Furnace

by Wayne Price

  The manager herself came to the table with the desserts menu. How have the girls been? she wanted to know. The blond girl’s from the village, she said. That’s Helen. But Beata’s Slovakian. She’s the darker girl. We’re getting more and more of them over for summer jobs now. They work hard, she went on, lowering her voice as Beata entered from the bar, carrying a coffee-pot to another table, but I have to train them myself and their English isn’t the best. She rolled her eyes.

  She’s been fine, said Hamilton. Hasn’t she, Marian?

  Marian nodded.

  Slovakia, he said. That’s a long way to come for a summer job.

  The manager shrugged. It’s the way Europe’s going, isn’t it? Everywhere’s the same now. She’s here with her twin sister, Marta. They’re identical except for the scar. She stroked her upper lip, surreptitiously. Nice girls, she concluded decisively. And the food?

  Excellent, Hamilton said.

  Good. I’ll tell chef.

  They live in the caravans? The girls?

  That’s right, she said, and opened a pad to take down their orders. I’ll send one of the girls through for your plates, she finished cheerfully, tapping out a full stop and snapping the notepad shut.

  One of the older girls at school has a scar like that, Marian said once the manager was out of earshot.

  A harelip?

  Is that an insulting name to call it?

  No, he said, surprised. He thought for a moment. No, I don’t think so.

  I think it makes you look unusual but not ugly.

  No, it’s not ugly, is it?

  It makes her shy, though. You can tell by the way she smiles.

  The girl at school or the waitress?

  I meant the waitress. But both of them, in fact, she said.

  An elderly Japanese couple appeared in the dining room doorway and half nodded, half bowed in their direction, smiling broadly. They retreated again, silently, and from the direction of the entrance hall Hamilton heard the muffled sounds of voices and fire doors banging shut.

  He turned to the window. In the deepening dark only the looming structures of the firs and pines could be made out, all their colour and detail lost. A faint, low mist was lying over the garden and the lawn was empty of life now. The nearer croquet hoops glimmered, just visible in the last of the light.

  Can we play croquet tomorrow? she asked, and he realised she was following his gaze.

  Why not? he said. If the weather’s good.

  When the desserts arrived, brought by Beata, Marian again watched the older girl intently until she left the dining room. They ate silently for a while.

  Where do you think the rest of the family are? Marian asked suddenly.

  Whose family, honey? He glanced up at her.

  The woman’s family. The ones in the album.

  He shook his head. I don’t know. They’re maybe here and we haven’t seen them yet. Maybe the husband does the cooking.

  No. She calls him chef.

  Well, maybe he does all the odd-jobs around the place, or just does some other job in the village like a bank manager or something while she runs the hotel.

  No, she said, with an odd, reluctant finality, and lifted her spoon. Her long, bony hands were red from all the washing.

  In bed that night Hamilton opened one of the chilled wines from the mini-bar and read a spy thriller until late, noticing the crack of light under the connecting door only after switching off his bedside lamp and rolling onto his side. Soon, he heard Marian get out of bed to use the bathroom and for some time afterwards she stayed awake, the beam under the door wavering as she moved mysteriously about the room. Finally, he heard the bed creak under her weight again and with a soft click the room went dark. Until sleep came, he thought about the Slovakian girl and the small white caravans in the long grass of the field.

  * * *

  The next day continued cool and overcast. Just before seven Hamilton watched through the glazed door as one of the twins gathered in the washing from the line, her hair turbaned in a white towel. Soon afterwards she emerged again from the middle caravan and headed for the village on some errand, Hamilton supposed, a small rucksack high on her shoulders. Her rippled hair, hanging long and loose now, was still damp.

  After an early breakfast where they were waited on by the manager, he drove Marian a few miles to the outdoor pursuits centre. He had booked her in for two days’ pony-trekking, though she could change her mind for either of the days, he insisted to her on the way, if there was anything else she’d rather do. The middle day of their stay he had kept free for them to do something together. How did that sound?

