by Paul Magrs
For some reason I was behaving extra gregariously. I’m not usually so effusive with new guests. I think I know why I was like this. I was keen to get back to some kind of normality. I wanted to look after people and work at ordinary tasks. I wanted an ordinary family to share my space for a few days - and I didn’t even mind there being children. I wanted all the recent weirdness to be assuaged by their ordinariness.
Hm. Fat chance!
All four were subdued, if polite. They had brought a lot of luggage with them for a mere four days, so as we struggled to bring it all in from the street our conversation was already hampered. Even so, they seemed shy and stilted, as if they weren’t used to being sociable. It made me feel like some awful holiday rep.
‘Is this your first time in Whitby?’ I huffed, carrying cases, full of false jollity.
The young husband smiled and nodded, coming up the passage behind me. He had a fair, open face, a war-time haircut. He looked like a doomed fighter pilot. All four were the same: they looked pure somehow, almost glowing, standing politely in my hallway. They made its lilac-patterned wallpaper seem dingy and oppressive.
‘Yes,’ the husband said, trying to sound more enthusiastic than he could manage. ‘I’m afraid we haven’t travelled far out of our own county before.’ He set his bags down and surveyed the hallway. ‘This is quite an adventure.’
His wife was in a headscarf and a prettily patterned shortsleeved dress. ‘Oh, indeed,’ she added. ‘I feel like we’ve reached foreign parts. How wonderful!’
She had a touch of Doris Day about her. In fact, there was something very old-fashioned about all of them. The only touch of modernity that I could see was the baseball cap worn by their younger child. The little boy had it pulled down over most of his face. What I could see of the rest was scowling at me. He, like his sister and parents, seemed very well scrubbed. He was even wearing a school blazer on the first day of his holidays.
The girl was older - fifteen, perhaps. She was in a long black cardigan with floppy sleeves pulled down right over her hands. She was a tall, skinny thing with long, lank hair. From her appearance you might have expected hormone-fuelled surliness and teenage rancour, but when she spoke she was as polite as her parents: ‘This seems like a lovely place, Mummy. You certainly made the right choice of bed-and-breakfast! ’
I blushed then, and again when her mother said, ‘I felt drawn to the place in the brochure. I don’t know why. I just knew this establishment would welcome us properly, with open arms.’
‘That’s what we need,’ smiled the husband, ruefully, ‘a nice break. We need to get away from it all.’
At this, his wife gave him an odd, sidelong glance - I wasn’t supposed to notice but I did. ‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘Come on, then, Ted. Let’s go and inspect our rooms. I’m sure they’re lovely.’
Katherine and Ted were the couple’s names. The children were Susan and Gerald. Only Gerald stayed silent and unappreciative as I showed them their rooms. The others cooed and cried out in delight as I installed them in their sumptuous home-from-home with everything laid out just so. Gerald had the back room, facing out on to the trees and the little gardens of all the houses down my way. I tried pointing out to him the network of branches where the squirrels run about and chase each other. ‘They’re very funny,’ I told him. ‘You’ll have to look out for them, Gerald. I could watch those silly squirrels for hours.’
I’m not very good with children. I don’t have much experience. I hated that shrill, excitable tone I put on when I told him about the squirrels.
Gerald leaned his chin on the windowsill. ‘Vermin,’ I heard him say.
Still. I shouldn’t judge any of them on first appearances, I told myself. They were so fatigued and wan! They really did look a bit green about the gills.
‘Bless them,’ I said. ‘I feel a bit sorry for them. They paid me for the four days’ stay in advance. In cash. I said, “No, no, that’s not how it works.” But the father, Ted, insisted. Just before they went out this morning, to explore the beaches, he pressed on me this wad of crumpled notes and coins, all counted out to the last penny.’
Effie made a moue of disapproval. ‘How awful,’ she said. ‘Some people just don’t know how things are done.’
‘I said a cheque would have been fine, but he just stared at me blankly.’ Actually - though I didn’t say this to Effie - I prefer being paid in cash. I don’t enjoy going to my bank. You can be pestered with questions in banks.
