The Charlie Moon Collection

by Shirley Hughes

  “Those boys who stole my stink-bombs have been bothering Mr Cornetto,” Auntie Jean tells them as they munch their chips. “He found them trying to get into his place the back way, but old Lordy barked at them, and they ran away. He says they’re the two Morgan boys from over at Penwyn. Their Dad runs the Amusement Arcade. No-good boyos, they are. Just let them show their faces here again and I’ll give them what for!”

  “I don’t know what they want to hang about here for,” says Ariadne. “They don’t need to pinch things from us, when amusement arcades make so much money.”

  “It’s all gambling and razz-me-tazz these days,” snorts Auntie Jean. “Penwyn was a very select resort when I first came here—lovely it was. Very high-class hotels, tea dances, band playing every afternoon in the Esplanade Gardens, and shows at the Royalty, of course. Lovely audiences we used to have—packed houses every night.”

  “Did you act on the stage, Auntie?” asks Charlie.

  “Oh no, dear. I was a dresser. Helped the ladies into their clothes, hooked up their corsets, mended their tights, that sort of thing. Mr Cornetto used to go on the stage. He was an acrobat—ever so clever he was.”

  “I’d like to do that. Or be a conjuror, that’d be even better,” says Charlie. “I’d like to put a lady in one of those boxes and pretend to saw her in half.”

  “Shouldn’t think you’d get any lady to let you try,” says Ariadne.

  At this moment the shop door clangs, and Mr Cornetto himself steps in. He looks downcast. Even his neat black moustache droops at the corners, and his sad brown eyes resemble those of his old spaniel dog, Lordy.

  “Cup of tea, Mr Cornetto?” asks Auntie Jean, tea-pot poised.

  “Thanks, I won’t say no, since you’re offering, Mrs Llanechan Jones. Just closed my place up again for a long dinner-hour, things are that quiet. Hardly worth opening up at all.” Mr Cornetto is an Italian, but he sounds Welsh, like Auntie Jean, because he learnt English in Penwyn Bay. “Old Lordy’s on guard, looking after things, like. Business has been bad, very bad. My Historical Waxworks, my Hall of Mirrors, people aren’t wanting them as they used to. It’s all roller-coasters and bingo, see. And now I’m going to have to take down my fortune-telling sign, too. Gypsy Queen Rosita has upped and left me without a word of notice. Gone into business on her own account in Llandudno.”

  He sups up tea through his moustache and wipes it sadly and carefully on a clean handkerchief.

  “There’s cheeky for you! I could have told you!” cried Auntie Jean. “Gypsy Queen Rosita, indeed! When we all know quite well that she’s Mrs Bronwen Evans from the dry-cleaner’s in Station Approach! And as for being able to tell the future—why, even old Einstein here could do better.” At the sound of his name Einstein, who is lazily extended like a long ginger scarf along the back of the sofa, twitches the tip of his tail and opens one green slit of an eye. “In fact, a great deal better,” adds Auntie Jean with respect. “No, don’t you mind about her, Mr Cornetto. It’s good riddance, if you ask me. And with business not being too bright here at the shop either, I’ll help you out part-time, like, if I can find my crystal ball.”

  Auntie Jean is very good at fortune-telling. To prove it, she takes Mr Cornetto’s cup and turns it gently in her hands, peering into the tea-leaves at the bottom.

  “What does it mean, Auntie?” asks Charlie, leaning over her shoulder.

  “Now let me see. You can’t get it all at once, you know, Charlie. Looks like a little storm cloud over here, I’m afraid . . . but this is interesting. A person of some importance—a lady, I think.”

  “Looks more like a poodle-dog to me,” says Ariadne.

  “No, it’s a lady. There’s no mistaking her. A relative of yours, perhaps, Mr Cornetto?”

  Mr Cornetto is unhelpful.

  “No ladies in my family. Not living, that is.”

  “Perhaps it’s a ghost?” suggests Charlie.

  “It’s a dog. I can see his ears sticking up.”

  But now Auntie Jean lets out a cry of discovery.

  “Well I never, Mr Cornetto! Surely to goodness, I wouldn’t have thought it!” she gasps.

