by A. L. Barker
‘Then I saw a huge great face, up on the cliff, leering at me.’
‘Oh come on, if you’re on the beach and there’s a man on the cliff you wouldn’t be able to see him leer.’
‘There wasn’t a man, only a face, hundreds of feet of face in the rock, like those American presidents.’
‘You dreamed it.’
‘Dreams reveal what you’re thinking.’
‘It was a trick of the light on a geological formation.’ She sipped her sherry and grimaced. He said, ‘I can see you’re not going to enjoy this holiday. You’ve made up your mind not to.’
‘I feel as if something’s waiting to happen.’
‘Why did you come?’
‘To be with you.’
He might have told her she was going the wrong way about it. He might have told her a thing or two. He twiddled his empty glass. ‘I think I’ll have another.’
At the bar counter someone was holding forth. ‘I’ve nothing against the English weekend. It’s an institution, but only for the Establishment. Essential services should maintain their essence through Monday to Monday. The veriest banger has the right to have its wants supplied on a Saturday afternoon. My car’s a very banger, it’s sitting in the road like a broody hen and you tell me no one will do anything about it.’
‘You might find a garage open for repairs in Falmouth,’ said the barmaid.
‘How do I get to Falmouth?’
‘There’s a bus tomorrow afternoon.’
He winked at her. ‘What’ll I do till then?’
He was pleasantly pissed, thought Antony, envying the condition.
‘There’s a hotel.’ The barmaid drew Antony’s second pint. ‘The Bellechasse. This gentleman’s staying there.’
‘The Bellwhat?’
‘It’s French for nice hunting,’ said Antony.
‘Sounds expensive.’
‘It’s not.’
‘Is it far?’
‘You could walk it.’
When Antony went back with his beer, Pam said, ‘Do you have to keep drinking?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who was that you were talking to?’
‘His car’s broken down and he’s stranded. He was asking me about the hotel.’
‘Our hotel?’
‘There’s another?’
Pam sighed. ‘Drink makes you surly.’ It was spoken softly and reasonably but there was no reason.
‘Do you know about cars?’ The stranded man had come with his go-lucky air and a tot of whisky.
Antony shrugged. ‘Not much.’
‘There’s not much wrong with mine. She’s got a charge like a rhino when she’s roused. Trouble is rousing her.’
Pam said, ‘Don’t you belong to any of the motoring organisations?’
‘Can’t run to it. I’m an underemployed painter.’
‘Where did you break down?’ asked Antony.
‘A mile or so back. Just petered out. The starter motor works but that’s all. Probably a screw loose somewhere. You wouldn’t take a look, would you?’
‘I’ll look but I can’t promise anything.’
He held out his hand. ‘Olssen, Charlie.’
‘My name’s Wallington, and this is Pam.’
‘Would you mind if we go and look at the car?’ Olssen said to her.
‘I shan’t come.’
‘We won’t be long. Ten minutes there, ten minutes back, two ticks to fix it.’
‘I’ll go back to the hotel.’
When he and Antony were outside, Olssen said, ‘Does she mind?’
‘She doesn’t like pubs.’ Antony had seen a crust of paint on the seat of Olssen’s jeans. ‘I suppose the bottom’s out of the building trade?’
‘I guess so.’ Olssen sounded unconcerned.
‘It’s bound to recover. People have to have houses, they don’t have to have flowers.’
‘Nor pictures.’
‘I’m a florist.’
‘People have to have flowers for weddings and funerals and to take to hospitals,’ Olssen pointed out.
‘I picked a bunch from the hedgerow, to see how many varieties there were. I counted forty-five.’
‘Mostly weeds?’
‘They were flowers, beautiful and free-gratis.’
‘What did you do with them?’
‘Threw them away. Pam didn’t want them. She said, like you, they were weeds.’
Olssen was starting to roll. Antony liked him for it, he didn’t trust a man with a strong head. They came to a bend in the road. Olssen pointed with an unsteady finger, ‘There she is.’ With the bonnet up, the car looked ready to take a bite. ‘Going like the clappers till we got here. She knew I was thinking of taking her to the breakers.’
