by Ian Sansom
‘Well, certainly a memorable day,’ said Morley, clambering aboard.
‘Satisfied now?’ asked Miriam quietly, as she walked away towards the Lagonda.
‘Satisfied with what?’ I asked.
‘That Alex is a better man than you? Braver? More honourable?’
There was no answer to this question.
We sang no hymns and played no games: the ride back to All Souls passed in silence.
CHAPTER 18
AN ADEPT
I ARRIVED IN SIDMOUTH more than an hour late for my appointment with Mrs Dodds.
I had the driver of the charabanc drop me off en route to the school, outside the Grand Cinema, with the excuse that I was going to see a film.
‘A film?’ said Morley. ‘Not a bad idea actually. Haven’t been myself for at least a week or so. Perhaps we should take the boys?’
‘Yes!’ cried the boys, whose day with Morley had already involved more incident and excitement than they might reasonably expect to enjoy in an average year.
‘No,’ said Bernhard strictly. ‘We must return the boys to the school now, Mr Morley.’
‘That might be best,’ I said.
‘Hmm. I suppose,’ agreed Morley, who was clearly chastened by the day’s events. Widespread groaning from the boys. ‘What are you going to see, Sefton?’
I had no idea.
‘I think there’s a new Fred Astaire,’ said Bernhard, coming to my rescue. ‘A Damsel in Distress?’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘A Damsel in Distress.’
‘Didn’t have you down as a Fred Astaire fan,’ said Morley.
‘No,’ I said.
‘With Joan Fontaine,’ said Bernhard. ‘I am a great fan of Joan Fontaine,’ he added.
‘A Joan Fontaine fan,’ said Morley. ‘Can’t say I share your enthusiasm. But a rather pleasing euphony.’
‘And there is a new Marlene Dietrich,’ said Bernhard. ‘Angel? I adore Marlene Dietrich.’
‘Entirely wholesome?’ said Morley, whose favourite film star was Charlie Chaplin, and whose favourite Chaplin was The Champion, in which Chaplin famously knocks out the tough guy using his lucky horseshoe in his glove, and then dances around the champ in the championship fight, a scene that might almost have served as Morley’s own celluloid emblem (though as any true aficionado will recall, and as Morley himself points out in Morley’s Movies, Chaplin used exactly the same rigmarole in City Lights, an inexcusable example, according to Morley, of self-plagiarism, albeit a fault to which he himself was more than ever so slightly prone).
So they dropped me off directly outside the Grand Cinema. Having claimed I was going to see a film – though I had no intention of going to see a film, and was in fact already late for my meeting with Mrs Dodds – I had no alternative but to go inside.
The Grand Cinema was perhaps rather less grand than its name suggested, though by no means a proverbial fleapit: there was good brocade, much polished wood and brass, and a general air of tidy efficiency. People were coming and going. Couples were queuing. Tickets were being briskly issued.
For a few moments I loitered, pretending to read the signs and advertisements on the walls: the Clifton Place Private Hotel, at Clifton Place, I discovered, boasts electric light in all bedrooms, and a new Woolworth’s store had recently opened in town. I lingered as long as I could. But then – because Morley had become engaged in some complicated conversation with the charabanc driver, and so the boys remained enviously watching and waving at me through the cinema’s big plate-glass doors – I had no choice but to join the end of the queue. And then – because Morley and the charabanc driver remained deep in their complicated conversation, and the boys continued watching and waving – I found myself shuffling inexorably forward. And then – still under scrutiny, alas – I found myself, inevitably, at the top of the cinema queue. This was not what I had intended.
‘Yes?’ said the small plump lipsticked girl behind the counter, without looking up: she was concentrating on filing her nails with an emery board.
I dug deep into my pockets: I had just enough for the price of the ticket, but then I would be entirely broke. Morley wouldn’t be paying me until the end of the month. I was always short of money. The boys outside continued staring in. There was no skulking off.