  “What is it, Auntie?”

  “I see a love affair in this cup, as plain as plain. Two hearts as one!”

  “Is that all?” says Charlie, disappointed.

  “And look here! I can see a pound sign! That means money, of course. There’s lucky for you, as plain as the nose on your face!”

  She holds out the cup triumphantly. Mr Cornetto doesn’t seem greatly cheered by this news.

  “Well, I’ll be glad if you’ll help me out with the fortune-telling in the afternoons,” is all he says. “Clairvoyants being difficult to come by at short notice, so the agency tells me.”

  They are interrupted by the sound of the shop door being quietly opened. Two figures shuffle in the doorway. It’s the Morgan boys again. Slamming down the teacup, Auntie Jean looms out of the back room, hissing with fury. She can be very fierce indeed when she wants to be.

  “You leave my stock alone, or I’ll have the law on you, and that’s only the start!” she spits. “Don’t think I don’t know your face, Dai Morgan, and yours too, Dylan Morgan, and where you live. Get out of this shop before I throw you out myself, and don’t come back here or I’ll . . .”

  But the Morgan boys are gone before she can tell them what else she’s going to do. The others, grouped behind her in the passage, breathe sighs of relief and admiration.

  “Thank goodness for that,” says Charlie. He doesn’t want to have to chase those Morgan boys all over again.

  As it happens, the rest of the afternoon turns out quite differently for him.

  “Now, I want one of you two to do a little errand for me,” says Auntie Jean presently. “There’s this box of crackers and paper hats that needs delivering at the Hydro Hotel. The manageress is planning a Carnival entertainment—trying to cheer the place up, see. Though how she’s going to manage it with that lot that’s staying up there, I don’t know.”

  “I’ve got to write a postcard home,” says Ariadne quickly, eyeing her book.

  As there seems to be nobody else to offer, it’s decided that Charlie shall go. The box he has to deliver is a large one, not very heavy, but bulky enough. Charlie sets off up the narrow streets behind the prom, carrying it first under one arm, then under the other, and ends by balancing it on his head with his cap turned back to front. Like this he climbs up the imposing front drive of the Hydro Hotel, marches up the front steps, and enters the large hall, blinking in the dimness. It is completely empty. There is a big counter of polished wood with a vase of flowers on it, and a notice saying “Reception. Please ring.” Charlie dumps down his box, adjusts his cap, and rings. Nobody comes. He rings again, loudly. Still nobody. While he waits, Charlie begins to wander about, admiring the little pink lamps on the round tables and trying out the huge padded armchairs. Far away in the hotel he can hear voices and the faint noise of vacuuming. He comes to a wide staircase, sweeping down into the hall and dividing into two flights at the bottom. This might be so that two people could race each other and see who reaches the hall first, thinks Charlie. In the middle is a huge, old-fashioned lift shaft, like a great iron cage with a glass box inside it. The lift doors stand open.

  Charlie steps inside and presses the button marked “Basement”. Immediately the doors close, the lift gives way pleasurably under him, purrs downwards, and stops. At once Charlie presses another button marked “4th Floor”. The lift glides upwards. He has been in plenty of lifts before, of course, but in this one you can see the staircase moving past through the glass. He presses another button—fifth floor this time—then down again to the ground floor.

  “Five, four, three, two, one—we have lift-off,” mutters Charlie, and up he goes again to the fourth floor, changes his mind, presses the third floor button in mid-flight. Then he starts to go up and down like a yo-yo, pressing all the buttons at random, and watching the bannisters slide giddily by
. He is at the very top of the building, and dropping down to the basement again for the sixth time, when the lift suddenly gives a jolt, a shudder, and stops abruptly between floors. Charlie presses all the buttons, one at a time. Nothing happens. He tries again. Still the lift doesn’t move. He struggles to open the doors, but they remain firmly shut.

  “I’m stuck,” says Charlie to himself.

  And then, aloud, with panic rising, “Oh, help, I’m stuck!”

