[Brenda & Effie 02] - Something Borrowed

by Paul Magrs

  When I walk back home, leaving her in the town to do her shopping, I’m thinking that, really, she’s a lonely old soul. She’s been in the dumps since her fancy man Alucard was banished into hell. Maybe being asked to investigate something will keep her mind occupied. It might do her good to feel wanted, I suppose.

  The afternoon whooshes by in a blur of scouring powder and self-raising flour. I’m in my most welcoming landlady mode as my guests arrive in enthusiastic dribs and drabs, fresh from the railway station, throughout that afternoon. They are a polite, undemanding bunch. I see them settled in with minimal fuss and they seem genuinely delighted by the airy, immaculate rooms I have provided for them. I explain rules and routines and, as I’m in such a good mood, I even consider cooking Sunday lunch for them.

  I like it when I have a full house.

  I roll up my sleeves and get on with my work. All around me, the other landladies of Whitby are doing likewise as we advance into the sun-warmed weekend.

  Teatime rolls round and I pause with spicy tea and ginger biscuits. I’m thinking about Effie again. Effie and her mysteries. She’d be gutted if I didn’t go out with her tonight. I suppose I should show willing. My work here is finished for the day.

  What did she say about glad rags?

  I wonder where it is she’s taking us. And who it is who needs our help so badly.

  It’s quite a walk up the hill. We’re heading out of town in our best outfits, on foot. We’re passing other B&Bs, other guest houses. This area is a good fifteen minutes away from my place, and the sea. I’m sure the advertising for these establishments doesn’t say that.

  At last we’re standing in front of a particular hotel. It’s a sprawling stucco monstrosity, freshly painted in ice cream shades of yellow and pink. Banners advertise ‘Big Screen Sport’ in the lounge bar and others proclaim ‘Seventies Nite Tonight!’ in the basement nightclub.

  ‘Here?’ I can hardly believe it. Effie leads me across the road determinedly. I might have known, though. Effie’s in her dancing shoes. She’s in a glitzy black frock, too, topped off with a fur wrap. A vintage outfit, fetched from some deep wardrobe in that museum-like house of hers. And here I am, ready for a proper night out, clumping along in my nicest shoes, with a smart print dress I chose in the sales. I’ve set my wig nicely, in a modish way, and I’m ready to face the world on Friday night. ‘But here? The Hotel Miramar? You always say it’s a terrible den of vice, Effie . . .’

  She shrugs. She purses her lips. ‘It’s not so bad,’ she tells me, linking one of her skinny old arms into my much heftier one as we dodge the traffic. It’s a balmy spring evening, with the sun just sliding down over the headland. The breeze is warm and, given a choice, I wouldn’t be spending the evening sitting in some sweaty bar. And certainly not one with the reputation that the Hotel Miramar has.

  ‘You came here last year, didn’t you? When you were courting?’ I shoot her a quick look.

  ‘Indeed,’ she murmurs, hunting through her beaded clutch bag as we stand outside the main door. ‘Look. Membership card. You can come in as my guest.’ We’re standing under one of the ubiquitous flashing signs. This one is advertising the nightclub (or ‘niterie’) in the basement of the hotel: the Yellow Peril. When Effie opens the heavy double doors to the foyer, there’s a sickening smell of spirits and chicken Kiev.

  ‘I wish you’d warned me that we were coming here,’ I said. ‘I don’t feel dressed right.’ I’m buttoning up the cardy I’ve slipped over my dress.

  ‘You look fine,’ Effie tells me. She’s gone into concentrated, alert mode, her eyes glinting about suspiciously.

  ‘Who are we here to help, anyway?’ I ask. ‘You haven’t told me anything yet.’

  Effie is just about to explain something to me when we’re descended on by a woman in a lime green blouse. ‘Terrible with the complexion she’s got,’ Effie hisses. She’s never liked Rosie Twist, who is a journalist on the local rag, The Willing Spirit. (And features editor on its hedonistic weekend supplement, The Flesh is Weak.)

  Rosie has frizzy magenta hair and a salon tan like meat paste. I think the poor woman is colour blind.

  ‘Well!’ she says. ‘I never thought I’d see you two here.’ You can feel her mind whirring over the possibilities. Her fingers twitch, itching to fetch her notebook out of her bag. She’ll have us in her tawdry gossip column, I just know. Respectable ladies on binge-drinking jolly at local hellhole.

