by Paul Magrs
I’m having a little sit as I wait for Henry to arrive. I don’t want to spoil the perfection of my ensemble: to muss my hairdo or wrinkle my dress.
There’s his gentle rapping at the door downstairs. After all this time he has come for me. It’s all I can do not to leap up and fly down the stairs. But I don’t want to seem too keen. I don’t want to frighten him off.
He’s examining the peonies in the tubs in the side passage. He turns to beam at me. ‘Brenda, my dear.’ And he embraces me. His mustard worsted jacket is rather tickly and mothbally and it’s this that sets my eyes watering. That’s what I tell him.
‘Sixty years!’ he gasps, holding me at arms’ length and sighing with pleasure. ‘You’re still the same! How?’
I’m rather blunter with my own, almost simultaneous question: ‘Why aren’t you dead?’
He laughs at this. ‘Still the same! Still the same!’ Then he takes my arm. I check I’ve got my bag, my keys, everything I need. Then I walk out with him, into the high street, and allow him to guide me to Cod Almighty, which just happens to be my favourite restaurant in town.
I’m aware of Effie’s upstairs window and the raggy curtain billowing. She’s desperate for us not to see her but I catch just a glimpse of her eager expression.
Cod Almighty isn’t particularly smart. It’s homely and quick and does the best fish and chips in town. My own favourite is whitebait, which arrive steaming and golden in a neat little heap. It’s like eating a whole miniature shoal of fish.
Cleavis nibbles at a triangle of white bread and he explains why he isn’t a day older than the last time I saw him. ‘Ah, yes. Um. Well – that’s hard to – explain. It’s – not the easiest. Well. Um. Well, you know how I was wont to go on my little jaunts and adventures. And. Um. I went all over the world. Underground societies. Spy rings. Satanic cults. That sort of thing.’
I smile and nod encouragingly. He doesn’t mean, of course, that he was actually involved in satanic cults or spy rings, or whatever. What he really means is that it was often his job to infiltrate them, and to destabilise them from within. Under the guise of a bumbling, middle-aged, harmless academic – an Icelandic specialist at that – it was relatively and surprisingly easy for Henry to inveigle himself into the most alarming of places.
‘I remember your adventures, yes,’ I say. In fact . . . I remember that we were embroiled in hair-raising adventures together, once or twice. It’s starting to come back now. I think.
‘Anyway, in the fifties. Some time. I was sent to Africa. Deep into the heart of Africa. I don’t know. Some hidden-away place. Lost city kind of thing. High priestess. Gods and goddesses. Funny business with old treasure. Elixirs of life, that type of. You know, malarkey. Blah-blah. And terrible danger, I don’t mind telling you.’
‘I can imagine,’ I say, spearing up a whole load of whitebait and crunching them up. Delicious.
‘Anyway . . . well. The upshot was. Yes, I did. I walked into the blue flame. Absolute sacrilege. They were horrified. As they might be. And their old queen is lying there, dead as a doornail. And the city is shaking and rattling and falling down about their ears. And I say, “Whoops,” or something and everyone’s a bit stunned. And there I am, with eternal youth! Well, eternal middle age. I live for ever! Hurrah!’ He turns his attention to the chips he’s left cooling on his side plate.
‘Are you sure?’ I frown.
‘Seems to be the way. I’m over a hundred now. Not doing too bad. Lived a bit of a quieter life, since the seventies, anyway. Fewer adventures and all. I’ve taken up writing. Marvellous fun! Lovely!’
‘I don’t believe you, Henry,’ I tell him.
He slurps his tea. His moustache is soggy with it. ‘What’s that?’
‘I don’t believe you’ve given up the adventure business. Secret cults and elixirs. Monsters and demons. I can’t see you ever giving that up.’
‘Ah, well. Maybe. Maybe not. It’s different these days. The other Smudgelings are all dead. It’s hard. Watching everyone die before you. You know. You know that, of course, better than. Better than anyone, Brenda.’
‘You’re right. I do know. But I know that I’ve got to go on. I can’t just get sad and stop living, much as I might want to.’
‘Oh, I’d never feel like that,’ Henry says happily, chomping on his chips. ‘There’s still so much to do! So much! Busy! Busy all the time!’
