by Paul Magrs
He arrives and we sit and for a while I am kept busy, serving up our lunch and dashing back and forth. Henry is the perfect guest: pleased about everything, and sitting there, letting me get on with it. He exclaims over each course in turn and praises me lavishly.
It’s as we spoon up our desserts with cream that I pass him my poison pen letter. He reads it as he eats and his eyebrows creep higher and higher in alarm.
When he is finished he holds it aloft quizzically. His eyes narrow, as if he can X-ray it and read its very fibres for clues. He doesn’t embarrass me by alluding to its contents, for which I am grateful. But now he harrumphs and says, ‘How many people here in Whitby know the truth about you, Brenda? Hm?’
I stammer. ‘About me? I . . . um . . .’
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘This letter of yours narrows down the field of poison pen suspects quite considerably. Does it not? Spawn of Satan, et cetera. Um . . . this allusion to your not being human or natural, and so on. Bang on the money, are they not? Now, there can’t be many to whom you have disclosed . . . your unusual pedigree.’
I feel myself go tight-lipped indeed. ‘Hardly any. And some seem to know without my having told them. Mrs Claus, for instance. And you, Henry. You seem to know all about me.’
He gives a gracious little nod. ‘Who else?’
‘Well . . . people I trust. Robert. And . . . Effie. Effie knows about me.’
‘Ahhh,’ sighs Cleavis, tapping the frail sheet against his chin. He stares into space for a while. ‘Effie. I see. And you told her, did you . . .? All about . . . your situation?’
Situation! I like that! ‘Everything,’ I say. ‘It all came out last year. I ended up telling her the whole lot.’
‘You must really trust her then,’ Cleavis says.
This makes me feel foolish and dull, as I take the tray of dirty pots and plates back indoors. I unload them and put the coffee on, setting out dinky cups and filling up the silver pot. Was I a fool to trust Effie? She’s my friend. I couldn’t help the truth’s coming tumbling out. Especially not in the circumstances of the time. We were both prisoners of Mrs Claus, up at the top of the Christmas Hotel. It was Mrs Claus who gave the game away about my ‘situation’ as Henry so gallantly puts it. She blew my cover for me, and so I ended up having to tell Effie the whole, tawdry saga, while we were tied up together in a musty attic. I told her the long, incredible tale of my life. Where I came from. And who made me. And why.
But Effie wouldn’t betray me. Surely not. She wouldn’t use those disclosures of mine – painful as they were – to taunt me now. I’m sure of it. I feel rotten for even suspecting it, what with Effie lying senseless in the county hospital.
There is no way Effie wrote those letters.
Is there?
Outside in my garden, and Cleavis is back on the scent.
‘Tell me, Brenda. Does Effie have an old typewriter?’
‘For business correspondence.’ I nod miserably. ‘An old death trap machine in the office at the top of her house.’ I clatter my spoon down and start stacking dishes up on the tray. ‘Why does this have to happen now? When she’s in hospital, and I can’t even ask her?’
‘Perhaps it isn’t her at all,’ Cleavis says gently. ‘After all, by the time you received the letter, Effie was already in hospital. How could she have delivered it to you, hm? No, I am sure she is quite innocent in this. I apologise for even considering it.’
Gracious of him, again. But I am thinking about the letter, half wedged under the mat. It could have been there the day before. I’ve been in such a kerfuffle, with all the goings-on. And I’m thinking now: Effie might well have dropped it through my letter box earlier. And I never noticed it until today.
I screw up my eyes and take a deep breath. I listen to the breezes shushing the tall trees about, making a noise like the sea itself. I can hear the wood pigeons crying out their usual ‘To-do! to-do! to-do!’ And I think about Effie. Do I really believe that my best friend is capable of secretly and stealthily tapping out these nasty notes to inhabitants of this town? Setting out to hurt people? To make them feel paranoid and even scared?
‘I’m really not sure what to think any more,’ I tell Henry.