  Effie is frowning at her. ‘Hello, Rosie.’ She’s never forgiven Rosie or The Willing Spirit for a feature article on her shop which described the place as a danger to local health and safety. ‘A bit of dust!’ she had bellowed at the time, tearing the page to shreds. ‘A bit of dust never hurt anyone! Why does everything these days have to be gleaming, antiseptic and safe? What kind of world is it turning into?’ Ever since then – last Christmas – Effie has despised Rosie Twist.

  ‘Come on, then,’ Rosie jeers. ‘Tell me. What are you two doing in a place like this?’

  ‘None of your business,’ Effie huffs. ‘Come along, Brenda.’

  ‘This isn’t your usual old lady kind of place. You must be here for a reason . . .’ Rosie follows us with a glint in her eye.

  Effie draws herself up proudly and glares at Rosie. She glances to make sure none of the other hotel guests – propping up the bar – can hear. ‘We simply fancied having a nice dance.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ Rosie laughs. ‘I’ve got my eye on you two. Nothing good happens when you two are around. So tell me. Is something going on here at the Miramar? Something weird?’

  I cough politely, in order to gain their attention. Rosie has been fixated on Effie – like a mongoose. I can see Effie’s about to lose her temper. They both look up at me. ‘I’d keep it quiet, if I were you, Rosie, love. You see, you’re right. We are, in fact, involved in all sorts of dark and nasty business . . .’

  ‘I knew it!’ she snaps triumphantly.

  ‘And wherever we go, danger is bound to follow. Terrible things have happened.’

  ‘So?’ she says. ‘That’s good! That’s the kind of thing I want to know. I knew there was a story about you two . . .’

  I lower my voice again, and stare unblinkingly into her eyes. ‘Terrible things might happen to you.’

  She gulps. She backs off. I can see I’ve jarred her composure. ‘Oh, rubbish,’ she stammers. ‘I’ll find out what you’re doing here, don’t you worry. It’ll all come out in the end.’ With that, she totters off to the ladies’ lav, and slams the door.

  ‘Blue eyeshadow with that tan,’ Effie tuts.

  ‘We’ll have to watch out for her.’

  ‘Yes, but let’s not threaten too many people, eh?’ Effie tells me.

  There’s a throbbing and a pounding from the basement. The monogrammed carpet underfoot is pulsing like a gold and scarlet migraine. The disco has started up downstairs in the Yellow Peril, and it’s time for us to show Effie’s membership card and to descend into the underworld.

  There’s a surprise waiting for us at the little desk at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Robert!’ He’s sitting in a bubble of light, crouching over the membership book. Next thing I know he’s giving me a swift hug.

  It’s weeks since I’ve seen Robert. He’s my young friend who used to work at the Christmas Hotel, and who helped us during some of our investigations last year. ‘I am glad you’ve got yourself another job,’ I tell him. Though, secretly, I wish it was somewhere nicer than this.

  Mind, he looks very dapper in his black tie and tails. He steps back for us to admire him. ‘Better than my work clothes in the last place, eh?’ he grins. Handsome boy. I turn to see Effie gazing at him with her usual wry disapproval.

  ‘Good evening, young man,’ she says, passing over her card and bending to sign us both in. ‘How is your aunt keeping these days?’

  Oh, dear. Robert’s face falls at that. Poor Jessie. He tries to rally. ‘As well as we can expect. Some of the things she’s been t
hrough . . .’

  Effie straightens up and nods briskly. ‘Quite. We can’t expect miracles, can we?’

  Robert’s eyes widen. ‘But I think it’s a miracle that she’s still here, in the land of the living. That’s a miracle to me.’

  ‘Hm,’ says Effie. ‘Are we ready to go in, Brenda? I believe it’s Seventies Night, isn’t it, Robert?’

  I ask him, quietly, ‘Is she still living in the same place?’

  He nods quickly. ‘It’s not ideal, of course. But it’s where she wants to be. I wouldn’t want to argue with her. She can flare up very quickly.’

  I pat his hand.

  ‘She’d love a visit from you,’ he says impulsively. ‘Both of you.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ Effie says, not at all keen. Robert is looking at us imploringly.