Now I want to get down to business. ‘Why are you here?’ I lower my voice and my head, until I’m staring him dead in the eye. Milky blue, bright, alert. He blinks at my question. ‘Did you come looking for me, Henry?’
‘Why . . .’ he says, slowly smiling. ‘Do you want me to be here, looking for you?’ And now he has dropped that somewhat affected stammering manner. He’s staring back at me and holding my gaze.
I look away first. ‘I’m not sure. My memory is patchy, you know. Far too patchy. I can’t even remember how and why we parted. I don’t know where it was, or when. Some time in 1946. But under what circumstances, I have no idea. Not any more.’
‘Really?’ He’s produced a huge paisley handkerchief and he’s dabbing at his ’tache. ‘That’s a shame. Memory. Funny thing. My own . . . well, it’s quite good. Surprisingly.’
‘Lucky you.’ We go a bit quiet for a while. I’m not going to beg him or blurt out all the questions. I know I could ask him what it was we were up to, on that adventure together in London back then. But I’m not going to ask him. I must have had good reason for putting those memories away. And so I am content to trust my younger self and her reasons for forgetting, and for protecting me now.
This is my new life. I’m happy here. He can’t make it any better than it is. Whatever he might tell me. Whatever missing pieces he might bring back to me.
At last he says, ‘I had no idea you were here, Brenda. Came as quite a shock. Really. Seeing you there. Amazing! What a coincidence! I mean, really!’
I’m such a foolish old woman. Of course he’s not here for my sake. Of course not. Why would he be?
‘So . . . why are you here, Henry?’ I ask him, and my voice is thick with disappointment.
‘What else?’ he chuckles. ‘Same old. Funny business. Demons. Satanic stuff. All that terrible stuff!’ He grins at me, as if he expects me to share his delight. Old fool.
But I’m a worse fool, of course. I grab up the dessert menu and waft it savagely in my face to dispel my embarrassment. ‘Knickerbocker glory? There’s a glorious one with crème de menthe . . .’
So we finish off our night spooning up green ice cream and acid-coloured minty sauce.
‘You know, Henry,’ I say airily, as we finish. ‘Your business and mine, they’re not so very different these days. Demons and whatnot.’
He looks at me quizzically, but I just tap my nose. Let him stew over that for a bit.
After all the excitement, Friday night sees me quite content to slop around at home in my dressing gown. I’m brewing up a pot of spicy tea when Effie comes knocking. Of course she wants to hear all about my date, and you can tell she’s miffed I haven’t already been round hers to report.
‘There’s nothing to tell . . .’ I try to protest. We carry out tea things to the living-room area of my attic and curl up on the two squashy armchairs. I turn my attention to the record player, flick through some old albums.
‘Come off it, Brenda.’ Effie chuckles. ‘I want to hear every detail. You must be bursting to tell me.’
So I tell her everything I think she might be interested in. Everything about my reunion with Cleavis that she might find amusing. What we ate. How he looked and how he treated me (like a lady, though I insisted on paying half. ‘What?’ Effie gasps, incredulous). I put on a nice old soothing Billie Holiday album.
What I don’t tell Effie is how Cleavis has jogged my memories of the 1940s. I don’t know why I withhold this. My longevity isn’t exactly a secret from Effie. Poor old Effie has been made privy to most of my secrets. Somehow, still, I don’t like a
lluding to them when I’m talking to her. It doesn’t seem very tactful, reminding an old lady like her that I’m nearly immortal. So when it comes to my erstwhile adventures in 1946 and all that, I keep schtum. I focus on the events of last night which were, of course, rather pleasant. He walked me back to my door and came in for a mug of this gingery, peppery tea. He was sitting where Effie’s sitting now and we shared a companionable silence in which nothing particularly earth-shattering was said or done.
‘Will you see him again?’
‘Oh, I’m sure I will.’
Effie frowns and slurps her tea. ‘It’s not sounding like the romance of the century, so far.’
‘It’s not,’ I said. ‘Just a meeting of old friends.’
‘But he came here looking for you . . .?’
Sadly I shake my head. I have to own up. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘What?’
‘I asked him. He said no. He’s here for other reasons altogether. Seeing me again was just a shocking bonus.’