Effie glanced out of the café window. ‘They’re exploring the beaches today, you say?’ She tutted and the little feather on her hat bobbed. ‘Oh dear. I imagine they’ll be having a miserable time of it.’
The heavens were slate grey and the rain had been constant since early that morning. It rolled down ceaselessly, miserably - but that hadn’t deterred my young family on their first day. They had been full of energy this morning, restored and all wrapped up in chunky sweaters, rubber boots and waterproofs. They were undaunted by the weather and keen to explore. My heart went out to them as I waved them off, my hand full of crinkled notes and warm change. I felt bad that they were spending their cash on such a poor week, weatherwise, in our town. The year has turned, I think. Now we’re truly in autumn, ready for the rapid slide into the stark depths of winter.
‘Did you give them a list of all the indoor attractions?’ Effie asked me.
‘Of course,’ I said. I know my job. Sometimes Effie treats me like an idiot. She reminds me that she was very great friends with the Jenkinses, the couple who ran my B-and-B for twenty years before my arrival in Whitby. It seems that Effie knows all there is to know about running such a place.
We were sitting in our favourite café across the bay, the Walrus and the Carpenter. It was a tiny, low-ceilinged place with many gingham-clothed tables crammed in. It was evidently designed for midgets and I always have some bother sitting in it, even on the more spacious corner banquettes. But Effie loves to go there and order a pot of tea or soup of the day after an hour or so perusing the smarter shops on that side of town.
We had been steeping ourselves in a very ordinary Wednesday, examining knick-knacks, old books, junk jewellery and paintings. I was looking for a picture to hang in the dining room. I hadn’t yet come across quite the thing to brighten up that dowdy room. It was the place my guests ate their breakfast and I needed something grand and vivacious to go on the biggest wall.
Neither Effie nor I had said much about Saturday night and our narrow escape from the boutique up Frances’s Passage. What was there to say? Obscurely, I felt as though I had made a fool of myself. I had gone barging in there, determined to sort out the mystery, and what had I achieved? Destroyed things. Given myself the screaming ab-dabs. Paraded around in the nuddy, caused an almighty fist-fight and, ultimately, put the Deadly Boutique out of business.
Oh dear. It sounded worse when I put it like that to myself.
I watched Effie spooning up vegetable soup and blowing on it. How easily she slips back into ordinary life, I thought. ‘Perhaps we should have gone to the Christmas Hotel and checked on Jessie,’ I said. ‘We didn’t go yesterday afternoon. She’ll think we don’t care.’
Effie sighed. ‘I’ve seen quite enough of that place for a while, thank you. I was a bit gyppy after that pie-and-peas, actually. And, besides, didn’t Robert phone you to say that Jessie was all right?’
It wasn’t quite what he’d said. I was relieved to hear that she hadn’t turned into a Neanderthal, or an Australopithecine woman, but neither was she the perfect Jessie in her mid-twenties any more. It had been a short rejuvenation. Her wrinkles had crept back. She had indeed shrunk somewhat. She had fallen into a depression. But she was lucky to have Robert taking care of her. I wished I had a nephew like that.
‘So this family’s come from Norfolk?’ Effie broke in, clunking her spoon down and smacking her lips. ‘Did they say whereabouts? I’ve family who live there, near Hunstanton.’
‘They were a bit vague abou
t the geography,’ I said, ‘but my geography’s a bit vague, too. Katherine, the young woman, told me at breakfast time that they live in a small village right out in the sticks. Only about a hundred people. No tellies, no electricity, no nothing.’
‘What?’ Effie raised that eyebrow of hers. ‘Surely that’s impossible in this day and age.’
‘“We’re very cut off,”’ I said. ‘Those were her exact words. She said sometimes it infuriates her. They get snowed in. They never see anyone new. She said I must be able to see what an adventurous thing this holiday is for them.’
‘How strange,’ said Effie, searching the menu for cakes.
‘I get the impression that those kiddies hadn’t been out of that village of theirs at all - this is their first trip into the big wide world.’