  ‘We’ll see.’ I smile. Of course, we will have to go and check on his Aunt Jessie. I feel responsible, in a strange way, for how she’s ended up. Of course we’ll go.

  ‘So how come you’re here?’ Robert asks. ‘Are you going to dance the night away?’

  The disco noise is already overpowering. I can see Effie is keen to get through the swing doors into the inner sanctum.

  ‘I quite enjoy a nice bop,’ I tell him playfully. ‘But actually, it’s Effie who’s dragged us here. Something’s up.’

  Robert’s eyes go wide. ‘You’re investigating!’ He grins at me.

  Effie swings round on us. ‘Do you two have to go blethering on about our business? Keep a tin lid on it. That idiot journalist Rosie Twist will be coming down the stairs after us. We don’t want just anyone finding out what we’re up to.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘I don’t even know what we’re up to.’

  Robert clicks his fingers. ‘It’s Sheila, isn’t it?’

  Effie twitches. ‘Sssh,’ she hisses.

  Robert lowers his voice and leans in. ‘You’re here to see Sheila. I just know it. Oh, thank goodness. I’m glad she took my advice. It was me who told her that you two are . . . good at looking into . . . mysteries and that.’

  I bite my lip, because I don’t want to yell at Robert. But I’d rather the whole town didn’t know about my and Effie’s adventures. Instead I ask him, ‘What’s wrong with Sheila?’ I don’t really know the woman. I’ve met her a couple of times. Busty, glamorous type. Owns this place. All this silver hair, right down her back. Feathers and satin and fussy make-up.

  ‘She’s been in a proper old state,’ Robert says. ‘Since yesterday morning. I’ve never seen anything like it. She’s inconsolable.’

  ‘Come on, Brenda,’ Effie says firmly, grasping my arm.

  Rosie Twist has appeared behind us, brandishing her membership card. ‘Who’s inconsolable?’ she pipes up.

  ‘The DJ,’ Robert puts in smoothly. ‘Snapped her twelve-inch Donna Summer right across. No more “I Feel Love”! On a Seventies Night! What a disaster!’

  Rosie scowls and bends to sign the book. I wink at Robert and Effie drags me into the noisiest disco I’ve ever been to.

  It’s like the Belle Epoque inside, mixed with Lucrezia Borgia and Saturday Night Fever. The place is heaving with half-familiar faces, surging between Hawaiian bar and the lit-up dance floor, which is pulsing its amber checkerboard like crazy. Effie seems quite at home, slipping through the mostly older crowd. She’s intent on getting to the bar; cutting a swathe through the electric boogaloo and all the hullaballoo. She orders drinks and soon we’re perched on chrome stools. Effie has a slim flute of something sophisticated-looking and I feel foolish holding a half-coconut of a funny-tasting concoction that I’m sucking through a curly straw. I wasn’t made for high stools.

  ‘What’s wrong with Sheila?’ I ask her.

  ‘I don’t know yet. I only got the message this morning.’

  ‘Inconsolable, Robert said.’ I suck up a whole mouthful of my cocktail. I’m just about getting used to its weird, foamy texture. ‘I never knew you were such great pals with her.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Effie says. ‘I’m intrigued. She didn’t sound like herself on the phone. She said Robert had told her what a great help we had been with his poor Aunty Jessie.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s true,’ I say. Poor Jessie. She turned into a Neanderthal – or, what was it? An Australopithecus-type woman in that makeover machine. Then she died of a heart attack, and then she came back to life. It was a horrible do all round. Still, it was nice of Robert to say we had been a help to him.

  ‘So Sheila said she’d like to talk to us. She offered us a free night out here at the Yellow Peril and that’s why we’re here. That way she can have a word with us without drawing attention. We look like we’re here for a night out, rather than actually investigating. Do you see?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I must say, poor Sheila sounded rather spooked on the phone.’

  Spooked. I nod understandingly. That sounds like one for us.

  And then there’s a change of record and a shift in atmosphere for the crowd standing immediately around us. The red-faced drinkers draw back a little to allow the owner and manageress to pass like a whisper to the bar.

