by Paul Magrs
Hell's Belles
PAUL MAGRS
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www.headline.co.uk
Copyright © 2009 Paul Magrs
The right of Paul Magrs to be identified as the Author of
the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2010
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN : 978 0 7553 7444 1
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
New Manager
Goth with a Heart of Gold
Effie Lonely
Effie Writes
Chopper
Christmas Greetings
Foreboding
Up All Night
Belongings
From Brenda with Love
Electronic Messages
Taking the Back Seat
Waking Penny
Date
Reunited
In the Turret Suite at the Christmas Hotel
Penny Writes to Her Mother
Ten Fateful Days in the Summer of Love
Video Nasties
Cabaret Night
Agog
Dirty Looks
Karla Sings
Felled
Settee
After the Show
B&E in A&E
Parcel of Doom
Penny’s Qualms
Frank Adrift
Ready for Work
Mrs Claus Has a Funny Turn
Shooting on Silver Street
Open the Box
Alex Soames Grown Up
Fellas in the Attic
It’s Only a Movie
Casa Diodati
The Story of Mrs C
The Film’s Release
The Flying Settee
Stumped
Brenda and Effie Transfixed
You Can Do Magic
Ladies of the Canyon
Uncharitable
From Fangs for the Memory: The Memoirs of Karla Sorenson
Location, Location
Penny Writes Another Letter Home
Epiphanies and Pie and Peas
Bound
Fox in His Den
Volunteers
Superstitious
Confronting Karla
After the Punch-Up
T’Other Brenda
In Flagrante
Evil Stirring
Precipiced
Lighting Effects
Feral
Carry On Chanting
Slippage
Manifesting Himself
Meanwhile, Back in the Present
Legless in the Garret
A Permanent Solution
Nocturnal Styling
Bingone
Victor
Fish Supper
Turmoil on Her Nerves
Frank’s Dad
Other People’s Doings
The Bloody Banquet
Mirror Mirror
A Familiar Settee
The Rescue
Father, Dear Father
Saving the World Again
Into the Night
Tempted Sorely
Lost Boyfriends
Picking Up Effie
Quick Promenade
Still in Her Headscarf
Too Soft
Spare Parts
In Her Sanctum
Taunted
Dante’s Bloody Disco Inferno
White Lilies
Stomping
Poked by the Companion Set
Karla Takes Direction
Penny in the Middle of it All
A Nasty Fandango
Scissors Cut Stone
Off Road
Apotheosis
Epilogue
Paul Magrs (pronounced Mars) was born in the North East of England. After seven years at the University of East Anglia teaching English Literature and Creative Writing, he now lives in Manchester and lectures part time at Manchester Metropolitan University. He devotes the rest of his time to writing and has published fiction for both adults and children. His books Never the Bride, Something Borrowed and Conjugal Rites all feature the adventures of the inimitable Brenda and her best friend Effie.
‘I love Paul Magrs, he’s a great novelist, clever and ironic’
Russell T. Davies
‘One of the smartest, darkest imaginations in contemporary fiction’
Literary Review
‘He delights in creating characters who are both impeccably ordinary and staggeringly strange . . . an ambitious novel by a powerful writer’
TLS
Want to know more? Go to www.paulmagrs.com
Praise for Hell’s Belles:
‘Fabulously crazy . . . ingenious pell-mell narrative’
Guardian
‘Magrs is a great storyteller, and it’s a measure of his talent that he’s able to take characters drawn from popular mythology and make them his own’
Time Out
‘Deliciously dangerous, barmily batty and magically entertaining. Magrs has done it again’
Northern Echo
Praise for Something Borrowed:
‘To pull it off so well requires the combined talents of Alan Bennett, Angela Carter and The League of Gentlemen. The story ends with Magrs paving the way for another sequel and I, for one, can’t wait’
Independent on Sunday
‘Magrs conjures an artfully realised, self-contained gothic fairytale world somewhere between Tim Burton and Last of the Summer Wine, with a bit of Wallace and Gromit thrown in, while parts of his prose wouldn’t disgrace the works of Alan Bennett or David Nobbs . . . monstrously good fun’
SFX Magazine
‘The concept is great. There is nowhere better than Whitby for windswept spookery . . . Brenda is certainly a huge, larger-than-life character who is also wry and sweet and vulnerable’
Financial Times
‘It’s never easy to summarise a novel by Magrs. Mixing comedy with fantasy, high art with popular culture . . . Magrs’ talent for fusing the mundane with the surreal proves an effective way of upending conventional notions about gender and sexuality. Underpinning the melodrama lies the tenderly drawn friendship between Brenda and Effie’
Independent
Praise for Never the Bride:
‘A brilliant extravaganza, gripping, ingeniously plotted, and tragically funny, with unforgettable characters. Paul Magrs is an original talent with a wonderful and sympathetic ear and eye for the hidden craziness of contemporary life’
Shena Mackay
‘I wasn’t at all sure I’d read it as I didn’t think it would be my thing. But . . . I was wrong! Instead, I have spent the weekend ignoring my family and absolutely racing through the book. It is wonderful, I love it . . .’