‘Ah, Brenda. I’m sorry. Are you disappointed?’
I think about this. ‘Not really,’ I tell her.
‘I did warn you,’ she says, ‘about setting yourself up for a disappointment.’
I’m thinking: how could he have come looking for me anyway? After all, I’ve left no trail that I know about. I’m missing off official records, aren’t I? It’s a tangled old route that leads to my door. Not even Cleavis – not even if he had been really looking – could have found me. Not through any normal channels.
I let the topic slide. I don’t want to be discussing my Henry with Effie like this. I try to get her talking about poison pen letters.
‘Sheila Manchu’s gone a bit quiet and ashamed and won’t be pushed. She says she wants to forget about it all. And, meanwhile, the Reverend Mr Small didn’t give anything away whatsoever.’ She sighs, and holds out her mug for more tea. I wrestle with the knitted cosy.
‘I really don’t think he could have written that letter. Not the Reverend.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’ Effie sighs wistfully. I can tell she’d enjoy pinning the blame for the letters on him.
‘I think it’s got to be Mrs Claus who sent it,’ I say at last. ‘Only she would be rotten enough. Anything bad in this town, and it always seems to be her behind it.’
‘Perhaps.’ Effie pulls a face. ‘But I still fancy it’s that idiot Rosie Twist. Just think of the way she looked the two of us up and down. Last weekend at the Yellow Peril. She has this insinuating manner about her, like she knows far more than she’s telling.’
‘You’re just being paranoid, Effie.’
‘Am I?’ Effie tuts. ‘I still think it’s her. With her nasty tan and her awful clothes. I think she’s gone crackers. I expect to get one of those wicked notes myself, any day now.’
‘What can she accuse you of ? What have you done that’s so bad?’
Effie gives me a peculiar, dark look at this.
The record finishes and I get up to turn it over. I hobble across the sheepskin rug because one of my legs has gone to sleep.
And then – I don’t know why – I launch into the tale of my almost-nightly hauntings. I haven’t told Effie anything about them yet. I’ve kept all of that quite private because it makes me feel a bit foolish. But now, for some reason, it seems time to share.
So I tell her. Every detail. The scratching and tapping. The tiny footsteps in the hall. The creaking doors. The whumps and thumps. And me: sitting up rigid in bed, holding my breath and passing out with fear in the wee small hours of nearly every night.
‘Brenda!’ she cries. ‘Why didn’t you say something before? That sounds awful!’
‘It’s been really horrible,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t know what to do about it.’
‘Do?’ She frowns. ‘I’m not sure there’s anything you can do about it. Not if your ghosts are like my ghosts. I’ve got them, too, as you know. My hauntings are a bit gentler than yours, though no less persistent. My female forebears are there all the time: hanging around, disapproving of me. Trying to get me to do precisely what they want. They mutter and agitate and peer down at me from the walls. But I have learned to live with them. I ignore them. It drives them crazy! But I simply won’t give in to them. And you must learn to do the same, Brenda. You’ve just got to rise above all this fuss and nonsense.’
‘I’m not sure I can . . .’
She’s looking at me oddly. She’s surprised I’m so disturbed. I’ve shown my weakness to Effie and now she doesn’t know what to say. We finish our tea in quiet, and then it’s time for Effie to go home, and nothing more is said.
And I am left alone in my attic, once again, to face my night terrors.
They come again, of course.
It sounds as if there’s an octopus dancing on the wooden landing outside my bedroom door. Or a giant spider, maybe, trip-trapping so softly out there. I can see its shadow creeping under the gap of light.
But the biggest shock and the worst thing comes with first light. Effie’s back at mine, banging on the front door with bad news. She’s heard something dreadful. Gossip in the downstairs shop while she was fetching her newspaper and milk. She thinks I need to be up and witnessing this. She thinks it’s germane to our investigations. And she’s right. But I still resent having to fling on my clothes and follow her out into the chilly town before eight o’clock on a Saturday morning. I follow her, though. I’m tingling with weariness and pins and needles as the sun warms up the whole of Whitby. I follow her through the centre of town and up on to the cliff edge in front of the Royal Crescent.