‘Imagine!’ said Effie, running her finger down the price list.
‘That’s why they look so pale and worried,’ I said, ‘bless them. Little Gerald sat there at breakfast with his cap still pulled right over his face. I think he’s a bit shy of me. I asked if he’d been watching the squirrels and he nodded once, very curtly. The daughter sat there eating nothing, saying nothing, with her cardigan sleeves still hanging down over her hands.’
‘Well,’ said Effie, ‘I think I’ll settle for a couple of boudoir fingers.’ She motioned to the waitress. ‘Go on, Brenda. I’m still listening.’
‘The others ate with gusto, though. It was quite gratifying, actually. They had sausages and bacon and black pudding . . . They were wolfing it down - asking for seconds, even. It must be the sea air, invigorating them and giving them an appetite.’
Effie sighed. ‘Or maybe they just want to get their money’s worth.’
She can be so cynical. I wanted her to meet my visiting family so she could see for herself how nice and well brought-up they were. ‘There’s nothing wrong with them,’ I said defensively. I smiled, thinking about them traipsing out in their wet-weather gear after breakfast. ‘Except . . .’ I frowned, remembering how the husband, Ted, had nudged his wife’s arm when she spoke to me: ‘I don’t think Brenda wants to hear all about our boring homelife, darling. She’s extremely busy.’ The message had been clear: Don’t tell her too much. Don’t spill the beans.
But why? What was there to spill?
‘What is it?’ Effie asked sharply, seeing the abstraction in my face.
‘Oh . . .’ I said. ‘There’s something evasive about them. A feeling like . . . they’re not telling me the whole truth . . .’
‘Well,’ said Effie, ‘you’re the expert at that, aren’t you?’
I don’t do this for everyone, but I thought I’d lay on a nice dinner for my new guests. When they returned that evening, it was to the delicious aroma of my steak and kidney pudding wafting down the hall.
Drenched, bedraggled, and worn out from walking, they were delighted.
‘That smells heavenly!’ Ted burst out. They were all beaming as I came out of the kitchen, drying my hands on a tea-towel. Very gratifying, that. There’s nothing like making people happy. My heart was aglow in my chest.
Katherine urged the kids upstairs, to wash and brush up before dinner.
‘It’s nothing special,’ I demurred - but I was glad when, twenty minutes later, they all trooped down into the dining room and they had obviously put on their smartest clothes. They settled at their table and, before I could dish up, insisted I join them. As if I was part of the family. Usually I keep a professional distance from my guests and I never eat with them. But that night I thought, Who cares about professional distance? There was something about them that I found touching.
Then the young husband asked if he could say grace.
I pulled a face. I don’t like all that stuff, chanting and mumbling to unseen deities, letting dinner get cold. But I nodded brusquely and they all bowed their heads.
‘The Elders will provide for us,
If we do not stray too far.
The Elders will tell us how to behave,
If we do not stray too far.
The Elders will take the sting out of our existence,
And make everything easier,
If we don’t ask too many questions,
If we are good and reasonable,
If we do not leave home,
And we do not stray too far.’
They blinked and smiled and waited for me to serve the dinner. I must say, it was a grace I’d never heard before. I thought it most peculiar. But, then, what do I know about family life? Or worship, for that matter.
They grinned encouragingly as I brought in the vegetables and the golden steak and kidney pudding.
‘You’re very good to us, Brenda,’ said the young wife. ‘I wish we could stay here for ever.’
Her husband shot her one of his looks.
The rest of that evening was pleasant, very peaceful. I don’t know if they felt they had to sing for their supper, but that was what they did. After I had cleared up, they drew back their chairs, stood up together, like a barbershop quartet, and told me they were going to give me a medley of their favourite songs.
I sat bemused as they launched into the weirdest singing I have ever heard. Their voices were high-pitched and fluting: they rose and twined together in the most extraordinary harmonies. The words were unintelligible, but there was something compelling about the piece. It seemed avant-garde, futuristic, even - like nothing I’d ever heard before.