  3

  Downstairs in the hotel lounge Mrs Cadwallader and her sister-in-law, Miss Mona Cadwallader, are taking afternoon tea. They sit surrounded by a dense jungle of palms, looking out at the windy sea. Inside the temperature is tropical. The guests at the Hydro have to be kept very warm, like tomatoes under glass. Miss Mona perches upright on the edge of her chair. She resembles a neat bird of prey, now and again dipping daintily into her teacup. Mrs Cadwallader, a large lady with blonde curls arranged like an enormous pile of bubbles on top of her head, lies back among the cushions. A great many necklaces and rings sparkle gaily about her, but her mouth droops.

  “Boring,” she says. “A really boring view I call this—all those waves. Makes me seasick. They’re not even blue! And it’s not as though there’s many people on the beach either. If we were in the Bahamas, now, that’d be a different matter.”

  “It’s time for our walk, Connie, dear,” murmurs Miss Mona, carefully ignoring these remarks, all of which she has heard before. “Which shall it be? A stroll on the pier, or up to the headland?”

  “I’m sick to death of the headland,” answers Mrs Cadwallader crossly. “We go there every afternoon when we don’t go on the pier, and either way we get blown to bits. I’m sick of the prom, too. Nothing happening there, either, except nasty little boys dropping stink-bombs all over the place. It isn’t as if there were any good slot-machines. Why don’t we go over to Penwyn this afternoon and give the Fun Fair a try? Might see a bit of life over there at least. We could find out what’s on at the cinema.”

  Miss Mona raises her eyebrows. She has two pairs. The real ones are plucked and the others are thinly pencilled in half an inch higher up.

  “I can’t think why you’re always wanting to go over to that vulgar place, Connie. It’s completely tasteless and without any kind of attraction, as far as I can see. We did come here for a quiet holiday for old times’ sake, after all.”

  “Quiet all right! More like a graveyard. Penwyn isn’t a bit like I remember it years ago. Anyway, I keep telling you I don’t need a rest. I’m just bored stiff.”

  Miss Mona smiles patiently and consults her tiny watch.

  “If you don’t want to join me in a walk, dear, I think I’ll just pop out for a little blow on my own. I’ll see you upstairs half an hour before dinner. Don’t forget to allow plenty of time to change, will you? You know the manageress likes us to be punctual.”

  “Punctual, indeed!” snorts Mrs Cadwallader. “Nothing worth being punctual for!”

  She remains in her chair, staring gloomily out of the window. Presently she sees Miss Mona in a headscarf, setting briskly out along the prom. Mrs Cadwallader rises and looks about the lounge for someone else to talk to, but there is nobody left except old Colonel Quickly, snoozing underneath his newspaper. Sighing, she wanders into the hall and rings for the lift.

  As she waits for it to arrive, she is already wishing that she hadn’t spoken so crossly to her sister-in-law. Mona’s patience is often a reproach to her. They have lived together in hotels ever since Mrs Cadwallader’s husband died, and have had many such conversations. Mrs Cadwallader is very rich, because her husband left her all his money, and the family jewellery. Miss Mona, on the other hand, is not well off at all. So she accompanies Mrs Cadwallader from one hotel to another trying to get her to behave properly, in a genteel manner. She has very little success. Mrs Cadwallader doesn’t care what people think of her, and misses her old knock-about life terribly. She was on the stage before she married her husband, Caddy, who was a devil-may-care fellow, who liked driving about in a fast open car and played tennis in sparkling white trousers. How unlike his sister, Mona, he was. And how Mona had disapproved of the way they both whirled about the world, going to parties, cinemas and motor-racing, and doing nothing but enjoy themselves.

  Mrs Cadwallader sighs again, thinking of those happy, long-lost days.

  “Boring, that’s what it is,” she says, and rings for the lift again. Nothing happens. She is very put out. Her room is on the fourth floor, and she hates walking upstairs. What is more, this is the third time the lift has failed to arrive since she has been staying at this hotel. She looks about for somebody to complain to, but there is nobody. Frowning, she sets off up the stairs. She has reached the half-landing between the second and third floors when she hears a knocking noise. She stops and looks up the stairwell. She can see the bottom half of the lift with a pair of legs inside it. It is from here that the noise comes. Walking up a few more stairs, she peers in through the thick plate glass. Charlie Moon’s face looks back at her like a goldfish from a bowl.

