‘She’s far too common for a man of his ilk. Unless he’s capable of being overcome by sheer animal lust.’
I nod. ‘Do you know, I’ve a feeling he is?’
‘Florid complexion and big hands,’ Effie shivers and picks up her glass. We both take great big swallows of our freezing vodka. And just then – the object of our curiosity advances on us across the lawn.
‘Ladies! Didn’t I see you sampling my wares at Tipple the other day?’
‘You did indeed, Professor Keyes.’
‘Marius, please…’
‘I’m Brenda and she’s Effie. Yes, we were both very favourably impressed by your café. We feel thoroughly refreshed by the whole experience.’
Effie gives me a look as if I’m laying it on a bit thick.
Such delicious tea. Very unusual.
Like many a vain man he responds atavistically to any form of flattery. He just can’t help himself expanding like a dinghy as he warms to his favourite subject.
‘There’s a little drop of magic in every cup. Though I’m forbidden to reveal its source. An arcane mystery out of antiquity.’
He taps his mighty aquiline nose and Effie goes: ‘Oh, really? Secret ingredient, is it?’ I can tell a barbed comment is about to make itself felt. ‘That’s the kind of thing Health Inspectors can be very funny about, you know.’
‘My dear, I didn’t mean it literally! It’s all a bit of flummery and nonsense. Why, the very thought of slipping something untoward into my infusions…’
He laughs long and hard, then kisses my hand and then Effie’s. His lips leave a cool mark I find I don’t want to rub off. We watch him link arms with Sheila Manchu and re-enter the Miramar via the public lounge.
‘I know two things,’ Effie murmurs. ‘Those two are having it o
ff and – he’s lying through his false teeth. I’ve got an extremely refined palate and there was something about that wissy cup of tea I had the other day that wasn’t quite right. He’s up to no good and I sense the presence of dark forces at work. Don’t you agree, ducky?’
I nod, but a part of me is still thinking about his warm, wet lips on the back of my hand. And the fact that my skin there is tingling…
I’ve often made a fool of myself over men. Tingling inappropriately and having my head turned. I’ll have you know though, that my nascent attraction to that patrician purveyor of gourmet beverages is not, actually, the reason for my present incarceration. My predicament has nought to do with any libidinous urges. Those I have placed under firm control, though I have, in fact, wound up under the wicked man’s power.
Wait a second. What’s that? I heard something. Is it the recumbent female form in the mummy case in the corner? Oh heavens, is she returning to life while I’m lying here, utterly helpless?
There. Definitely something in here. A rat maybe. A very soft footfall.
Oh! I recognise that scent. Shalimar. It’s Effie. She’s a godsend. Effie, Effie – you managed to find me! Oh, well done, dear. Can you help me with all these straps and tubes things? Quickly, quickly… before he comes back…
While we struggle to escape I shall narrate the rest of the events that brought us here… to the scene of our near-demise…
Our scampi turns out to be delicious, hitting just the right spot. While Sheila and Marius Keyes are in the bar with a whole bunch of Sheila’s cronies, Effie and I get up to a bit of investigating.
We take advantage of an abandoned reception area to check the reservation book. Then Effie’s pushing me into the lift and we’re shooting up to the third floor.
‘He’s got her most lavish suite,’ mutters Effie. ‘It’s booked out for a month.’
I admit that I have a flash of envy of Sheila Manchu.
We hunt about the corridors at the very top of the Miramar. The monogrammed carpet’s so plush we are soundless as we hunt for his door.
‘We can’t just break in,’ I gasp.
Effie produces a skeleton key and starts fiddling like mad with the lock. I hold my breath and – we’re in.
It’s wall-to-wall chinoiserie inside. Lacquered cabinets and fancy wall-hangings and stuff made out of bamboo. Quality items of apparel are chucked and rumpled anyhow over the unmade bed, along with books and papers and trays of half-eaten snacks.
‘What if they come back and find us?’ I whisper hoarsely. ‘What are we even looking for?’
Effie is hunting and pecking through all of his intimate stuff. ‘Clues,’ she says. ‘Anything.’
She hoiks out a luxury suitcase and flings it open.
‘He’s got such wonderful things,’ I say, gazing into his wardrobe. ‘Look at all these beautiful shirts.’
‘Never mind all that,’ Effie snaps. Then she finds something interesting at the bottom of his case. It looks like a tin tea caddy. She opens it, sniffs the contents and wears an expression I’ve only ever seen before on a police tracker dog.
I dither round his gentleman’s requisites – they’re like relics from a more gracious age. Then I turn to the bed and realise that the covers aren’t just heaped any old how. They are bulging in a distinctly human shape.
‘Erm, Effie,’ I begin, but my throat has gone dry and I can feel my scampi starting to make its way back up.
Effie is still sniffing tea samples. She’s found some other caddies and one has made her gag. Even from over here I can smell something sweetish. A hint of ancient must and mould.
I find myself reaching out to touch the bed clothes…
And – ‘Aha!’ – at that very moment comes Effie’s shout of triumph. ‘What do you think of this, Brenda?’ She plucks out a nasty rootlike object to show me – a horrid, gnarled thing.
But my attention is elsewhere. It’s as if my fingers have developed a life of their own as they suddenly snatch the bedclothes away.
Revealing the slumbering form of a mummy.
Swathed in none-too-clean-looking bandages, flat on its back on the queen-sized mattress. I give a hearty shriek at the sight of the thing and Effie cries out too.
The mummy twitches in response and starts to sit up.