‘If it’s a simple fault and I can spot it I might be able to get you going.’
Antony tried the starter. It whirred but did not fire the engine. ‘Can you rely on the petrol gauge?’
‘I took on ten litres at Truro, it was working then.’
‘Seems the petrol’s not getting through. I’ll check the fuel pump. Have you got a rag?’
Charlie rooted in a holdall on the back seat and brought out a piece of material. Antony held it ready while he disconnected the fuel pipe. A few drops of petrol spilled out. ‘Turn on the ignition.’ Olssen obeyed and petrol squirted on to the cloth. ‘Pump’s okay.’ Antony reconnected the pipe. ‘These yours?’ He held up the petrol-soaked cloth – a pair of silk pants.
‘Hell, no.’
‘You’ve got some hairy old plugs. When were they last changed?’
‘Not in my lifetime.’
‘I’d say it’s either a problem within the carburettor or an ignition fault. The plugs need sandblasting, or better still, renewing. I’m not an expert, you don’t have to take my word.’
‘I’ll take it. What do I do now?’
‘Wait till Monday.’ Antony wiped his hands on the briefs.
‘Those must be Lumsden’s. I’d forgotten his pack on the back seat.’
‘There’s someone with you?’
‘He missed the bus. What’s it like where you’re staying?’
*
Ernie Clapham was sitting with his feet in the goldfish pond, as was his custom on warm evenings. Pam thought it disgusting. Imagining the softness and coolness of the water, Antony was tempted to take off his shoes and socks and dip in, but the thought of intruding on another man’s solitary pleasure inhibited him.
Clapham looked up as Antony and Olssen approached. ‘Nothing to beat a paddle when you’ve been on your feet all day.’
‘Mr Olssen would like a room,’ said Antony.
Clapham splashed and churned up the water. ‘The fish tickle my toes, no one’s done that since I was a babe in arms.’
‘And something to eat,’ said Olssen.
‘The wife will fix you a sandwich.’
‘I haven’t eaten since breakfast.’
‘There may be some soup left.’
Olssen put his hands on his knees and stooped over the pond. ‘Look at those colours – green and white like a spring onion. Water plays the devil with skin tones.’
‘Never did mine any harm.’ Clapham hauled up his feet. ‘I’ll show you your room.’
Antony left them climbing the stairs. Pam was in their bedroom, sitting on the bed. She said, ‘You’ve been ages. Why have you been such ages?’
‘I couldn’t get Olssen’s car started.’
‘Whose car?’
‘Charlie Olssen’s the chap we met in the pub. He’s booked in here.’
‘Did you know Dolly Pentreath was the last woman to speak the old Cornish?’
‘Who told you that?’
He hoped she had found someone to talk to, but she said she had overheard it while she was waiting. ‘I’ve been waiting ages, sitting thinking.’
‘Why didn’t you go to bed?’
‘I wouldn’t sleep.’
‘Take a book, read yourself to sleep.’
‘I keep remembering – that man carrying the child – its clothes all wet.’
She was staring at him wide – no, wild-eyed – and he thought, Here we go again. ‘Look …’ Wherever she looked she wouldn’t see the crabhold round his heart. ‘I’m going down for a bit.’
‘Don’t go Nanty, stay with me—’
He blundered to the door, making as if he hadn’t heard. He wished he hadn’t brought Pam here. The place had bad vibes, bringing out the worst in her. Her worst, he thought glumly, might count as the best in some women. Loyalty, devotion, which she undoubtedly had, emerged as clinging, which he had never wanted in a woman. Her whimsies, which had been light-hearted and irresponsible, now threatened to engulf him.
There was no one in what the Claphams called the ‘sitter’. The television was showing a picture of its own choosing – a black and white blizzard. Antony switched it off.