  It was fine.

  You won’t mind a day off from riding?

  No, she said, though without much conviction, Hamilton felt.

  Back at the hotel his bed had already been made and he felt a brief pang of disappointment. Which of the twins? he wondered, and as he showered and then dried himself he lingered on the thought of them moving quietly about his room. Afterwards, he lay back on the bed, naked and warm-skinned, considering what to do with himself. A gnawing nervous energy had been with him since waking, but he was tempted despite it to spend the day lazily at the hotel; to sit in the conservatory, maybe, and be waited on by the shy, smiling Beata or her sister. Or even to just sit there unattended, hardly noticed, and watch their comings and goings, their pleasant, crisply uniformed routines. Male voices, Japanese, drew closer from the courtyard outside and then passed by his door. Instinctively he covered himself. No, he decided. He would walk into the village and wear out some of his restlessness. Suddenly, he pictured Marian riding, straight-backed and bored on a placid, roly-poly pony, and without warning a feeling of alarm, of panic almost, swept through him. Why? he thought, but could make no sense of it. Frowning, he levered himself from the bed and dressed.

  The cramped gift shops on the High Street were depressing to browse, and the thought of the village’s main attraction, a folk museum, bored him. He wandered with some curiosity into a narrow, dimly lit game shop and spent some time admiring the mounted salmon flies, the rods and gaffs and the dark, oiled guns in their glass-faced cabinets. At the foot of the High Street he turned into a small, neat memorial park and sat for a while on the stone step of its cenotaph. There were no Hamiltons on the long brass plaque.

  A small, clear, quick-running burn partnered the back road past the memorial park and on out of the village. He followed it for half a mile or so, absent-mindedly, until it curved away from the road and was hidden by a thick screen of birches and broom. A little further on, the road climbed steeply to the foothills of the mountains and in the near distance he could see the familiar ruins of an English barracks. Whenever he had driven this far north in years past, or been driven as a boy, he had always noted the barracks, tiny from the main carriageway; remote, it always seemed, from any road or path. It was somehow disappointing for it to be within easy reach now. Slow-moving figures were clambering on the stonework. Turning off from the road he followed a dirt path alongside the burn instead.

  Away from the road the land was marshy and tangled. Soon, the bright gravelled bed of the burn widened and gave way to mud and drowned leaves though the water itself remained glass-clear. Then the path took him away from the burn, through a choked copse of alders, and when it met the water again everything had changed: the stream was much deeper and broader, the water was black with peat, and the current seemed to be flowing back on itself, impossibly, towards the village. Bewildered, Hamilton stared down at the black, silent swirls. Then it came to him: somewhere alongside the copse the burn had joined with this stronger, darker stream flowing down from the opposite side of the glen. He smiled at his slow-wittedness and pushed on to where the high bank overlooked a wide, still bend. Maybe a salmon pool, he guessed, though there were no boot prints in the mud round about. Then, looking up, he saw that on the opposite, lower lying bank, a fringe of scrub gave onto a vast, barren expanse of boulders, stones and pebbles. They stretched
back almost to the village itself, its rooftops showing tiny and serrated in the grey distance. Apart from a few scattered brambles it seemed as if the entire flood plain had been scraped back to its pale bones; as if, Hamilton thought vaguely, the last of the great glaciers had withered away just a summer or two ago. A thin breeze from the direction of the stone-field rippled the dark pool and he shivered, turning his face from it.

  Marian gave little away on the subject of her pony-trek. It had been fine, she assured him on the drive back from the activity centre, and yes, she wanted to go again the day after next, but any further questions were met with polite, non-committal evasions. Are you sure you actually went riding? Hamilton jibed at last, because you don’t seem to remember very much about it. But she only blushed and he let it go, annoyed with himself for harrying her.