He nods very patiently. ‘We can’t rule her out yet. And . . . you know, Brenda. I haven’t seen much of her, and I know she is your best friend. But from the tiny experience of her I have, I do wonder . . .’
‘What?’
‘Perhaps,’ says Henry. ‘If she was, perhaps, at some point, feeling very miserable and lonely and anguished . . . in a weak moment she might just have . . . let all her bile out in letter form . . . I can almost imagine it. She seems so very pent-up and . . . Oh, I don’t know. Is that a bad thing to say?’
I glance at him. Yes, I think. It’s a downright awful thing to say.
Then he becomes tender, solicitous. ‘My dear. Why don’t we drop the topic? Unfortunate, this. I’m sure your friend is quite innocent in the matter of these vile epistles. I’m sure.’
‘Hmmm.’ I pour the coffee out, bridling a bit. Why is there always some mystery? Why is there always something horrible going on? This afternoon it’s balmy and warm. The garden is perfect and I’m here with my new man friend. Why must all these horrible thoughts and possibilities be running through my mind?
‘Have you talked to Robert since I shot his aunt?’ Cleavis asks, looking shifty.
I shake my head. That’s something else I’m dreading. Poor Robert! My continuing friendship with Cleavis is bound to cause a rift between us.
‘It’s a bit awkward.’ Cleavis harrumphs. ‘Him working at the Miramar. My being a guest there. My having shot one of his relatives.’
‘Have they found her body?’ I ask.
Cleavis tersely shakes his head.
I imagine poor Jessie, careering all that way down the cliff, into the thrashing, freezing North Sea. Poor Jessie, felled at last. She’s had no luck, that woman. And all for what? Trying to do herself up and make the best of herself. Rewarded like this! Transformed into a monster; a primitive beast. Shot like a mad dog and chucked into the sea!
That’s what humans do to you. If they can’t control you and box you in. They simply get rid of you. And my heart jumps a little at the thought that Jessie’s body hasn’t turned up.
There’s just a chance, isn’t there, that she’s more resilient than anyone knows? Isn’t there just a chance that the womanzee still breathes?
But Cleavis looks pleased with himself, at a monster-hunting job well done. It’s one thing that stands between us and any chance of happiness, I suppose. I hated him for roaming about the town with those weapons. I hated the way he whipped out his pistol and bang! there goes Jessie, without a second thought.
My expression must be a savage one. I must be frowning at him across the picnic table, because he asks me what the matter is.
‘I am a monster, Henry,’ I say. I take a deep, ragged breath, surprised at my own words. ‘What happens when you decide it’s time to hunt me down?’
He laughs at me. He guffaws. Then he realises that I’m not joining in. I’m serious. ‘You’re no monster. My dear! Oh, Brenda! You’re not a monster at all.’
‘By any rational definition, I most certainly am. I am unnatural. Not of woman born. Stitched together. Patched together. Flung together with loving care by the greatest scientist of his age. I am almost two hundred years old, Henry. Of course I’m a monster! I’m a classic!’
He slurps at his coffee, crunching up the grounds in embarrassment. ‘Well. Um. Yes. Of course I’m aware of. You told me of. Um. Yes. But not a nasty monster. Not one that needs to be dealt with. Or put out of the way. You’re no danger to anyone, are you now?’
I can feel my eyes sparkle dangerously as I catch and hold his gaze. His expression wavers. I can see how much I disconcert him. ‘Are you sure about that?’ I ask him. ‘Mightn’t you come running after me one day, with your harpoon gun, your mistletoe and garlic, your jet-tipped and silver-tippe
d bullets?’ I sound almost mocking. Challenging.
‘Never, my dear,’ he tells me. ‘Even if I was instructed to. Even if you were deemed to be the most dangerous woman in Britain. I wouldn’t hunt you down. I wouldn’t harm a hair on your head.’
I don’t point out to him that this is a wig. I’m completely bald up top.
‘You know that I wouldn’t hurt you,’ he says now. ‘You’ve known that from the start.’
‘The start?’ I say. ‘I’m not sure I remember the start.’