Without people, this was still a noisy room. He put it down to the chair covers which were unflaggingly chintz, with Afro-modern spinning suns and some geometric patterns mixed with cottage-garden teenies. There was yet another design of muscular vines with leaves like steaks. He sat to examine it more closely.
It surprised him how some people regarded flowers. Women asked for the ‘old jam-tart roses’. ‘We spent a fortune decorating the church for when the bishop came,’ said a vicar’s wife. ‘We did roses because they were his favourite flower. But they were those new button things and they never opened out. Of course abroad they use plastic which has to be kept clean. I don’t see our ladies sponging the arum lilies as an act of faith.’ A man ordering a bouquet had told him, ‘The last time I took gypsophila into the house my wife accused me of mental cruelty.’ Antony had heard that growers were tidying up the self-destruct factor.
Mildred Gascoigne came in, observing that she was tempted to stroll as far as the field gate. ‘The cove looks so pretty when the lights come on.’
‘Ah.’ said Antony.
‘Oh, am I disturbing you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Do you know the gate I mean?’
He thought she sounded wistful, and hoped she wouldn’t suggest they take a stroll together. Charlie Olssen walked in as he was starting to jingle coins in his pocket. ‘Did I just see a Leda and her Swan on a pair of Bermuda shorts?’
‘Senga wears a garment with a strange device.’ said Mildred.
‘Girl nursing a big duck.’ supplied Antony.
‘Hanging a Leonardo on her butt is blasphemy.’ said Charlie.
*
Gilbert Eashing wrote to his solicitor, who was a personal friend and confidant: ‘The last girl you sent came for a day out, she wanted to sunbathe. I was a tertiary consideration if, indeed, I was considered at all. The girl before her believed that age discredits everything, even experience. Especially experience. She was an addicted gossip and would have made my life a buzz.’
He manoeuvred his chair to the threshold of his room. Whenever he wheeled along the passage to the toilet people were wont to ask where he was heading and try to help by pushing. Fortunately, he had a handbrake which he could pull on hard, sometimes winding the pusher. ‘I can manage,’ he would say, conserving his dignity.
The maid-of-all-work was in the cloakroom, on her knees, washing the floor. She looked up as he hauled his chair through the door.
‘I’m supposed to do this before you come in.’
‘Don’t mind me.’
She wore a sacking apron. He wondered where she had found it: there were no sacking aprons in the shops. She sat on her heels to watch him get out of his chair. He didn’t mind her watching. He gripped the jamb of the cubicle door with one hand, the door itself with the other and pulled himself to his feet, swivelling to push the chair clear of the door. As he started to close it she said, ‘You’ve done that before.’
When he came out, she was gone. The floor was under a film of water. He got his slippers wet and swore mildly.
Back in his room, he finished his letter. ‘Don’t send any more girls, it’s a waste paying for their fares and lunches. I must look for a nurse-companion who is strong, well-washed and mute.’
As it was a fine morning he decided to make the trip to the postbox along the lane. Seeing if he could get there by his will-power would be in the nature of a test. He feared deterioration in the strength of his hands and arms.
An unrolled grit track led from the hotel to the road. The wheels of his chair picked up grit which transferred to his palms. He paused to wipe them just as a car turned in at the gate, obliging him to get himself and his chair on to the verge.
The effort made his heart knock on his ribs. That was another thing, cardiac arrest: it was also possible for a lung to collapse under strain, arteries to clog, the nervous system to fail – the body had so many degenerative processes at its disposal.
He was not ready to die. He set the chair in motion, rolled out into the lane, past a board bearing an inscription ‘Bellechasse Hotel, props. Mr & Mrs E. Clapham’. It was unlikely to rate a star in the Michelin guide, but it suited him. He had researched extensively before deciding to come here and had reasonable expectations as well as whimsical hopes of names such as Gumpas St. George, Blowhouse Moor, Goonhallow, Trywoos and Butteriss. His interest was in funerary sculpture and there was always the chance of coming across an undocumented joy, a masterstroke among the standard English repertoire.