They were delighted by my enthusiastic applause. ‘A whole concert! Just for me!’ I cried.
They blushed and said it was time they retired for the night. It was only nine o’clock, but all four shuffled out - even the kids, not a word of complaint. Those kids were too well behaved to be true - him in his baseball cap, her in her cardie - trotting off early to bed, just as they were told.
Now, if I had a nature like Effie’s, that would have made me suspicious. She has a cynical turn of mind. I do not. At least, I hope not. I refuse to be suspicious of folk who are well brought-up, polite and a little out-of-kilter in their behaviour, who chant strange graces before dinner and sing weird, unearthly songs afterwards.
The next morning it was a little brighter and dryer. A golden light was slanting in from the east, bathing the damp town gently and raising a light mist. My visiting family were keen to wolf down their fried breakfast and wrap up again. They wanted to go tramping about once more. They had miles and miles to explore, they said.
I surveyed the wreckage on the table: they’d had every sausage, egg and rasher of bacon - devoured the lot. ‘Good,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to get some more shopping in. You lot like your food, don’t you?’
I hadn’t meant to hurt anyone’s feelings but the wife grasped my forearm as I cleared the plates. ‘Are we taking too much? Are we being greedy?’ She was genuinely concerned.
I tried to put her mind at rest: ‘Of course not, no. I like to see healthy appetites. It’s the sea air. It makes you ravenous and helps you sleep better at night. I wasn’t complaining. Honestly.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Sorry. Ravenous, that’s what we are.’ She nodded abstractedly, and went to gather her tribe. They were milling in the hallway with folded waterproofs, the shrimping-nets, buckets and spades. Weren’t those children too old for buckets and spades?
I decided not to ask. How sensitive they were. For some reason it seemed easy to upset them. I wanted to tell them, ‘It doesn’t do to be touchy.’
They seemed too thin-skinned, somehow, for this world.
That Thursday afternoon Effie and I had a little walk along the front. The wind was down, the sun stayed out, and it was quite pleasant to walk as far past habitation as we could. We were high above the great expanse of beaches, stretching off along the coast, and I wondered if we’d see my little family on their day out, little dots in the distance, playing on the dingy-looking sands. When I said so to Effie, she sighed. ‘I think you’re obsessed with them.’
‘Obsessed?’ I laughed it off.
‘It would make sense. A poor, lonely old spinster latching on to them. You’d better watch yourself. They’ll get sick of you, make you back off.’
I knew Effie had my interests at heart, but just then I resented her sticking her beaky nose in.
‘Anyway,’ she went on, sounding more urgent, ‘I haven’t told you yet, have I? I think there’s something funny about that lot you’ve got staying with you.’
‘Funny?’
‘Oh,’ she said, mock-casually, ‘just things. People. Asking questions.’
‘What people? Who?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Just people.’ At times Effie can be infuriating.
‘Asking about my guests?’ I felt protective of them and their secrets. I just knew, with every fibre of my being, that they were hiding something. I didn’t care what it was, not really, but I knew other people would. I felt as if I stood between my family of guests and the rest of the prying, suspicious world. ‘You’d better tell me, Effie.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I had a man come into my shop this morning, first thing. He didn’t seem very interested in its contents . . .’
No surprise there, I thought uncharitably. I think I’ve said before: Effie displays the most awful old rubbish in her shop. The place is called Who Would Want This? To me, the name always sounds like a sweeping, dismayed complaint.
Effie went on: ‘He looked like a detective. You could see a mile off what he was, in his long brown coat with his hat pulled down over his eyes. Really, he could have gone to a fancy-dress party as someone’s clichéd idea of a detective. I think he was meant to be incognito. Anyway, he sidled over to my desk at the back, where I was pricing up a box of vintage film magazines.’
I rolled my eyes. Effie goes in for too much detail sometimes.
‘And he asked about your little family.’
‘What?’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Sort of. He wanted to know whether I’d noticed any . . . unusual people in town lately. A newly arrived family. He said I looked like the type of woman who kept my ear close to the ground . . .’