Cleavis smiles. ‘Oh, I do.’
‘All those years ago. Sixty or more, as you’ve helpfully pointed out . . .’ Cleavis smiles ruefully at this. ‘I was living in rooms in the old college. My younger brother John had moved in with me, acting as a sort of secretary, though he wasn’t much use. I had him dealing with my correspondence and generally tidying the place up. Kept him out of mischief, I suppose. And he loved the life, too. The ancient town. Everything mildewy, fusty. Crammed with erudition. And all us musty old bachelors gadding about the place in our crow-like robes. Dashing about the place on our bikes. He loved all that, did John. And he loved my friends, too. He would even attend our regular meetings. Thursday nights. He loved to play host. He’d pop out to the buttery to fetch a jug of beer for us. He’d listen with the rest of us. Bated breath. As Professor Tyler read us another chapter, say, all about his elves and fairies and whatnot. Or William Freer gave us one of his interminable epic poems. John was always included. One of the founding members, I’d say. One of the very first Smudgelings. And it was his enthusiasm that kept us going. We took it for granted, the sitting together, talking and reading and making up stories. To John it was all a novelty. He thought we were so lucky. Living the life we did. And so we were.
‘So. I am thinking about after the war, aren’t I? Everyone is returned, it seems. Amongst our group, anyway. I’ve been nowhere. I’ve been in the home guard. Tyler has been a warden. John’s leg has never been the same. He’s discharged now. Under my care. The undergraduates are coming back. There are more demands on our time. The old town is changing. We can all feel it. But the Smudgelings are trying to keep their little bit of it just the same as ever. That’s important to us. We believe we are preserving something. Keeping something going. I don’t know what that was now, looking back. The old stories, I suppose. The wellspring of myth itself. Does that sound silly, Brenda?’
I shake my head.
‘So we read our poems and our stories, our works in progress, to each other. Monday lunchtimes we would meet in the Book and Candle, the hard core of us. Tyler liked a pint or two. And on Thursday evenings, come rain or shine, we would meet for one of our long, long sessions of listening and arguing the toss. Often we would meet in my rooms. That’s when John was happiest. When we were playing host to all the others. When he really felt he had a place. Other times, we would be out at the Tyler residence. It was a large, ramshackle house, further out in the town. Almost in the suburbs, John would complain, as we marched out there. I can hear him now, groaning on. That particular night. In all the snow. It was halfway up our calves and coming down thicker and faster by the minute. We bent our heads against the oncoming, whirling snow and set a fair pace for Professor Tyler’s house.
‘John was joking about Tyler’s wife, the formidable Edith. She was a brusque, disconcerting sort. None of us could imagine why the two of them had ever fallen into step, let alone shackled themselves together. Except the story went that she had nursed old Tyler back to health at the end of the last war. Perhaps it was out of sheer gratitude that she’d pulled him back from the brink of destruction? We heard that his war wounds were savage. And that was why he had brought her here, to this old, dank, university town that the ex-nurse hated so much. You could see it in her face when she allowed us in over the threshold on nights like this. Rolling her eyes at us. Tutting at us. Reg’s funny university friends. Rum types. John seemed to find Tyler’s wife rather amusing. He kept up an endless stream of Edith jokes and anecdotes as we struggled through the wintry park.
‘ “One thing,” I interrupted. “She has been a great support to the venerable professor.” I pictured the mismatched pair: Tyler skinny, ascetic, sour-looking. Edith all blowsy and frilly. Rather commonplace, in fact – though none of us would ever dare to voice that opinion. “She has looked after him and seen to it that his great work has gone on uninterrupted. His college duties, but also the real work. Why, without the protection of the impressive Edith, I doubt he would have progressed this far.”
‘John made a noise of agreement. The oncoming snow was too savage for me to turn and see his expression. “Seventeen years, though!” he said, whistling. “All that time on one book. Who knows, if it wasn’t for Edith, he might have finished it by now?”