The lane was full of moving shadows cast by a thicket hedge of big oily leaves. The gradient necessitated a steady haul. He began to tire. Suddenly the shadows seemed to coalesce – the girl he had seen the previous evening in the hotel dining room was beside him.
She said, ‘You could get an electric buggy.’
Saving his breath, he hauled himself along, trying to escape her hand which was on the back of his chair.
‘There are ones you can turn on a sixpence. If you’ve got a sixpence.’
‘Where would be the advantage?’
‘You want to be mobile?’
‘Up to a point. Rushing around is no longer necessary. Anyway, I intend to walk again.’
A magpie flew up from the road, almost under his wheels.
‘One for sorrow,’ said the girl. ‘But there’s another in the hedge – two for joy.’
The postbox was now only yards away, but she held on to his chair, halting it. ‘Do you know Piper?’
‘Who?’
‘He’s staying at the hotel. At least he was. He’s gone off somewhere.’
‘His car passed me in the drive a few minutes ago.’
‘That was him? Piper?’
Eashing said, ‘I have not actually made his acquaintance. Be good enough to let me get to the postbox.’
‘Sorry.’ She gave his chair a vigorous push. He reached up to drop his letter in the box and when he turned she was running back along the lane.
*
That night, as so often, he dreamed he was running – beautifully, as a bird flies; and convinced himself that what he most desired was possible, he had only to rise up from his chair and walk.
That ambition should dwindle to the performance of a simple reflex was humiliating. He yearned for the privileged years when he could move about unaided. He watched everyone else exercising the right of passage, their hip-joints rolling easily in a cup of bone, and on the quiet wept tears of impotence and despair.
The Claphams’ room being next to his on the ground floor with only a party-wall between, he heard more about their private life than he cared to (though sometimes he kept his hearing-aid in and listened just for company). He learned that Mrs Clapham blamed her husband for their misfortunes. As he was a born loser she might well have faulted his chromosomes, but chose to blame his lubricity.
‘She’s got to go. Either she goes or I do. I’m not staying under the same roof as her. She’s bad luck, nothing’s been right since she came. She’s put the finger on me.’
‘Finger? What finger?’
; ‘Old Scratch’s.’
‘Edie, you’re talking crap.’
‘You brought her here to gratify your animal appetite—’
‘I brought her here to wait at tables and do the veggies – to help you.’
Eashing wondered how the girl had come by the reputation of a demoniac. He discounted the episode of the flying casserole as evidence of Mrs Clapham’s neurosis. The girl herself was little more than a child to whom youth had not been kind. She had acne, was overweight and perpetually open-mouthed. That could be due to adenoids or innocence: an encounter with Clapham’s animal appetite would certainly come into the category of experience.
*
Piper had tried writing detective fiction but could never contrive to hide the identity of his murderer until the last page. Also, he had technical trouble with the actual killing. His corpses were unenterprising and he was told that his clues lacked originality and his narrative style was reminiscent of the old Quiver magazine. Investigating that criticism he had discovered possibilities in the agony columns of yester-year. From them he deducted that the manner of counselling was more important than the counsel. The sort of people who wrote in, baring their souls, did not want advice, they wanted to be the centre of someone’s attention. He managed to convince an editor that involvement and an open mind were all that were needed, and was allotted a regular page under his own logo – a listening ear.
He achieved his success with warm-hearted chats about human dilemmas and how to face up to them. He relied a lot on love, in the home and out of it, thought of himself as a smoother-out of wrinkles in the woof of life and felt no resentment when his advice was ignored. Replying to the cris de coeur addressed to him personally was part of his brief. He did not find it a chore.
A package was waiting for him, last week’s Listening Ear correspondence, forwarded from the London office, an unusually large bundle of letters, promising to keep him busy.
The telephone rang. It was Sam, breathless over the wire. ‘I didn’t tell. You said not to and I didn’t.’
‘What didn’t you tell?’
‘Where you are.’
‘Tell who? Calm down, take a big breath and hold it.’
‘She kept saying it was business. Important, she said. I didn’t know, I never know with you.’