  “I’m stuck,” he says. But Mrs Cadwallader can only see his lips move silently, making him look even more like a goldfish than before.

  “What are you doing in there?” she asks severely.

  “I’M STUCK!” shouts Charlie. He is red in the face with anger and fright. He bangs on the lift door, points up, points down, rattles the door as hard as he can.

  “Aaaaah, I see! You’re stuck,” says Mrs Cadwallader more kindly. She doesn’t recognize Charlie as the boy on the prom, under the big peak of his cap. “Well, you’re not the first one. That lift is a danger to the public. A disgrace, that’s what it is.”

  She signals to him to stay where he is, and goes off to get help. Charlie hasn’t really any other alternative, so he settles down to wait as patiently as he can. After a while, back comes Mrs Cadwallader with the hotel handyman. He in turn goes off to fetch a ladder, grumbling in Welsh, and disappears up into the roof to wrestle with the ancient machinery that works the lift. Mrs Cadwallader remains, now joined by one or two other guests, smiling encouragingly at Charlie and making cheery remarks. She has quite forgotten her bad mood in all the excitement. To Charlie the time seems endless. He wonders if he will ever get out of this horrible glass box, but he feels too exposed to give way to despair. Instead he pulls the peak of his red-and-white cap down over his eyes and huddles in a corner, ignoring everyone.

  At last the lift gives a violent jerk. Then it moves shakily down to the second floor landing, and the doors open. Charlie is free at last! By this time a small crowd has gathered, including the manageress herself, who is extremely cross. Everyone wants to know what Charlie has been up to, getting himself stuck in the lift like that and causing so much trouble. Eyeing the stairs and longing to get away, he starts wearily to explain about the box of Carnival novelties, which he hopes is still sitting in the hall. But at this moment Mrs Cadwallader steps forward and, much to his embarrassment, throws an arm protectively round his shoulders.

  “Don’t keep asking him questions. Can’t you see he’s all upset, poor little chap? Quite green round the gills, he is. You’ll be lucky if his Mum doesn’t prosecute. I know I would if I was her, an’ all!” And with this, she steps smartly back into the lift, pulling Charlie with her, presses the button marked “Basement” and they both disappear instantly from view.

  The basement floor of the Hydro Hotel is almost entirely occupied by the ballroom. These days it remains nearly always empty, save for a lot of dust and rows and rows of tiny gold chairs, ranged about the walls like ladies waiting for a dance. At one end of it, in a place where an orchestra used to sit, is a glossy black piano. Charlie and Mrs Cadwallader step out into an echoing half-light, with a faint lingering smell of face-powder, stale tobacco smoke and linoleum. Then Mrs Cadwallader finds a switch and the room is filled at once with a piercing rose-coloured glow.

  Charlie is very relieved to have been rescued from the lift, and fr
om trying to explain what he was doing in there in the first place, but he is not at all pleased to find himself alone in a ballroom with Mrs Cadwallader. He is hot, confused and exhausted, and he wants to go home. What’s more he is troubled by the uncomfortable feeling that at any moment he may be recognized. So far it’s clear that he hasn’t been, but under these lights it’s a bit risky. This could mean more trouble.

  “Thank you very much. I think I’d better be getting back now,” says Charlie. “My Auntie’s expecting me.”

  But Mrs Cadwallader pays no attention to this. She lights a cigarette in a long green holder.

  “Terrible hotel, this,” she tells him, “what with that lift breaking down, and the hot-water pipes juddering and gurgling in my bedroom at some ungodly hour in the morning, and the food stone-cold half the time. I’d walk out tomorrow if I thought I could get in anywhere else.”

  “It’s just that my Auntie . . .”

  “When things aren’t going wrong or breaking down, it’s like a graveyard. All those old fogies. I like a bit of life myself. Music, dancing, that sort of thing.” She puffs out cigarette smoke in the direction of the piano. “I was in the theatre, you see.”

  “Yes, so was my Auntie. But . . .”

  “Very slim I was in those days. You live round here, dear?”

  “I’m staying at my Auntie’s. As a matter of fact she’s expecting . . .”

  “On holiday, are you?”