by Beech, Mark
Robert Hobbes emerged from the group, bringing with him a figure I did not know. I supposed he wanted to introduce me to one of the leading actors, but it was not so. The young man, who had a long, rather pointed sort of face, coloured a kind of olive, and with brown eyes under dark eyebrows, proved to be the make-up artist. I was surprised he was so youthful, if he was already as established in the business as Hobbes had proclaimed. He was elegantly dressed, in black mostly, but with flourishes of a sombre crimson, almost dandyish. The director was evidently proud of him indeed, to give him such prominence. I congratulated him on what I had seen of his work. He merely inclined his head slightly, though he watched me keenly. There was a gem in the lobe of his tapered ear that glinted red as he bowed: it looked like a facet of ruby.
“Oh, I said he’d be able to transform everybody,” Robert responded, and laughed. His companion joined in, politely. His was a deeper laugh than Robert’s rattle.
“Won’t you come and join us?” Robert continued, and he gestured towards the tables.
I had supposed that the bottles of wine and bowls of fruit were props to give the scene a hint of the play, but it seemed the cast were enjoying a sort of picnic. It was certainly a wonderful day for it.
“I shouldn’t, you know,” I said, lightly, “who knows what might happen? ‘Within the navel of this hideous wood, Immured in cypress shades, a sorcerer dwells’ and all that.”
And Robert and his companion laughed again, rather more forcefully than I thought my little jest required.
“‘Of Bacchus and of Circe born, great Comus,”’ continued the make-up man, glancing at Robert rather slyly I thought, as if to say that even a back-stage artisan might still know his Milton. And they both laughed again.
I was soon handed a wooden cup of a deep incarnadine wine, and the make-up man reached forward over the table, tore off a cluster of grapes and then, holding them delicately by the stalk, handed them to me.
The wine tasted very good indeed. I felt it course through me in a sort of warm rush. And the grapes were sweet, and surprisingly ripe, bursting in the mouth like black comets. I nodded appreciatively, and took more of both. There in the green-veiled sunlight, with the scent of the resin rising from the trees, and the excited chatter of the young cast, so strangely and beautifully transformed, I was suddenly full of a sweet delight. I gazed with keen pleasure around me at the carved eyebrows, delicate nostrils, curling ears, and scarlet pouting mouths. They seemed to be getting on very well together already, as I could tell from the little confidential touches they were giving one another, the smiles they exchanged, and the sudden surges of laughter. I felt glad to be among them. And it seemed as if some of the troupe must have been trying out some of the lines of the play too, for familiar sentences seemed to rise up from the hubbub.
“‘Deep-skilfd in all his mother’s witcheries.’” said a young woman’s voice, like a flute.
“‘And wanton as his father;’” thrilled a boy in return, with a sort of delicious growl on the second word.
“‘And here to every thirsty wanderer By sly enticements gives his baneful cup,”’ murmured another voice close by me, as more wine was poured into the vessel I held. I smiled up at the cupbearer, who had been very craftily transformed, by a few dark strokes around the ears and eyes, into the semblance of a faun.
“‘The visage quite transforms of him that drinks,”’ I heard Robert declaim, and I nodded in recognition of the quotation.
And then the face of his companion drew near to mine, and his brown eyes glared at me, full of a gleaming intensity. I recoiled, but found I could not avoid his gaze.
“‘And the inglorious likeness of a beast Fixes instead,’” he whispered to me, “‘unmoulding reason’s mintage Character’d in the face.’”
I found myself nodding very slowly, and then my eyes flickering.
I don’t know how long it was before I woke up. The day was much cooler, and the green haze had faded from the grove. There was no sign of Robert, the artist, or the rest of the crew. I had been slumped on the table, and only slowly raised my head. It felt heavy. I blamed the wine. It was embarrassing, though, to have gone off into a boozy slumber. The last words I’d heard before succumbing were, I dimly remembered, something about a face. I felt all over mine. It seemed all right.
