She closed the book.
Jeremy was sitting in his seat, a piece of croissant halfway to his lips.
John Hancock stood up. “Of course it was a practical joke,” he said. “Now you’d better help me get Nick off the floor. He seems to have fainted.”
Harriet’s Horrible Dream
What made the dream so horrible was that it was so vivid. Harriet actually felt that she was sitting in a movie theater, rather than lying in bed, watching a film about herself. And although she had once read that people dream only in black-and-white, her dream was in full Technicolor. She could see herself wearing her favorite pink dress and there were red bows in her hair. Not, of course, that Harriet would have dreamed of having a black-and-white dream. Only the best was good enough for her.
Nonetheless, this was one dream that she wished she wasn’t having. Even as she lay there with her legs curled up and her arms tight against her sides, she wished that she could wake up and call for Fifi—her French nanny—to go and make the breakfast. This dream, which could have gone on for seconds but at the same time seemed to have stretched through the whole night, was a particularly horrid one. In fact, it was more of a nightmare. That was the truth.
It began so beautifully. There was Harriet in her pink dress, skipping up the path of their lovely house just outside Bath, in Wiltshire. She could actually hear herself singing. She was on her way back from school, and a particularly good day it had been, too. She had been first in the class in spelling, and even though she knew she had cheated—peeking at the words that she had hidden in her pencil case—she had still enjoyed going to the front of the class to receive her merit mark. Naturally, Jane Wilson (who had come second) had said some nasty things, but Harriet had gotten her back, “accidentally” spilling a glass of milk over the other girl during lunch.
She was glad to be home. Harriet’s house was a huge, white building—nobody in the school had a bigger house than she did—set in a perfect garden complete with its own stream and miniature waterfall. Her brand-new bicycle was leaning against the wall outside the front door, although perhaps she should have put it in the garage as it had been left out in the rain for a week now and had already begun to rust. Well, that was Fifi’s fault. If the nanny had put it away for her, it would be all right now. Harriet thought about complaining to her mother. She had a special face for when things went wrong and a way of squeezing out buckets of tears. If she complained hard enough, perhaps Mommy would sack Fifi. That would be fun. Harriet had already managed to get four nannies sacked. The last one had only been there three weeks!
She opened the front door and it was then that things began to go wrong. Somehow she knew it even before she realized what was happening. But of course that was something that was often the case in dreams. Events happened so quickly that you were aware of them before they actually arrived.
Her father was home from work early. Harriet had already seen his Porsche parked in the driveway. Guy Hubbard ran an antiques shop in Bath, although he had recently started dabbling in other businesses, too. There was a property he was developing in Bristol, and something to do with time-share apartments in Majorca. But antiques were his main love. He would tour the country visiting houses, often where people had recently died. He would introduce himself to the widows and take a look around, picking out the treasures with a practiced eye. “That’s a nice table,” he would say. “I could give you fifty dollars for that. Cash in hand. No questions asked. What do you say?” And later on that same table would turn up in his shop with a price tag for five hundred or even five thousand dollars. This was the secret of Guy’s success. The people he dealt with never had any idea how much their property was worth. But he did. He once said he could smell a valuable piece even before he saw it.
Right now he was in the front living room, talking to his wife in a low, unhappy voice. Something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong. Harriet went over to the door and put her ear against the wood.
“We’re finished,” Guy was saying. “Done for. We’ve gone belly-up, my love. And there’s nothing we can do.”
“Have you lost it all?” his wife was saying. Hilda Hubbard had once been a hairdresser, but it had been years since she had worked. Even so, she was always complaining that she was tired and took at least six vacations a year.
“The whole bloody lot. It’s this development. Jack and Barry have cleared out. Skipped the country. They’ve taken all the money and they’ve left me with all the debts.”
“But what are we going to do?”
“Sell out and start again, old girl. We can do it. But the house is going to have to go. And the cars . . .”
“What about Harriet?”