  Back at the hotel he was surprised when she called him through to her room almost immediately. Look what the maid did, she said, pointing at her pillow. Two soft toys, a monkey and a dog, had been pushed together on their sides in a comic, stiff-limbed embrace. Marian was delighted. Don’t they look cute? she said.

  Are they yours? Hamilton asked.

  Yes. I just left them on the bedside table, though. She laughed to herself and separated them. I wonder who did it? I think it was Beata.

  Why do you think that?

  I just do, she said.

  They both stared at the toys.

  I’ll put them back on the table and see if it happens again tomorrow, Marian announced. She seemed happy now, energised again after the awkward silence of the car. Hamilton knew he should seize the opportunity.

  Do you still want to play croquet? he asked.

  She thought for a moment. Can I phone mum first?

  Of course, honey. He smiled supportively and cleared his throat. You come out when you’re ready.

  Okay, she said, and waited for him to withdraw.

  It took a while for the manager to find the croquet set but eventually she brought it through to the garden for him. He was at the far end, leaning on the ruined wall, looking out over the fields to the lower slopes of the mountains beyond. Their main flanks and peaks were still invisible behind cloud but at least today he could make out their long aprons of scree. The manager called to him from the conservatory doors and made a show of leaving the set on the patio outside them. He waved in reply and she disappeared indoors again.

  Marion appeared around the corner of the building as he was still making his way up the length of the lawn. Seeing the set in its battered cardboard box she made straight for it and selected a mallet.

  Do you know the rules? she asked when he reached her.

  No – you?

  It doesn’t matter. We can just try to score goals, she said.

  Okay, he agreed. How was your mother?

  Oh, fine.

  Missing you?

  She shrugged.

  Did you tell her you were having fun?

  She nodded.

  Come on, he said, and took up two of the wooden balls. Bring me a mallet, honey, he told her, and she followed him to the white hoops of the court.

  They started brightly, Marian inventing a series of different challenges and keeping score enthusiastically. But gradually Hamilton found it more and more difficult to concentrate and the constant changes in task seemed disheartening, somehow. It had been a mild early evening when they started, but now a cold easterly was cutting in through the cypresses and the cloud cover was darkening. In the failing light all the foliage around them seemed unnaturally massy and sombre. Marian could sense his boredom, he knew, but he was powerless to throw it off. Eventually he stopped dead, half way to one of the steel hoops, and stared around at the sky. From behind he heard the sharp clack of Marian’s mallet and, in the heavy stillness, even the faint buzz of the wooden ball speeding to his heels. It bumped and halted.

  I thought you were playing, she complained.

  He turned, tapping the ball back with his instep.

  I thought you wanted to play.

  Sorry, sweetheart. I’m getting cold, that’s all. I should have worn long sleeves.

  You should have, she agreed, and regarded him critically. It’s no fun if you don’t try.

  No, I know. He nodded contritely. I’m sorry. Let’s go in and get ready for dinner and maybe we can play again tomorrow, if it’s warmer.

  Before eating, Marian wanted to sit in the conservatory again. She pored over the same unwieldy photograph album while Hamilton sipped his gin, read out choices from the menu to her and tried to engage Beata in snatches of conversation whenever she attended to them. It was difficult and Hamilton wondered if she was exaggerating her poor English.

  Ask her about the soft toys, he murmured mischievously to Marian when they were finally ready to give their order.

  No! she gasped, real alarm snapping her eyes wide. And don’t you dare.

  He held up a hand in surrender and smiled, hiding his surprise.

  Later, while he waited between courses for Marian to return from the bathroom, he noticed the sister, Marta, serving at another table. As the manager had said, they were identical apart from the scar, even down to the way they tied their hair.

  Marian seemed to get off to sleep much earlier that night: the light under her door shone for a while but soon he heard the creak of her bed and then, within moments, the snick of her lamp switch. He listened on for a few minutes, then went back to his novel. Before sleeping he went to the door and peered out across the yard. In two of the caravans light still seeped around the borders of their skimpy curtains.