Effie pockets the dried-out root and grabs me by the arm. It’s down to her that we exit that suite before the mummy can do anything other than sit up in bed.
Down the corridor and stairs we thunder, sure that the thing’s going to be coming after us. We get downstairs and clatter through reception and push through a crowd on the doorstep outside. We hurtle down the street together, without looking back.
‘Why was it in his bed?’ I ask, wildly.
‘Didn’t I say I thought he had issues?’ says Effie.
‘Mummy issues?’ I ask, and laugh, though I don’t mean to. Something about Marius Keyes’ mummy has put the willies up me, even though I’m usually more sanguine about dead things coming to life.
Once back on Harbour Street, Effie announces that she’s going to do some tests on that funny root she’s found. ‘Scientific and magical tests,’ she says, a bit pompously. ‘I think it’s what he’s putting in the tea, ducky, and I want to know what it does. Coming?’
I demur. It’s getting late and I’ve got a spot of reflux from the scampi and vodka. Besides, there’s something I want to check.
‘Please yourself,’ says Effie and we say goodbye. She shoots off and I know she’s going to be up all night poring over that purloined scrap of whatever-it-is.
Meanwhile, I’ve got some thinking to do.
You see, the sight of that mummy plus the ghastly aroma of desiccation and bandages have combined to stir my old memories around. I fancy that my mind is just like an old teapot, filled with murky infusions. It needs a proper swirl.
Egypt, mummies, gnarled old roots and pots of tea…
Once home in my attic rooms I open up the safe in my living room wall, hidden behind the Turner painting. Here I store the keepsakes from a hundred adventures. It’s all here. Fragments I have hoarded. I hunt through cryptic stuff and I don’t even know what it’s supposed to mean – a severed monkey’s paw, a half-burned Bible, a Rubik’s Cube, a weird piece of electronic circuitry, scrolls of yellow paper, a black carnation, clippings from exceedingly old magazines. And a stack of old diaries spread out over years, all written by different hands.
As if by providence a volume from the 1940s falls open. A utilitarian thing with flimsy pages, covering five years from the middle of the war onwards. Where was I living then?
Yes… yes… it’s starting to come back… a little…
Oooh, I need a sit down. I stagger to my armchair, clutching the little book. It’s charred along one edge. Acrid-smelling. When did it get burned? Many pages are missing. What I could do with now, I think, is a nice, reviving pot of char…
And suddenly – here I am. I’m warming the pot. Spooning in the tea leaves. But this isn’t my cosy kitchen at the top of my B&B in Whitby. Oh no, indeed. I’m in a different kitchen altogether, in the past. A stone-floored scullery in a house in another town altogether.
I look the same and I feel the same, but I’m wearing a dowdy maid’s outfit and I’m a… a servant. I’m working for a cross old man. A Professor. Suddenly I’m back to who I was. I am housemaid to Professor Reginald Tyler, who’s a dab hand at the Olde English. I’m making afternoon tea and loading up the hostess trolley. Salmon paste sandwiches and walnut cake. Riches, during this time of rationing.
Today it’s Thursday and the Professor is hosting a meeting in his study. The fire is lit and the curtains are pulled against the autumn afternoon. I push the trolley into the room and its wheels squeak as I make my circuit, serving refreshments to the various members of the Professor’s writing club. They ignore me, and carry on listening intently, fuming the place out with their pipes and baccy. Here comes Brenda, not listening to Professor Tyler’s droning voic
e as he regales them with another chapter of his book about the elves and wizards and whatnot. I concentrate on the seated men – a dozen of them, donnish and tweedy, their faces blurry and soft with fading concentration.
They are the Smudgelings.
They’re having one of their special story-telling afternoons again. Professor Tyler clutches his papers and looks piqued by my intrusion.
My favourite of the bunch is Professor Cleavis. He’s the only one who treats me like a human being, thanking me as I load him up with tea and cake and sarnies. He has wispy hair and the proportions of a giant teddy bear. When it’s been his turn to read, I’ve lingered by the door to listen. Of all their queer, phantasmagorical tales, his are the best, I believe. He writes about an impossible land called Hyspero, where magic and adventure walk hand in hand. Professor Tyler usually berates him for churning out silly stuff for children and for not writing the true stuff of legend and myth.
Henry Cleavis beams at me while the others keep their attention fixed on Tyler’s incantatory narrative. Same old gobbledegook, it sounds like to me. Dwarfs it is, today. A dragon this time, too. Maybe that’ll liven the story up. While I’m going round with the fish paste sandwiches the old prof gives a meaningful cough. So I plod away, back into the kitchen. I know my place. I decide that I might as well do some washing. I could give the venerable Professor’s smalls a good rubbing through, since I imagine they’ll be tied up for ages hearing about his dragon.
That’s just what I’m doing when I hear the dreadful ruckus coming from outside. I hear a sharp cracking noise in the walled garden outside. At first I think it must be local children, scrumping for late apples or dragging a guy about perhaps. Then I see it. Thorough the pebbled glass of the outside door. A tall shape. Man-sized. Bulky. It’s five o’clock and the garden is filled with dark shadows. Is it really someone out there?
Then there’s a noise of a body stumbling into the bins. My next thought is of German spies. I pick up my bucket of hot soapy water and carry it to the back door. I take a deep breath, grasp the handle, and fling it open.
And then…!
I am face to face with one of the most awful creatures I have ever seen. Its blank face is covered with mucky bandages, with hollow depressions for eyes. Its shambling form is coming towards me and I realise its twitchy hands are raised because it’s about to seize me by the throat.