“She’ll have to move out of that fancy school for a start. It’s going to be a public school from now on. And that cruise the two of you were going on. You’re going to have to forget about that!”
Harriet had heard enough. She pushed open the door and marched into the room. Already her cheeks had gone bright red and she had pressed her lips together so tightly that they were pushing out, kissing the air.
“What’s happened?” she exclaimed in a shrill voice. “What are you saying, Daddy? Why can’t I go on the cruise?”
Guy looked at his daughter unhappily. “Were you listening outside?” he demanded.
Hilda was sitting in a chair, holding a glass of whiskey. “Don’t bully her, Guy,” she said.
“Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!” Harriet had drawn herself up as if she was about to burst into tears. But she had already decided she wasn’t going to cry. On the other hand, she might try one of her earsplitting screams.
Guy Hubbard was standing beside the fireplace. He was a short man with black, slicked-back hair and a small mustache. He was wearing a checked suit with a red handkerchief poking out of the top pocket. He and Harriet had never really been close. In fact, Harriet spoke to him as little as possible and usually only to ask him for money.
“You might as well know,” he said. “I’ve just gone bankrupt.”
“What?” Harriet felt the tears pricking her eyes despite herself.
“Don’t be upset, my precious baby doll—” Hilda began.
“Do be upset!” Guy interrupted. “There are going to be a few changes around here, my girl. I can tell you that. You can forget your fancy clothes and your French nannies . . .”
“Fifi?”
“I fired her this morning.”
“But I liked her!” The tears began to roll down Harriet’s cheeks.
“You’re going to have to start pulling your weight. By the time I’ve paid off all the debts, we won’t have enough money to pay for a tin of beans. You’ll have to get a job. How old are you now? Fourteen?”
“I’m twelve!”
“Well, you can still get a paper route or something. And, Hilda, you’re going to have to go back to hair. Cut and blow-dry at thirty bucks a shot.” Guy took out a cigarette and lit it, blowing blue smoke into the air. “We’ll buy a house in Bletchly or somewhere. One bedroom is all we can afford.”
“So where will I sleep?” Harriet quavered.
“You can sleep in the bath.”
And that was what did it. The tears were pouring now—not just out of Harriet’s eyes but also, more revoltingly, out of her nose. At the same time she let out one of her loudest, shrillest screams. “I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!” she yelled. “I’m not leaving this house and I’m not sleeping in the bath. This is all your fault, Daddy. I hate you and I’ve always hated you and I hate Mommy, too, and I am going on my cruise and if you stop me I’ll report you to social services and the police and I’ll tell everyone that you steal things from old ladies and you never pay any taxes and you’ll go to prison and see if I care!”
Harriet was screaming so loudly that she had almost suffocated herself. She stopped and sucked in a great breath of air, then turned on her heel and flounced out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Even as she went, she heard her father mutter, “We
’re going to have to do something about that girl.”
But then she was gone.
And then, as is so often the way in dreams, it was the next day, or perhaps the day after, and she was sitting at the breakfast table with her mother, who was eating a bowl of low-fat granola and reading the Sun when her father came into the kitchen.
“Good morning,” he said.
Harriet ignored him.
“All right,” Guy said. “I’ve listened to what you had to say and I’ve talked things over with your mother and it does seem that we’re going to have to come to a new arrangement.”
Harriet helped herself to a third crumpet and smothered it in butter. She was being very prim and lady-like, she thought. Very grown up. The effect was only spoiled when melted butter dribbled down her chin.
“We’re moving,” Guy went on. “But you’re right. There isn’t going to be room for you in the new setup. You’re too much of a little miss.”
“Guy . . .” Hilda muttered disapprovingly.
Her husband ignored her. “I’ve spoken to your uncle Algernon,” he said. “He’s agreed to take you.”
“I don’t have an Uncle Algernon,” Harriet sniffed.
“He’s not really your uncle. But he’s an old friend of the family. He runs a restaurant in London. The Sawney Bean. That’s what it’s called.”