‘Yes?’ repeated the small plump girl.
I looked up at the posters. There was in fact no Marlene Dietrich or Fred Astaire available: the choice was between some pulpy thing called Dangerous Secrets and some odd-looking British film, The Edge of the World.
‘Hello?’ said the small plump girl, finally looking up. ‘Dangerous Secrets or The Edge of the World?’
‘How about Dangerous Secrets at the Edge of the World?’ I said.
‘Sorry?’
‘No, it’s a joke,’ I said.
‘Dangerous Secrets or The Edge of the World?’
‘Have you seen them?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Which do you recommend?’
‘Dangerous Secrets,’ she said.
‘What’s it about?’
‘The usual,’ she said.
‘The usual what?’ I asked.
‘Secrets?’ she suggested. ‘Dangerous secrets?’
‘Sounds perfect,’ I said. ‘Dangerous Secrets it is then,’ and as I handed over my only coins I looked outside to see the charabanc slowly pulling away.
The girl handed me the ticket – flashing neatly filed nails – which I tried immediately to hand back.
‘Actually, I wonder, could you give me a refund?’
‘A refund?’ She squinted suspiciously at me. ‘But you only just bought your ticket.’
‘Yes, I know, but I didn’t really want to go and see it.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t have bought the ticket then, should you?’
‘No, but I’m not going to see the film and I really need the money, so if you wouldn’t mind? I’ll just give you the ticket.’ I pushed it across the counter towards her. ‘And you just give me my money …’ I held out my palm.
‘We don’t do refunds.’ She turned and pointed to a sign displayed behind her which said, clearly, and entirely without caveats or clarifications: ‘NO REFUNDS’.
There was some impatient jostling from those in the queue behind me.
‘Is there a problem?’ asked a young Devonian man in an aggressively broad flat cap.
‘I’m just waiting for a refund,’ I said.
‘We don’t do refunds,’ said the plump girl, pointing again to the sign.
‘Are you blind or what?’ said the young man in the cap.
‘I would hardly be going to the cinema if I was blind, would I?’ I said, my back turned to the young man. I felt him barge me sharply with his shoulder. The entire weight of the queue behind seemed to begin to press in on me. I stood my ground.
‘Could I speak to the manager?’ I said to the plump girl.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Go ahead.’
There was more impatient jostling behind me.
‘Come on!’ said the young man. ‘You’re holding us all up.’
‘The manager?’ I repeated.
‘He’s there,’ the small plump girl said, pointing, but before I had a chance to follow her directions she hollered, ‘Paul!’ and Paul – a slight, balding young fellow with an ill-formed moustache and a receding chin and who wore a bright red concierge uniform that matched the colour of the small plump girl’s lipstick and who was manning the doors to the cinema – came shuffling over.
‘Everything all right?’ asked Paul.
‘Man wants a refund.’
‘We don’t do refunds,’ said Paul, pointing at the ‘NO REFUNDS’ sign.
I explained that I simply no longer wished to see the film.
‘No refunds,’ said Paul. ‘Management policy. You’ve got your ticket. You can see the film, or you can go home.’
‘Come on then,’ said the man behind me. ‘Off you go back home to Mummy. You heard what he sa
id.’
‘Yes,’ I said, turning to face the young man, flashing my recently broken nose. ‘I heard what the gentleman said, but I think you’ll find that under law I am still entitled to a refund if I have decided I am not going to partake of the product. The purchase of a ticket is not a binding contract.’ Clearly I had spent too long with Swanton Morley: I was talking myself into trouble.
‘Have you got some sort of a problem or what?’ said the young man.
‘No, I don’t have a problem,’ I said. ‘Why? Do you have a problem?’
‘Where are you from? Are you one of the ass-trologers from up at the school?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I am not an astrologer.’
‘Or one of the wizards?’ said the small plump girl.
There was laughter from the queue.
‘No, I am not a wizard,’ I said. ‘I’m from London.’ This caused further merriment.
