Eleanor

by RA Williams

  If she had the nod from him, she felt confident she could blend in with Folkestone’s summer society.

  ‘Very glad we were able to sort out something to your liking,’ said Tony.

  ‘Yeah,’ she replied, eager to be shown to Commodore Wimbourne. ‘My unique sartorial style seems not to have gone down all that well in Folkestone so far. Schiaparelli is much more to my liking, anyway. I’m very grateful.’

  ‘The commodore requested afternoon tea. I’ve prepared it for two. I hope that’s not presumptuous.’

  ‘Not at all.’ She looked to the lobby. ‘Where is the lounge, exactly?’

  She was shown through open French doors to the left of reception, and passed four ladies at a table playing Double Canfield. Shockingly, they offered her nods of approval. At the far end of the lounge, in a bay window, sat Ribs Wimbourne. A bit stouter in the tum, he was no less elegant in his naval blues, a row of gold braiding below a gold curl on his cuffs denoting his rank. Biscuit crumbs covered the front of his jacket, and a white officer’s cap sat next to a tea service, one cup already half empty.

  His face warmed as his eyes fell upon her.

  ‘Hello, my dear,’ he said, struggling up from the overstuffed armchair, wiping crumbs from his grey Kitchener moustache.

  ‘Hello, Ribs,’ she replied, crossing the lounge. He gave her a fatherly hug. He wasn’t as tall as she remembered, and his hair had gone white. He smelled of ginger beer and cigars. Elle hadn’t had a hug in a year. It made her feel vulnerable.

  ‘Last time I saw you, you were in pigtails, having an ice lolly,’ he said, releasing her for a good looking over.

  ‘Oh, come now, Ribs. The last time you saw me I was twenty-five, at the opening of St Dunstan’s science museum. Neither was I in pigtails nor having an ice lolly.’

  ‘Well, it’s how I choose to remember you.’

  Looking to Swinburne, he gave a nod. ‘Thank you, Tony.’

  ‘Sir,’ Tony replied, before retreating to reception.

  Ribs offered her a seat. She chose the yellow-and-white floral chair across from him in the window, overlooking The Leas.

  Wimbourne continued, ‘Memory fails. This old battleship is overdue for the breakers.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she replied, eyeing his commodore boards. ‘Few more stripes on the shoulders.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he mused. ‘I was about to retire. The navy, in their infinite wisdom, decided to keep me on the roster.’

  He poured her a cup of tea from the silver teapot. She thanked him.

  ‘I cannot imagine what I should do with myself anyway. Play golf? Tend the roses? Drop dead?’

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ she asked pointedly.

  ‘A little bird.’ He had a rascal’s twinkle in his eyes. He held out a plate of biscuits. ‘Digestive?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘When did you arrive in England?’ he asked.

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Yesterday,’ he repeated. ‘And in just one day you’ve fallen in with Folkestone’s riff-raff.’

  ‘Presumably you are speaking of a certain publican?’

  ‘If that were the blatherskite’s only trade,’ said Ribs, cracking a smile under his walrus moustache. ‘His name is unmentionable within Folkestone’s finer establishments, even as they procure their spirits from him.’

  He sipped his tea.

  ‘He was on the blower first thing this morning to my staff. I near dropped my morning cigar in my kippers when I heard your name mentioned.’

  ‘You’re at odds?’

  ‘At odds? The scoundrel is an endless thorn in my side.’

  ‘Put a few thorns in mine as well,’ she said, rubbing her sore ribs.

  ‘I was rather alarmed to learn of a lady of your standing associating with the likes of Cubby Smyth. I hope you’ll forgive me, but I put a call through to your father. Awoke him in the middle of the night. Your family was not aware you had arrived in England.’

  ‘Shit. I meant to send word. It’s been a harrowing few days.’

  Ribs nodded. ‘You were wise to leave Germany when you did.’

  The old navy man queered the pitch.

  ‘How on earth did you know?’

  He smirked. ‘I wear the uniform of the Royal Navy, but Britain has me working on something hush-hush. It’s my job to know who’s coming and going these days. Especially from Adolf’s neck of the woods.’

  ‘Yet you didn’t know I’d arrived in Folkestone.’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I am, however, surprised by your associations.’