“That’s a stupid name for a restaurant,” Harriet said.
“Stupid or not, it’s a big hit. He’s raking it in. And he needs a young girl like you. Don’t ask me what for! Anyway, I’ve telephoned him today and he’s driving down to pick you up. You can go with him. And maybe one day when we’ve sorted ourselves out—”
“I’ll miss my little Harry-Warry!” Hilda moaned.
“You won’t miss her at all! You’ve been too busy playing bridge and having your toes manicured to look after her properly. Maybe that’s why she’s turned into such a spoiled little so-and-so. But it’s too late now. He’ll be here soon. You’d better go and pack a bag.”
“My baby!” This time it was Hilda who began to cry, her tears dripping into her granola.
“I’ll take two bags,” Harriet said. “And you’d better give me some pocket money, too. Six months in advance!”
Uncle Algernon turned up at midday. After what her father had said, Harriet had expected him to drive a Rolls-Royce or at the very least a Jaguar and was disappointed by her first sight of him, rattling up the drive in a rather battered white van with the restaurant name, SAWNEY BEAN, written in bloodred letters on the side.
The van stopped and a figure got out, almost impossibly, from the front seat. He was so tall that Harriet was unsure how he had ever managed to fit inside. As he straightened up, he was much taller than the van itself, his bald head higher even than the antenna on the roof. He was also revoltingly thin. It was as if a normal human being had been put on a rack and stretched. His legs and his arms, hanging loose by his side, seemed to be made of elastic. His face was unusually repulsive. Although he had no hair on his head, he had big, bushy eyebrows that didn’t quite fit over his small, glistening eyes. His skin was roughly the same shape. He was wearing a black coat with a fur collar around his neck and gleaming black shoes that squeaked when he walked.
Guy Hubbard was the first one out to greet him. “Hello, Archie!” he exclaimed. The two men shook hands. “How’s business?”
“Busy. Very busy.” Algernon had a soft, low voice that reminded Harriet of an undertaker. “I can’t hang around, Guy. I have to be back in town by lunch. Lunch!” He licked his lips with a wet, pink tongue. “Fully booked today. And tomorrow. And all week. Sawney Bean has been more successful than I would ever have imagined.”
“Packing ’em in, I bet.”
“You could say that.”
“So have you got it, then?”
Algernon smiled and reached into the pocket of his coat, pulling out a crumpled brown envelope, which he handed to Guy. Harriet watched, puzzled, from the front door. She knew what brown envelopes meant where her father was concerned. This man, Algernon, was obviously giving him money—and lots of it from the size of the envelope. But he was the one who was taking her away to look after her. So shouldn’t Guy have been paying him?
Guy pocketed the money.
“So where is she?” Algernon asked.
“Harriet!” Guy called.
Harriet picked up her two suitcases and stepped out of the house for the last time. “I’m here,” she said. “But I hope you’re not expecting me to travel in that perfectly horrid little van . . .”
Guy scowled. But it seemed that Algernon hadn’t heard her. He was staring at her with something in his eyes that was hard to define. He was certainly pleased by what he saw. He was happy. But there was something else. Hunger? Harriet could almost feel the eyes running up and down her body.
She put the suitcases down and grimaced as he ran a finger along the side of her face. “Oh, yes,” he breathed. “She’s perfect. First-class. She’ll do very well.”
“What will I do very well?” Harriet demanded.
“None of your business,” Guy replied.
Meanwhile, Hilda had come out onto the driveway. She was trembling and, Harriet noticed, refused to look at the new arrival.
“It’s time to go,” Guy said.
Algernon smiled at Harriet. He had dreadful teeth. They were yellow and uneven and—worse—strangely pointy. They were more like the teeth of an animal. “Get in,” he said. “It’s a long drive.”
Hilda broke out in fresh tears. “Aren’t you going to kiss me good-bye?” she wailed.
“No,” Harriet replied.
“Good-bye,” Guy said. He wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.