I got up unsteadily and, still feeling a bit dazed, made my way out of the wood. I thought I had better clear my head before setting off home. The path from the woods came out into the edge of the little spa town, and I made my way along the high street. A café, for a strong coffee would be good. There were a few people about and as I approached the shops, I was surprised to see, coming towards me, what I took to be one of the actors from Hobbes’ troupe. I only knew him because he still seemed to be wearing the devious make-up. It seemed odd that he was walking about with it still on, but I decided he must be doing it for a bit of fun. I didn’t recognise the particular face, which had a sort of goatish aspect to it, but then I had not seen very much in the green sunlight. I nodded, but there was no sign of recognition in return, just a cold, rather opaline stare. Perhaps, I supposed, he had not recognised me either.
But then I found that the next person who passed, who certainly did not look in the least like an actor, also seemed to have certain effects daubed upon her face, and they were not just cosmetics. Indeed, she seemed to have applied none of those. She was a careworn looking woman, burdened with groceries, and yet, I saw, with a distinct semblance to a sheep. I smiled inwardly: the influence of the play must be making me associate passers-by with animal characteristics. But then I found that I could not stop. A bristling elderly gentleman with a regimental tie and a polished cane with a brass crest, had all about him the definite marks of a bull. Others were horsey, serpentine, badger-ish. I tried not to stare too hard. But as each person passed, man or woman, young or old, pleasant or unpleasing, I found I could not help but see in them the lineaments of some creature or other. And then the realisation grew that this was no game my unconscious mind was playing. I really was seeing the features of beasts upon every human figure.
I stared at the passing throng. It was as if everyone was wearing a light, gauzy mask in animal form over their faces, clinging to their flesh: or as though they were all painted with the same sly, subtle make-up I had just seen, turning their eyes into glinting lozenges, their noses into blunt snouts, their ears into spiralling horns, and their mouths—their mouths into glistening crimson caverns. But yet it wasn’t a mask or make-up they all wore. It was a part of them, some form seeping out from them. With a surge of terrible certainty, I knew that I could see the inner essence of every person, displayed upon their faces. And then I stopped suddenly, as a darker thought still struck me. I turned away from the shops and hurried away. I did not want to look into any of the windows I passed: for what reflection would I see?
I spend a lot of time watching the clouds now. Some days there aren’t any, just a brilliant blue: other days there are too many, and up above is all as stiff and grey as a shroud. But when the clouds are somewhat lighter—cirrus, isn’t it?—they seem to swirl. Then I fancy they are like the mists in a scrying glass: and wonder if they might suddenly part, to reveal a faint vision. Or if they might themselves resolve into shapes, white forms with a sort of slow beckoning about them. When the clouds move, driven by the wind—if it is the wind that drives them—there is something of a dance about them, a masque of pale dancers, a sarabande of stately wraiths. I often think, then, that each movement seems fore-ordained, as if I am watching a particular ritual. And that if I wait until this rite is complete, some greater change will come. But the rite never is done, unless it is at sunset, when the lanterns of purple and scarlet are lit on the horizon, and some other ceremony is begun.
I have all this time for watching the clouds because I am nearly always alone. So I watch the clouds and write down all I can remember of that encounter in the woods so long ago. There is nothing to tell of my life now, for it passe
s each day in quite the same way. The books whose pages I turn may have different titles, though I do not always remember what they are. The meals I make may vary a little, but I am content with the simplest fare. The visitors I so seldom see may have different faces or voices but—forgive me—I do not always know if they are new or familiar to me. I try not to look too closely at them: or at myself. I have seen enough. And I allow no mirrors here.