‘Go on then. Get out, if you’re going, or get on in if you’re coming here,’ said Paul.
I was definitely going. I pocketed my ticket and walked outside.
Sidmouth, according to Morley in The County Guides, is east Devon at its finest: ‘With its frowning hills, its quaint shops and buildings, its fine seafront, and magnificent cottage hospital, a man could be born and live in Sidmouth and die content in the knowledge that this, like so many of our wonderful English seaside towns, represents the best of all possible places in the best of all possible worlds.’ Frowning and quaint are certainly correct: for all its seaside frivolities, Sidmouth I found to be a rather solemn, serious little town. And I cannot in all honesty recommend the Grand Cinema. Then again, perhaps all our judgements – of people, as of places – are based on such little evidence and incident.
I strolled briskly through the marketplace, past the International Stores, and the new Woolworth’s 3d and 6d shop, and Green’s the Fruiterer, past the Post Office and down towards the Esplanade, where I went into the Mocha Café, where Mrs Dodds was waiting.
She sat at a table at the very back, hidden almost completely from view behind some giant aspidistras, deep in thought, fingering her pearls. She rose from her seat as I approached: tall, dark-haired, statuesque. And angry.
‘I’m so sorry I’m late, Mrs Dodds,’ I said. She offered no greeting in return. ‘I’m afraid the day has been rather … eventful.’
‘I’m not a shopgirl, Mr Sefton. I am not accustomed to being kept waiting, and I can’t say I’m much interested in your apologies.’
‘No. Sorry.’ I felt like someone who had been summoned before a headmistress, or a high priestess.
‘I only have fifteen minutes. We’ll have to make it quick,’ she said.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Well, sit down, man, you’re making me nervous.’
We settled ourselves opposite one another at the table.
‘I ordered you coffee,’ she said. ‘But it’ll be cold.’
‘That’s fine,’ I said, ‘thank you.’
‘So.’ She settled back into her chair – one of those uncomfortable continental café-style things of dark steamed wood and rattan, with a raised rim around the edge that soon cuts uncomfortably into one’s thighs. ‘Why were you at the darkroom?’
‘I just wanted to look in the darkroom,’ I said.
‘That’s all?’
‘That’s all.’
‘There’s no other reason?’
‘No. Why?’
‘You’ve not heard anything about the darkroom, and you don’t know anything about the darkroom?’
‘No.’
She sighed deeply. ‘Can I trust you, Mr Sefton?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Hope, in my experience, does not get us very far. Can I trust you?’
‘Yes, Mrs Dodds,’ I said firmly. ‘Absolutely.’
She looked around and then reached out across the table and took my hand. ‘Look at me, please, Sefton. Directly. Into my eyes.’
I looked at her. She may have been forty, or perhaps older, but she was perfectly made up: her skin was pale and smooth, her cheeks delicately rouged, her eyebrows dark and arched, her lips a glossy red. And her wide brown eyes were clear and pleading. I was rather keen, at that moment, for Mrs Dodds to trust me.
‘You give me your word as a gentleman that what I’m going to tell you will remain the strictest secret?’
‘Of course.’
‘Say “I do.”’
‘I do.’
‘You swear on your mother’s life?’
‘I do.’
‘And on the Holy Bible?’
‘I do.’
If there was anything else she could have had me swear upon I’m sure she would.
‘No one must know,’ she said.
‘No one,’ I agreed.
She looked around again – there was no one near us – and then directly at me again and lowered her head slightly and began to speak, quietly but firmly.
‘I met … Alex only eighteen months ago. My husband had been invited to attend a fundraising event for the new school. Alex was utterly charming, of course.’
‘Of course.’ I seemed to be missing something entirely about Alex’s irresistible charms.
‘It was a very … convivial evening. And subsequently we …’
‘Who?’
‘Alex and I … got to know each other.’ She blushed. ‘Do you understand?’
‘I think so, Mrs Dodds, yes.’