  He looked out of the open bay window, cooling Channel breeze furrowing the curtains.

  ‘Lovely afternoon, isn’t it?’

  ‘Folkestone is a dream,’ she replied.

  He leaned back in his armchair. ‘I’m from Folkestone. I live on East Cliff. But I was born in The Durlocks.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ she replied, wondering then if there was more to this visit than tea.

  ‘As a lad, I earned the odd shilling crewing a smack. My pa was a fisherman. His father, as well. And you can’t work a lugger nor ferry without having to deal with a Smyth.’

  ‘I need a favour,’ she interrupted.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘That bunker being dug into the hillside.’

  Ribs nodded slowly.

  ‘It interferes with the unmentionable’s trade.’

  ‘The unmentionable’s trade interferes with mine,’ he replied, words biting. ‘And his trade is rather less important than mine just now.’

  ‘I know it must be important.’

  ‘Every bunker being built is important. They could well mean the difference for Britain with what’s coming.’

  ‘The war, you mean?’

  He nodded. ‘There’s more at stake here than protecting a smuggler’s booty.’

  ‘How come they call you Ribs?’ she asked, trying a different tack.

  Removing a partially smoked cigar from his jacket pocket, he sparked it up, letting a few blue puffs of smoke rise.

  ‘I learned at an early age that the only way I should escape the drudgery of the working class was in His Majesty’s service. A uniform opened doors otherwise closed to a fisherman’s son living in The Durlocks. I know the sea. I like the uniform. Unfortunately, as a young man, any uniform I put on was so generous of size, I was swimming in it. A stiff breeze would have blown me over, so ribby was I.’

  ‘Ribby,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘By such time as lieutenant-commander pips were pinned on me, Ribs was left behind. Although I must admit to not having seen my ribs in many a year, the name persists among my close relations.’

  ‘Do you still think about that night?’ she asked as tactfully as she was able.

  His face saddened. ‘I’ve had three vessels go from under me. Two in the Great War alone. Titanic lingers in my mind the most.’

  ‘I don’t expect anyone who survived will ever forget.’

  ‘Not my finest hour.’

  ‘I knocked you into a lifeboat.’ Elle laughed.

  ‘Arse over kettle. Although a man of the sea, I admit to not being a strong swimmer.’

  ‘Fortunately, you didn’t have to test your stroke that night.’

  Tipping his cigar ash into a teacup, his eyes narrowed.

  ‘You were about to ask me to repay the debt for saving my life,’ he said.

  ‘I was about to ask for help.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Redirect your digging.’

  He sighed. ‘You do realise the sensitivity of such a request.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s a lovely bunker you’re building, Ribs. Surely a little alteration wouldn’t harm anyone?’

  ‘Perhaps if I were to know why?’

  ‘You’re tunnelling under a parish church with crypts beneath.’

  ‘My engineers are not inexperienced, Eleanor. They did a thorough survey. I’m confident they’re digging well below St Emiliana’s crypts.’

 
‘I’m sure they are respectful to the church. But I don’t imagine they, nor you, are aware of what might lie below the crypts.’

  ‘Ah.’ Ribs’s head tilted with curiosity. ‘I see.’

  ‘Smugglers are a part of Folkestone further back than the laying of St Emiliana’s foundations.’

  ‘He’s got vaults under there, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Not just Smyth.’

  ‘The War Department’s needs supersede the trade, illicit or otherwise, of a civilian. Particularly one as villainous as Cubby Smyth. If he were under my command, I’d frogmarch him into the chokey and toss the key.’

  ‘How about we do a deal?’ she offered.

  ‘What sort of deal?’

  ‘A deal deal.’

  ‘Ah, you mean an American deal?’

  She nodded. ‘Pretend you’re a Republican.’

  ‘Just for an instant, let’s say I were to agree. What’s in it for me?’

  ‘You keep schtum about what may or may not be under the church catacomb, and in return Cubby offers you one of his disused caves. Some of them are cavernous and brick-lined.’

  ‘You mean to say you’ve seen them?’

  ‘I have. It’s a ready-made bunker. All you have to do is link your existing digging with one of his caves. Your bunker is complete far ahead of schedule. Everyone is happy.’