Honey Moon
D.P. Watt
Robert Galton looked over the car. It was a good twenty years old now, a Morris Traveller, and would have probably been lovely in its day. Now it could do with a complete overhaul, something his uncle claimed to have been doing these past few weeks in preparation for the honeymoon in Scotland. But Robert couldn’t really be picky; the loan of the car, and the cottage for them to stay in, was the best they could manage while they tried to do up the dilapidated house they’d got at bargain price in the centre of Derby. It was very kind of his uncle to have offered both things—as a wedding gift. His wife, Margaret, had encouraged him to accept this option, after he’d said he would pay for them to go to France and see Paris. She knew he couldn’t afford it—that could all come later, once they’d saved a little. Robert’s uncle, Tom, was the closest family either of them had now, and he’d been so generous, even helping with some of the other costs of the wedding. It would have been rude not to accept his offer.
“So, what do you think of her then,” Tom said, wiping his oily hands with a rag.
“Who... what?” Robert said, miles away.
“I he car—come up a treat, ain’t she?” he said.
“Oh, god, sorry, I thought you meant Margaret for a minute,” Robert laughed.
“Oh, right,” Tom chuckled, nudging him in the arm. “But, she looked a treat an’ all yesterday. You’re gonna have a lovely time up at the cottage—nice, secluded little spot, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, it’s going to be wonderful, thanks Tom,” Robert said, feeling his cheeks warming. He’d never been much good at being bawdy.
“I promised you—when your dad died—I’d do what I could, and this is the best I can muster at the moment,” he said, handing the keys to Robert. “She don’t go very fast, but she’ll get you there in one piece.”
Robert wasn’t so sure about the latter—but he’d never really been into cars and mechanical things. It was a black car, that had clearly been left out for some years and had gathered a crusting of green algae that Tom had done his best to remove. There was a nice wooden trim around the van section at the back of it, but one of the rear windows had been put out and a piece of board had been nailed over the inside to replace it.
Tom saw Robert looking a little puzzled at this.
“Sorry about that, Rob. Steve managed to put a spanner through it a few days ago while we were doing the exhaust and I didn’t have time to get more glass so I thought it best to put something in to keep the weather out,” he said.
Steve was Robert’s cousin and there had always been some jealousy on Steve’s part. Even about Margaret, who Steve had fancied for years. He’d got very drunk at the wedding reception but thankfully hadn’t said anything too terrible. He’d just fallen asleep in the toilets and had been taken home early. Robert wouldn’t have been surprised if Steve hadn’t done it deliberately, just to mark his territory a bit.
“It’s great, uncle Tom,” Robert smiled, getting into the car. “Thanks for all you’ve done for us.”
“Oh, think nothing of it. Anyway, you two lovebirds have a wonderful time, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Tom grinned.
Robert smiled awkwardly and drove away as quickly as he could, feeling his face now flushing a bright red.
Margaret had got everything packed in the hallway of their new home, where they were just living on the ground floor for now, while they did up the bedrooms and then they’d swap over. There were two suitcases, one for each of them and a lot of boxes filled with cooking utensils and basic foods. Tom had warned them that things were “a bit basic” up at the holiday cottage, near Stranraer, and so—knowing Tom—they’d erred on the side of “basic” meaning virtually nothing. The cottage had been inherited by the family from some distant relative with whom Robert’s father had spent summer holidays. When he died it passed to uncle Tom who used it to go on sea fishing trips.
Margaret and Robert were very excited about the honeymoon—their first proper holiday together, and Margaret was proving herself to be an excellent organiser.
They set off early the following morning as dawn was breaking, the little car just managing to nudge 60 on the flat. It was quite laden with stuff though and Robert just hoped it held together long enough to get them there and back.
As they headed up the empty Ml Robert’s thoughts turned to their married life together, unfurling before them like a blank map, filled with destinations and adventures as yet unimagined.