Harriet climbed into the van while Algernon placed her cases in the back. The front seat was covered in cheap plastic and it was torn in places, the stuffing oozing through. There was also a mess on the floor; candy-bar wrappers, old invoices, and an empty cigarette pack. She tried to lower the window, but the handle wouldn’t turn.
“Good-bye, Mommy! Good-bye, Dad!” she called through the glass. “I never liked it here and I’m not sorry I’m going. Maybe I’ll see you again when I’m grown up.”
“I doubt it . . .” Had her father really said that? That was certainly what it sounded like. Harriet turned her head away in contempt.
Algernon had climbed in next to her. He had to coil his whole body up to fit in and his head still touched the roof. He started the engine up and a moment later the van was driving away. Harriet didn’t look back. She didn’t want her parents to think she was going to miss them.
The two of them didn’t speak until they had reached the M4 motorway and begun the long journey east toward the city. Harriet had looked for the radio, hoping to listen to music. But it had been stolen, the broken wires hanging out of the dashboard. She was aware of Algernon examining her out of the corner of his eye even as he drove, and when this became too irritating, she finally spoke.
“So tell me about this restaurant of yours,” she said.
“What do you want to know?” Algernon asked.
“I don’t know . . .”
“It’s very exclusive,” Algernon began. “In fact, it’s so exclusive that very few people know about it. Even so, it is full every night. We never advertise, but word gets around. You could say that it’s word of mouth. Yes. Word of mouth is very much what we’re about.”
There was something creepy about the way he said that. Once again his tongue slid over his lips. He smiled to himself, as if at some secret joke.
“Is it an expensive restaurant?” Harriet asked.
“Oh, yes. It is the most expensive restaurant in London. Do you know how much dinner for two at my restaurant would cost you?”
Harriet shrugged.
“Five hundred dollars. And that’s not including the wine.”
“That’s crazy!” Harriet scowled. “Nobody would pay that much for a dinner for two.”
“
My clients are more than happy to pay. You see . . .” Algernon smiled again. His eyes never left the road. “There are people who make lots of money in their lives. Film stars and writers. Investment bankers and businessmen. They have millions and millions of dollars and they have to spend it on something. These people think nothing of spending a hundred dollars on a few spoonfuls of caviar. They’ll spend a thousand dollars on a single bottle of wine! They go to all the classi est restaurants and they don’t care how much they pay as long as their meal is cooked by a famous cook, ideally with the menu written in French and all the ingredients flown, at huge expense, from all around the world. Are you with me, my dear?”
“Don’t call me ‘my dear,’ ” Harriet said.
Algernon chuckled softly. “But of course there comes a time,” he went on, “when they’ve eaten everything there is to be had. The best smoked salmon and the finest filet mignon. There are only so many ingredients in the world, my dear, and soon they find they’ve tasted them all. Oh, yes, there are a thousand ways to prepare them. Pigeon’s breast with marmalade and foie gras. But there comes a time when they feel they’ve had it all. When their appetites become jaded. When they’re looking for a completely different eating experience. And that’s when they come to Sawney Bean.”
“Why did you give the restaurant such a stupid name?” Harriet asked.
“It’s named after a real person,” Algernon replied. He didn’t seem ruffled at all even though Harriet had been purposefully trying to annoy him. “Sawney Bean lived in Scotland at the start of the century. He had unusual tastes . . .”
“I hope you’re not expecting me to work in this restaurant.”
“To work?” Algernon smiled. “Oh, no. But I do expect you to appear in it. In fact, I’m planning to introduce you at dinner tonight . . .”
The dream shifted forward and suddenly they were in London, making their way down the King’s Road, in Chelsea. And there was the restaurant! Harriet saw a small, white-bricked building with the name written in red letters above the door. The restaurant had no window and there was no menu on display. In fact, if Algernon hadn’t pointed it out, she wouldn’t have noticed it at all. He hit the turn signal and the van turned into a narrow alley, running behind the building.
Horowitz Horror Page 8