Jill
Mansell
‘An absolutely delicious black comedy . . . quirky, idiosyncratic, wildly funny’
Susan Hill
‘Never the Bride is a cornucopia of playfully sinister delights. Funny, poignant, clever and hugely original. I loved it’
Daren King
‘The damp charms of an English seaside town are nicely evoked. Without doubt, Never the Bride will be a Gothic smash’
Guardian
‘Utterly original. I was totally charmed by Brenda’s valiant attempts to create a little ordinary happiness and comfort out of the madness around her’
The Times
‘A quirky, whimsical, episodic novel that combines perversity, situation comedy and quietly lush moments of poetry’
Time Out
‘Utterly believable, immediately enthralling and spiced with a deliciously dark humour. Never the Bride has to be one of the most original and entertaining books of the year’
Attitude
By Paul Magrs
Never the Bride
Something Borrowed
Conjugal Rites
Hell’s Belles
For Stuart Douglas
Prologue
The journey took longer than she was expecting.
The train trundled through miles of greenish-gold September woods, tiny villages and fields that seemed to go on for ever. As they approached the coast, however, the skies grew wider and paler. Penny imagined she could smell the sea through the open carriage window.
Her various bags and cases were occupying the seat beside her, the rack above and the small bay behind. She was escaping with everything that belonged to her. She should have left some of it behind, she knew. She should have made a cleaner break. Left more of her stuff for her fella to chuck out.
There was something appealing about just walking out and taking very, very little. In recent months, Penny had felt so encumbered by everything.
She wanted her life to be very simple and new. Somewhere different. Somewhere to explore. Her mother had suggested starting anew abroad, perhaps. But she didn’t feel brave enough for that. It was as if Ken had sapped all the courage out of her, in just the short time they had been married.
No, just a hundred miles or so would do her. It was far enough away.
She set out the guides and leaflets on the table before her once again, looking at the pictures of her destination. The town looked perfect. Gothic splendour. Nineteenth-century ambience. Sleepy spookiness. Somewhere to soothe and heal her wounded soul . . .
She even had a little job lined up. Receptionist work. A nice hotel she’d read about online. One that was experiencing staffing shortages. A room came with the post. It was perfect for her. And, with the Hallowe’en Goth festival coming up too, everything looked propitious. Penny had always meant to go to a Goth weekend in Whitby. Ken had scowled every time she had mentioned it. This wasn’t a place he ever wanted to visit. And so she felt confident he wouldn’t come running after her.
Her fingernails were tingling. They always did when big things were about to happen to her. It was as if she had a sixth sense or something. Right now the tingling made her get out the black nail varnish she’d stowed in her handbag. She wanted to arrive in Whitby with jet-black fingernails. It seemed just the right thing. Something that would have made Ken roll his eyes and complain: ‘You’re nearly thirty, Pen. Not a teenager any more. You can’t pretend you’re a bloody Goth, woman! You look too weird. Go and put something sensible on!’
She concentrated on painting her nails as well as she could, as the train rocked gently towards her new home.
And then, all of a sudden, the train ran out of countryside.
They were pulling abruptly into an old stone station, at the end of the line.
Blinking in the sunshine, blowing quickly on her nails, and lugging her bags, she struggled on to the platform. Other passengers streamed past her and she was disoriented for a while.
Penny took a hold of herself and clapped on her shades. It would be all right. Everything would be okay. She could do this. She could make a new life for herself. She just had to be calm. And look! She had already started.
She stepped out of the station, into the middle of the harbour town.