He was very nervous of their first night together. Margaret had been quite a traditionalist about sexual matters and had reserved their first ‘proper’ encounter for the first night of their honeymoon. Robert was uncertain how it would all go. He was relatively inexperienced himself, having lost his virginity to a girl at school in his mid-teens and then only one further experience more recently, arranged by his friends on his stag night. That was with a woman from Soho. He’d been rather dazzled by all the neon lights and the endless drinks he’d been bought. That woman had been an education though and he hoped that Margaret wouldn’t be disappointed with some of the things he thought he’d learnt.
“Are we nearly at Moffat?” Margaret asked. She loved the name of the town, where they’d booked an evening’s bed and breakfast to break up the journey, and she said it in a funny voice, as though it were a strangely named foreigner.
“I’m afraid not, darling,” Robert said. “We’ve only been on the road a couple of hours, it’s some way yet.”
Most of the journey was spent in silence, each with their own thoughts. Margaret wasn’t a great traveller and she said talking too much made her feel sick.
They arrived in the quaint little town mid-afternoon, for their little stopover. There wasn’t much to do and the guest house was small and rather run down. After a couple of drinks in the pub they decided to turn in for the night and set off early in the morning for the next part of the journey.
Margaret got into her nightdress in the little bathroom down the hall and Robert heard her scurrying back, in case someone saw her. She hurried into bed and turned out her side light. Robert lay a few moments wondering what to do. Was tonight their first night? Was she expecting it to happen now?
She had her back to him, curled up under the prickly sheets and blankets. He nuzzled up to her and nibbled kisses on the back of her neck. He slid his hand around towards her breasts but she stopped him with a gentle pat of her fingers.
“Now, now,” she said. “Not ’til tomorrow.”
He felt rather silly and slid back to his side of the bed.
The town was very quiet and he was used to a noisier street of terraced houses. That’s why he couldn’t sleep—well, that’s what he told himself anyway.
After salvaging what breakfast they could from the plate of yellowy grease they were served they headed on their way, passing through Dumfries, Castle Douglas, Newton Stewart—all of which Margaret commented would make lovely places to visit during their stay—and on to Stranraer, where they stopped to share a bag of chips and stand at the harbour, watching a ferry come in from Ireland.
“Not far to go now,” Robert said as they got back in the car.
They spent the next half an hour going round and round the town, searching for the way out, North, along the coast to Kirk-colm.
Eventually a local man directed them to a small road they’d passed by a couple of times and that Margaret had pointed out on their last circuit of the town.
She teased him about it for a few minutes until he grumpily said that maybe she should drive them instead
—driving had always been something they argued about, but, as yet, Margaret had been unable to conquer her terror of it.
The road narrowed and lead out to farmsteads and isolated cottages. They passed through Kirkcolm, a small village with a nice looking hotel that advertised High Teas’.
“That’ll be nice, one afternoon,” Robert said, trying to warm the frosty atmosphere.
“Maybe,” Margaret replied, huffily.
A couple of miles further on and they found the signpost to the ‘Coastal Path’ that uncle Tom had said would lead them to the cottage, along an old track that branched about halfway down. They were to take the right fork at that point and, after a gate, they would be at the house in a minute or two.
They were. ‘House’ was pushing it though. ‘Cottage’ would even be a stretch. If you had seen it in a photograph you’d have thought it might be an outbuilding for storage, or a small pig barn.
“Well, it’s cure,” Margaret mustered.
“Yes, bijou,” Robert added.
They both laughed.
Then a loud clunk came from underneath the car.
Robert leapt out and peered beneath, on his hands and knees, “Oh, Christ, that’s all we need. The exhaust’s fallen off. Tom was right. It got us here in one piece but we won’t be going anywhere else anytime soon.”
“Oh, well,” Margaret said, dreamily. She was standing behind him and as he turned to get up he could see that she was looking out, to the cottage and the fields beyond. A strong breeze was blowing her golden hair behind her and flashes of sunlight caught flecks of lighter streaks that seemed almost white. He thought she looked like a model from a poster or a magazine.
He turned to see what she was looking at. It was the wonderful view.