  Shortly after midnight he woke to a tapping at the connecting door. Startled and dazed he called out What? What is it? more harshly than he intended and the tapping stopped abruptly. For a moment he wondered if he’d dreamed it. But there was the light again under her door. He sighed, threw back the covers and padded across the room. Marian, he called, more gently now. Marian?

  She drew the door inwards, opening it just enough to show herself. She hadn’t put her spectacles on and without them her naked white face looked long and vulnerable.

  What is it? he said, whispering, as if there were someone else close by, still sleeping.

  I can’t get to sleep. My legs are aching. And I’m scared.

  He stood thinking for a time, still waiting for his head to fully clear. You’re just stiff from riding, maybe, he suggested. Come through to my room, anyway. Come and talk to me here.

  She followed him through and perched herself on the narrow armchair facing his bed. Hamilton got back under the sheets, covering his bare legs. Are you warm enough like that? he asked, eyeing her pyjamas. They were undersized on her long limbs.

  She nodded.

  So, what were you scared about, honey? Do you want to talk about it?

  It seems silly now, she admitted, and folded her thin arms across her middle.

  Hamilton waited.

  Well, she said. I felt scared because we don’t know where the husband is. Or the two boys in the photographs. I told you it was silly, she added when he didn’t reply.

  But why’s that scary? he said at last.

  She shuddered and tried to smile. I don’t know. It just seems really sad that they’re in the photographs but they’re not here now, and nobody knows where they are.

  To his surprise, Hamilton saw she was close to crying. She held her face very still, as if frightened to spill the tears.

  Well, sweetheart, he said, just because we don’t know doesn’t mean nobody knows. I’m sure they’re safe and sound and very happy somewhere.

  She nodded carefully.

  If they weren’t, she wouldn’t put the album out where everyone can see, would she? If something bad had happened, she wouldn’t want strangers looking at it and maybe asking her about them, would she?

  She was absorbing what he had said, and it seemed to have worked, Hamilton thought. She sat back in the chair, already more relaxed, though her arms remained folded.

  You thin
k you’ll sleep now?

  I don’t know. Not yet, she said.

  Don’t make me read a bedtime story, he joked, and was amazed to see her face light up at the idea.

  Will you? she asked.

  He groaned comically. No, honey. All I’ve got is some trashy thriller. Unless you brought anything?

  No, she said. But whatever you’ve got is fine.

  No, honey, I don’t know. It’s for adults. I’d have to skip over the racy bits.

  That’s okay, she said, though he couldn’t tell if she meant it was okay to skip them or okay to read them anyway. He felt flustered.

  I tell you what, he said, have a little glass of wine instead. I’ll have one too and that’ll help us both sleep. How about that? Have you had wine before?

  Of course, she said, flustered herself now. I quite like it.

  Good, he said. Everything in moderation. He winked at her and got out of bed to open up the mini-bar.

  Don’t tell your mother, he cautioned as they touched glasses in a mock toast.

  She smiled nervously and sat back in the armchair. Will you read me just the start of the book? she asked.

  He laughed. I thought the wine was instead of a story.

  She didn’t answer.

  Alright then, he said, reluctant but flattered, and secretly pleased. The first chapter was tame enough, anyway, so far as he remembered. He reached across to the bedside table and retrieved the thick paperback. Here we go, he said, and self-consciously began.

  Apart from a few expletives there was nothing to censor except for the chapter’s last few paragraphs. When he reached them, Hamilton tailed off sheepishly and said: then some adult stuff happens, honey, and that’s the end of the chapter.

  Violence or sex? she wanted to know.

  The second one, he said, a little taken aback.

  Oh. Well I’m not a baby, she complained, but good-humouredly. She had finished the wine and at least now, he observed, she had the colour back in her cheeks. She looked fine, in fact. Her arms were unfolded, resting easily on the sides of the chair, and her eyes were shining.