  ‘I doubt Smyth would be,’ he scoffed.

  ‘It would mean ever so much to me, Ribs.’

  ‘The debt repaid?’

  ‘Who came to see whom?’ she replied, as genially as she could.

  ‘What I cannot work out is why on earth would a respectable lady, such as yourself, want to help the likes of Cubby Smyth?’

  ‘Considering my last employer, I think you’ll find Smyth to be more respectable than I am.’

  Ribs’s mood lightened. ‘Got yourself into a Horlicks, eh?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Nevertheless—’

  ‘He’s the right sort to have on your side,’ Elle interrupted. ‘Especially with what’s apparently coming.’

  Ribs stared at her for a while in silence. ‘Very well. I’ll modify the direction of our tunnelling; you get me one of Smyth’s smugglers’ caves.’ Finishing his cigar, he asked, ‘Are you planning to remain in Folkestone long?’

  She replied with a smile. It was a very good question.

  Streaks of orange and red fought off the darkening hues of dusk. There was an end-of-summer feel to the air as she doubled her pace along The Leas. Having resolved one problem, Elle hurried to The Bayle to see about another.

  Wally the Wall’s man had shifted his tandem to the front of the Leas Lift. Children broke from their parents’ grasp as they came off the funicular atop the hillside.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy,’ a little girl in summer print dress and knee socks begged. ‘It’s the Wall’s man. I ate all my peas, won’t Daddy let me have a Snofrute?’

  A weary father fished a twopence from his trousers. Wally knew his trade, and where to get it.

  In passing, Elle caught his eye. Wally did a double take before doffing his cap. ‘Cor, you clean up all right, Yank.’

  She smiled.

  Cutting across the grounds of St Emiliana’s, she passed the oaken shrine listing the names of thirty-nine members of the parish who had died in the Great War, before making for The Bayle. Mounting the steps to Balthasar’s front door, she decided it was better not to enter unannounced. Gently, she knocked. The Persian peered through the curtain of the glazed door, eyes warming.

  ‘Evening, Elle. Where did you run off to?’ he asked, inviting her in.

  ‘Went to the hotel for a wash and dozed off.’

  ‘Bath and a rest do wonders, eh?’

  By the look of his freshly pressed clothes and the scent of soap, she wasn’t the only one who’d had a good scrub. Shown to the lounge, she noticed immediately the door at the far end of the room was open, an adjoining lounge on the other side.

  ‘You live in the next house?’

  ‘Good of Buster to offer me a bit of privacy. As you see,’ he said, standing near the open door connecting their lounges, ‘I’m never more than a few feet away.’

  Elle went to the settee. The largest rose blooms she’d ever seen sat in an old vase by the open windows. Still some life in the old place. Mahmoud’s tommy gun remained by the armchair. The Belgian’s Winchester had gone.

  ‘Where is Mssr Gaele?’

  ‘Gone home,’ he replied, sinking into the chair.

  ‘He doesn’t live here?’

  ‘Occasional guest when he’s too pissed to stagger home. Mssr Gaele is an unapologetic arriviste, living in a smart residence at the West End of The Leas. Nine bedrooms, just. Cost a packet. Done all right in the diamond trade.’

  ‘And yourself?’ she asked. ‘Number 1, The Bayle is quite humble.’

  ‘I live at Number 2. Both belong to Buster.’

  ‘Humble for him, as well.’

  ‘Profligacy attracts attention. In the twelfth century, The Bayle was quite the swank street. As a matter of fact, all Folkestone was once held by the Toule manor.’

  Elle peered about the lounge at the tatty Persian rug over worm-worn wooden floors, at the eggshell-blue walls, the faded floral-print wallpaper around the fireplace and matching settee and chair ready for the rag-and-bone man. To suggest it was dated was an understatement. ‘Did his grandmother decorate it?’

  Mahmoud chortled. ‘He’s comfortable here.’

  ‘Is he comfortable just now?’ she asked, wringing her hands nervously.

  ‘In better spirits.’

  ‘That offal Gaele brought…’

  ‘He required it.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘The very thing we must have, we deny. To taste the forbidden is to succumb. But there are substitutes that quell the hunger. They don’t diminish our desires, however.’ Climbing to his feet, Mahmoud made for the front door.