The train terminated right beside the harbour mouth. From where Penny stood with her bags she could see both sides of the town. Now she really could smell the sea, and candy floss and fish and chips. Straight ahead was the vast grey sprawl of the North Sea, churning and glittering under the cool sun. On the right-hand side was the high mound of the East Cliffs, where the ancient ruined abbey rose in a stark silhouette against the clear skies. To her right climbed the western side of town, with its serried streets of Victorian guest houses and hotels. How intricate it all seemed. How noisy with human chatter and honking of boats and screeching of gulls.
Penny grasped up her bags and took a deep, heady breath of briny air. She made for the taxi rank.
Here was where it all began. Her new life.
She was intent on settling in as soon as possible. Into routine and work and healthy peace and quiet.
And that was how it all was, at first.
It was only about a month later that things started to go really weird.
New Manager
Crikey, thought Robert. Perhaps I’ve gone and done it. Perhaps I’ve done what they always said I would.
I’ve gone and found my vocation. I’ve found my place in the world.
At last!
That morning he went about his duties at the Hotel Miramar with what might even be described as a spring in his step. He rattled through the duty rosters and went to the kitchen to have a word with Chef about menus for the weekend. He checked the stocktaking for the main bar and then the smaller bar in the basement nightclub. He found that everything was running perfectly. Everything was going smoothly and efficiently.
He was managing a whole hotel. Him! With no training other than what he’d picked up on the job, he had taken up the reins of this place quite easily.
Admittedly, the Miramar wasn’t the most elaborate hotel in Whitby. It was big enough, however, and required a lot of very focused attention. This was something Robert hadn’t been used to giving to anything. A drifter, that was what he was. A daydreamer was what his school reports had always said. He’d never stick at anything for long. His mind was always elsewhere. On higher things, perhaps, his mum used to say, with a stifled snort of amusement.
But Robert hadn’t been thinking about higher things. He was just elsewhere. Mulling stuff over. He’d drift around, vague and abstracted. He’d grown up with a feeling that he was waiting for something, and never quite being sure what it was. But he would know it when he saw it. And he had, hadn’t he? He’d been in charge of this place for months now. Almost a year, in fact.
He took elevenses in his new office. Coffee and macaroons, brought to him by Penny from reception. He had adopted the sumptuous office of the previous manageress. As he sank his teeth into the softly yielding coconut confection – still slightly warm from Chef Hughie’s oven – he spared a thought for poor Sheila. Such a warm-hearted soul. Though she had a bit of a bad reputation in the town, Robert had known her to be a soft, sensitive person. One who hadn’t deserved her fate. One who didn’t ought to be where she was right now. He shuddered at the memory. He tried hard not to picture where Sheila Manchu was languishing these days.
Well, here I am, he thought, gazing about at the office. He had started adding a few of his own little touches to the place. Sheila’s taste had been at the chinoiserie end of things. He didn’t want to change too much, just in case she returned one day.
That was the thing about Whitby. You never knew who was going to turn up. Or disappear. Or pop up out of the blue.
For all of the town’s unpredictability, Robert was happy living here. For all of its strangeness and its sometimes macabre weirdness, he was sure that he wouldn’t be leaving any time soon. Nowadays – at the ripe old age of thirty-two �
� he was convinced that he had found his place in the world.
This ancient, gothic, bijou seaside resort. Here he had a good job and responsibilities. He had friends – most of them old women, of course, but he found he preferred the company of older women. They had lived. They had seen a thing or two. Robert could identify with that.
And besides all of this, there were other things keeping him here in Whitby.
Adventures.
And not just adventures of the mysterious or even spooky kind. Though there were plenty of those to be had.
He was thinking about fellas, too. Those kind of adventures.
Or rather, one fella in particular.
Recently Robert had found himself a bloke.
Of course, it was all quite secret and hush-hush just now. He didn’t want to put the kibosh on it by telling everyone straight away. Brenda would want to see this bloke. Brenda was Robert’s best friend, full of good sense and cheer. Effie, who was Brenda’s friend and neighbour, would want to inspect the bloke too. She would be altogether sniffier and more pessimistic than Brenda. ‘You’ll never get a fella in this town,’ she’d once said to Robert, rather caustically. This was last autumn, during one of Sheila’s mad barbecues at the Hotel Miramar. ‘This town’s full of us old women. You’ll have to move on. Get yourself to the bright lights and the big city! Leeds or somewhere.’