Just yards away from the corner of the Christmas Hotel there are police vans and a cordon that’s only just been set up. Ghoulish spectators are gathering and that’s what we are, too, as we approach and bustle our way to the front: craning our necks to see.
At first I think the cordon and police activity are to do with the Christmas Hotel. Perhaps there’s something dreadful going on there again. Or perhaps Mrs Claus has been busted at last. But, no. The police are scared of her. They’ll never take her in. And now I can see that the cordon is over on the grass: around the very edge of the cliff. The vans and cars have pulled up to the edge. There are police down on the beach, far below on the narrow strip of dirty sand.
‘It’s a jumper,’ Effie says.
I look at her curiously, thinking it’s an article of clothing she’s seen, but then I realise what she must have meant by that. The small crowd around us is whispering, muttering, pointing. The surf below is lashing at the rocks and it’s hard to hear anything. We peer down at the coppers and the medics by the body of the jumper, which is spreadeagled there in their midst and obviously stone dead.
Just before they cover it up and roll it away we see enough of the body and what it’s wearing. That lime green dress. That red overcoat. That dayglo tan.
We don’t have to say anything to each other. Effie and I both know who it is who’s gone plummeting off the tallest and cruellest of these cliffs.
It’s Rosie Twist lying down there. She’ll be missing her weekend deadlines, I think. For both The Willing Spirit and its supplement, The Flesh is Weak.
Effie’s a bit heartless. ‘This makes things more complicated, ’ she says, with a sniff. ‘I could murder some breakfast. What do you say, Brenda?’
Chapter Two
Womanzee Must Die!
It’s guilt that drives us, I suppose.
That’s why we go out there, so early Monday morning. Me more than Effie. She doesn’t see how we are responsible for Jessie. She doesn’t feel guilty at all. But still she accompanies me, at the crack of dawn.
We’re taking kippers to Jessie, who is living rough.
She used to be so smart. So particular. Now here she is, hiding out in what amounts to a cave. She lives in a hole in the cliff underneath the abbey. Her nephew Robert found it for her. It’s the safest place for her to be.
Effie doesn’t agree. ‘She should be handed over
to the authorities,’ she grumbles, yet again, as we make our way through the deserted streets. The light is a gentle gold across the bay, and the air is very cool and soothing. Effie’s constant mithering is the only irritant this morning.
‘Robert can’t simply turn her in to the police.’ I sigh. ‘He feels responsible for his poor aunt. And how she’s ended up.’
‘The zoo might take her. Does Flamingoland still have Baboon Mountain?’ There’s not a flicker of a smile on Effie’s face.
‘Don’t be cruel,’ I say.
We have to walk past all the tourist shops, and past the bottom of the one hundred and ninety-nine steps. Then there’s a row of tiny holiday cottages, and finally a quieter, scrubby path, which skirts round the headland towards Jessie’s hiding place.
‘The silly woman brought her downfall on herself,’ says Effie. ‘If she hadn’t been so keen on regaining her lost youth and messing about at that boutique last year, she would never be in the mess she is.’
Effie knows it isn’t as simple as that. True, Jessie did go mad on the weird rejuvenation treatments on offer at the place known as the Deadly Boutique. Lots of women in this town trooped into that dodgy place: lured by the promise of having decades knocked off their natural ages. They should have known, however, that miracles of the sort they were experiencing come at a ghastly price. Effie and I watched in appalled wonderment as these duped women swanned about Whitby, looking young and beautiful again. Jessie – who was a waitress at the Christmas Hotel – was the most amazingly transformed of all. She had knocked off about forty years.
These things always come at a cost, of course. When Effie and I investigated we uncovered the vile schemes of Mr Danby, who owned that decadent parlour up Frances’ Passage. It turned out that he was placing these women in his mysterious Deadly Machine and robbing them of their life essences, which in turn he was feeding to his tiny, vampiric mother who lived in the flat upstairs. Anyway, no need to go into the details of it now. Suffice to say that Effie and I were both nearly killed during our adventures in the Deadly Boutique. And Jessie was somehow turned into something from the dawn of time. She reverted far too much and now resembles what Effie calls an Australopithecene woman, the poor thing. Worse was to come for Jessie, though.