  ‘You’re leaving?’

  Perching his bowler on his head, he said, ‘Off to the pub. Fish and chips will quell my own hunger nicely.’

  He was gone. And the house grew still. She turned to the stairs and crossed the lounge to stand at their foot, grasping the newel post. The stairs were narrow and far from plumb, and they ascended into darkness. She had waited twenty-seven years to be alone with Balthasar; she wasn’t about to wait any longer.

  Before she could climb the first riser, there came movement, a scraping, then footsteps above her head, and a sound like fluttering wings.

  A door creaked on the landing above. Weak light illuminated the top of the stairs. Backing away, the heel of her wedge sandal caught on the Persian rug. She tripped backwards, landing hard in the floral armchair by the open window. Then she felt wings buffeting her hair. Protecting her head with her hands, she awaited the strike.

  Instead, a hand took hold of her shoulder. Slowly, she dared to look up. There he stood. The raffish, if gaunt, face she had forgotten. It felt familiar, his bottomless eyes looking down at her.

  ‘Balthasar,’ she gasped, uncoiling.

  ‘Eleanor.’ His voice was calm and sure.

  ‘You are—’ Uncharacteristically demure, she struggled to find words. ‘You are okay?’

  ‘I should ask you,’ he said, helping her to her feet.

  ‘I – I heard wings batting,’ she said, struggling to compose herself, like a swooning teenager with a crush. Here was her ineradicable memory, fresh and vivid, his raw-boned face real, his unruly hair flopping over his forehead, obscuring his left eye.

  He brushed it aside and studied her in return. So intense a look from him was too much. Her hard shell cracked at last, and she fell against him, arms wrapping around him tightly. She breathed him in. He smelled of summer in England. Of life.

  Raising her head again, she looked at his face. He had shaved, the scruff on his chin gone, making him look even younger. Elle surprised herself by looking away again.

  ‘Here you are, Balthasar Toule.’
>
  ‘Been a long time since anyone called me that.’

  ‘You are him, though?’ she persisted.

  ‘He is long dead.’ He dropped his arms. ‘Who you see is Buster Hadley.’

  ‘I’ve had twenty-seven years to work out your hornswoggle.’

  ‘Hornswoggle?’ he repeated. ‘You Americans. Your language is a mystery.’ He looked to the window and smiled, albeit thinly. ‘The Leas is lovely this time of evening. And I’ve been cooped up. Fancy a stroll?’

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you all about it.’

  ‘It?’

  ‘Your hornswoggle.’

  A Union Jack fluttered above the Leas Lift in the mild evening breeze. A lift car hissed to a halt at the top, doors opening beside a queue of people waiting to pile in for the ride down the funicular to the promenade. A family with three children alighted and made straight for the Wall’s tricycle to indulge in Choco Bars.

  She and Balthasar sat on a bench facing the Channel, the lights of Victoria Pier winking to life below them. Distant voices cheered. Couples strolled along The Leas taking in the sea air, enjoying the last glimmer of summer. It was all so ordinary. Or perhaps, with all Elle had experienced in the last few days, Folkestone’s patient and polite holidaymakers were extraordinary.

  ‘Another summer at an end,’ said Balthasar, gazing down towards a distant band playing ragtime.

  It was all she could do to concentrate on the Channel view, so badly did she want to take Balthasar in.

  ‘Hard to imagine even a titch of trouble in the world just now,’ said Elle. ‘I adore it here. Changed so much, this place. This world. When I was a child, there was nothing more than wealds all the way to Dover.’

  No matter how she tried to distract herself, Elle couldn’t resist his profile. He had not aged a single day since 1912. He turned to her. Caught in the act of staring, she blushed.

  ‘So…’ she said, eager to move on. ‘Hornswoggle.’

  ‘You were going to explain.’

  ‘You are Buster Hadley, yes?’

  He nodded.

  ‘As you were Balthasar Toule before.’

  ‘You are persistent,’ he replied, tone neither here nor there.

  ‘Your chicanery hoodwinked fate, as it did me, for quite some time. I was hornswoggled.’

  ‘Hornswoggled,’ he repeated. ‘Clever Yank.’