  She’s like their queen in here, is Sheila. Some of them go so far as to applaud her appearance as she steps across the sticky floor to greet us. She looks composed and beautiful in a long silky dressing gown affair, trimmed with blue feathers. She’s come down in her nightie, it seems, though somehow that doesn’t look out of place. When she smiles her whole face crinkles up and, oddly, all her extra flesh only adds to her sexiness and her allure. She greets Effie as if she is a long-lost best buddy. As Sheila kisses my cheek I realise that what she seems most of all is grateful. She is brimming with gratitude that we have turned up on a Friday night in response to her plea. She looks as if we have agreed to save her life.

  ‘Come into my office for a moment, would you?’ she asks. ‘Not for long. It won’t take long to explain.’

  Of course, of course. There’s no turning down a request from her. Without a word, Effie and I are off our stools, shouldering our handbags and holding our exotic drinks aloft. We swim through the crowd in Sheila’s wake. We’re both agog to learn what’s behind all this. We don’t even question the wisdom of getting involved.

  Something is telling me this must be very murky business indeed. It must be nasty, to have spooked a woman like Sheila Manchu.

  She sits down at her desk very gracefully. Effie and I pull up chairs and prepare to listen carefully to what she has to say.

  ‘I imagine that the two of you have heard all sorts of gossip about me.’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘I know how people here in this town talk. I know the kinds of thing they say about me. Perhaps they don’t mean to be unkind, but I do have feelings, you know. I’m not impervious to the harsh opinion of the world.’

  Effie says kindly, ‘Tell us, Sheila. What’s happened?’

  Sheila’s chin trembles. The whole of her large body is trembling. ‘I’m sorry. You might well think I’m over-reacting. I’m taking it too much to heart. But it’s the kind of thing that can really get to you, this. It can knock your confidence.’

  Effie takes a handkerchief out of her clutch bag and passes it to her. ‘Start at the beginning,’ she tells Sheila.

  And Sheila does.

  ‘I suppose I’ve never really felt accepted here. I know how long it takes to be accepted by Yorkshire people. Well, we moved up here in 1974 and that’s over thirty years ago. Still I feel like some southern interloper. Someone who’ll never fit in.’ Sheila spares me a glance here. She knows that I’m a much more recent interloper. ‘I realise this hotel of mine is vulgar and silly. And that people here think I’m trashy. And I can’t help that. But I didn’t think anyone actually meant me any harm.’

  ‘Harm?’ I ask. ‘Has someone threatened you?’

  She smiles sadly. ‘In the old days, death threats and so on were ten a penny. We’d get them arriving in the post almost daily. Every time I picked up the phone there’d be som
e anonymous sinister voice promising my husband or myself a grisly end.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My husband was rather notorious in his line of work.’ She sighs. ‘When he lived in London he was a proper terror, I suppose. Some people would say he deserved everything he got, all that aggro, when all he wanted to do really was retire from the shady scene he was involved with.’

  I cast a glance at Effie and she’s nodding patiently. She already knows all this, it seems, about Sheila’s old man.

  ‘I met him late in his life, you see,’ Sheila explains. ‘When he was wanting to turn his back on all his schemes and nefarious plots. He’d had enough. He was worn out. A jaded skeleton of a man. But he had such panache and charm about him, even then. What was I? Just a girl. A dolly bird in Soho. I was a waitress in a go-go bar when he met me. I was seventeen and he was a hundred and nine.’

  ‘That’s some age gap,’ I say.

  Sheila nods. ‘My husband was a unique man.’

  ‘You married when you were so young?’

  ‘You have to understand what he was like. He had been a criminal mastermind of truly global reach. He was a mandarin. A genius. He could flatter and charm like no one I had ever met. He was so sophisticated, so witty. And there was still some glamour about him, some remnants of the handsome man he had been so long before . . .

  ‘And also, he couldn’t do enough for me. He was so powerful, he had only to snap his fingers and his will was done. My will was done. Now, that’s very seductive to a girl from nowhere. A girl who had nothing. But still . . . at first . . . I had my qualms about him. He had, he admitted, been rather wicked in his past. He sat me down and told me exactly how heinous his crimes had been. He had a flat deep under the ground in Limehouse and I remember sitting there, in this opulent pleasure palace, and thinking: I don’t care. He could be the very devil and I wouldn’t care. Because I wanted him, do you understand?’