‘And anyway, after we had known each other for some time Alex suggested …’
She took a sip of her coffee, which must have been cold. She shuddered rather as she sipped.
‘Well, you know what he’s like.’ She glanced around nervously, as though Alex might at any moment appear out of the walls.
‘I’m afraid that I don’t, Mrs Dodds.’
‘No. Well. He asked me if he could take some photographs.’
‘I see.’
‘I was flattered, you see. My husband is … Well, you’ve met my husband.’
‘Yes.’
‘So there we are, Sefton. I don’t think I need say any more. He took some photographs.’
‘Right. What sort of photographs exactly?’
She raised her eyebrow. ‘I don’t think further elaboration is necessary, Sefton, do you?’
‘No.’
‘And a gentleman would not have asked.’
‘Of course not. Sorry. I—’
‘Suffice it to say they are photographs I’m not particularly keen for my husband to see.’
‘Oh.’
‘Anyway, I subsequently broke things off – but Alex was able, or has been able to … persuade me to persuade my husband to make some rather generous endowments for the new school building.’
‘I see.’
‘Which is how they’ve ended up at Rousdon.’
So it was blackmail, plain and simple. He was building a little empire: the benefactors were his bankers and the boys his currency. I had suspected something about Alex – he was entirely too good to be true. But I was rather disappointed that the something was quite so prosaic and dull: a bigger and better school. I began to find the atmosphere in the Mocha Café oppressive: the uncomfortable continental-style seat was indeed cutting into my thighs; the lights were dim; and the walls themselves seemed to grow darker and to have closed in, as if somehow to echo our conversation; it was becoming night outside.
‘Frankly, Sefton, I don’t care what my husband does with his money,’ continued Mrs Dodds. ‘We have more than enough, we don’t have children, and why not give it to the damned school? I don’t even care about Alex and his stupid club.’
‘His club?’
‘He has some sort of club he wanted me to join,’ she said dismissively.
‘What sort of club?’
‘He said he wanted me to become an adept.’
‘An adept?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll have to explain, I’m afraid.’
&nb
sp; ‘I don’t know what it was. He’s interested in all this psychical research – is that what it’s called? I didn’t really understand.’
‘I see.’
‘He claims that his grandfather was a Red Indian, and that his mother was the mistress of the last tsar. That he has all these connections and this … knowledge. What did he call himself? He said he was some kind of “mage”.’
‘A “mage”?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘And you joined the club?’
‘I certainly did not! I began to find him – and the whole situation – utterly tiresome and absurd. Men! They’re like children. Anyway, we parted.’
‘You’d had your fun and you got bored.’ I recognised all the traits.
‘Perhaps.’ She fixed me with a cold stare and then took a teaspoon and stirred the remains of the cold coffee in her cup. ‘Women do get bored also, Sefton. All I want is to get back the photographs.’
She reached out again across the table and put her hand on mine. Her fingernails were painted a deep red. Her rather elaborate Art Deco-style wedding and engagement rings shone brightly under the café’s lights.
‘So, that’s my problem. And here is my proposition, Sefton. It’s perfectly simple: will you help me?’ She peeped up at me from beneath lowered eyelids.
I was beginning to think that it might have been her who had seduced Alex rather than he who had seduced her.
‘You think the photographs are in the darkroom?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘The darkroom is where he likes to … It’s where we …’
She opened her brown eyes wide – I could see her perfect dark pupils.
‘I see.’
A couple came and sat at a table close by and Mrs Dodds’s tone changed.
‘Oh, I really don’t know why I’m telling you all this, Sefton.’ There seemed to be a suggestion that I was somehow an unsuitable person to confide in.
‘Clearly you have your reasons,’ I suggested.
‘Well, there’s no one else I could turn to. I didn’t want to get the police involved and everyone here …’ She nodded towards the couple at the other table.
‘I understand,’ I said, as reassuringly as possible.
‘So you’d be prepared to try to find the … items for me?’