‘ “Rubbish,” I scoffed. “Edith has been urging Reg to get it finished for years now. She’s convinced he’s dragging his heels just to spite her. She wants him to publish it and make pots of money for her. She wants the high life, does Edith. She’s convinced what’s-he-called – Disney – will want it when it’s done. Just imagine! Imagine Tyler’s face when she suggested it! Disney!”
‘ “Do you think he’ll ever bring it out for the public?” John asked me. And I had to admit that I just didn’t know. We were privileged, we few Smudgelings. For years we had been listening, in instalments, to The True History of Planets. And, as the months and years went by, it had become increasingly clear that we were listening to something unique as it was evolving. Something very special indeed. Tonight, at the Tylers’ residence, over cheese and port, we would hear more.
‘ “Is that Freer?” John asked suddenly, squinting into the swarming darkness. He faced out across the park, where the iron lamp stands had only just been replaced. They cast pools of dirty yellow light and, as John pointed, I could indeed see a dapper figure, bent almost double by the knifing wind.
‘ “It certainly looks like him,” I murmured. “Shall we wait for him to catch up?”
‘John shook his head quickly. “I’d rather not walk along with him, Henry, if you don’t mind.” I knew already that John didn’t think much of our newest member, the London novelist William Freer. I felt sad about that, because Freer had been offered membership at my request. I found him fascinating as a writer, and as a man, even though he wasn’t our usual sort. No stuffy academic, he. He lectured occasionally in Spitalfields, for the Workers’ Educational Association. He talked about the Romantics, which Tyler had taken to ribbing him for, since nothing of consequence had been written – in Tyler’s view – for at least a thousand years. But it was Freer’s formidable, free-spirited intellect and imagination that I – and I hoped the other Smudgelings – valued him for.
‘As we watched now, it was apparent that he was being met by another man. A dark figure, hard to make out. As if it was a fine, spring evening, they were standing together and seemingly passing the time of day.
‘ “How very peculiar,” John said. “He’s chatting away with that fellow in the cape.”
‘ “Best not to disturb them,” I said, and we hastened our footsteps past the park, and into a crescent of tall, elegant houses, wherein lay the Tyler residence.
‘A housemaid came to answer our crashing and banging at the door. We were frozen, standing there in the porch, as it slowly filled up with drifting snow. The door opened a crack, letting out this wonderfully warm golden glow from within. And this new housemaid – just started work for Edith that week – gazed out at my brother and me. Her face was creased with a suspicious frown as she asked who we were.’
Now Cleavis smiles at me. ‘It was hardly the politest of introductions, Brenda. But I can still see that moment, crisp as anything. Crisp as the snow down my starched collar. Sharp as the throb of my chilblains as you asked us – quite – gruffly – to step inside the hall.’
I choke up. ‘I . . .?’
Cleavis nods. ‘Yes, you, Brenda. Don’t you remember? You were the Tylers’ new housemaid. All
those years ago. You took our hats and coats. I was charmed from the moment I first clapped eyes on you.’
I gasp. A hollow, involuntary sound. And I remember. I can remember being the housemaid.
Now I’m back in my kitchen. I need a few minutes away from Henry, just to get myself together. I’m giving the dishes a quick rinsing, and then I’ll steep them. It’ll make them easier to do.
I was a housemaid. Of course I was. And not just for the Tylers in Cambridge. For various people, in many different houses, over the years. I have been a servant. I don’t remember actually deciding to go to Cambridge. I can’t recall exactly why I chose that city, but I do remember Tyler and his wife, Edith. She was an unsure, tetchy woman. She was young, trying to act older. She was out of her depth, and struggling to keep up. She was self-conscious and cruel. I once came upon her beating one of the other girls they had in doing the chores. I had to shove my way in and stop her.
As Henry told me his tale I was seeing everything through his eyes. I could see him and his brother in that snowy park. I could see them plodding heavily towards the lit-up windows of the Tylers’ place. I could see myself on the doorstep: a glowering lummox in a servant’s cap.
My first sight of Henry Cleavis that winter night had me responding much as my first recent sightings of him have done: I was drawn to him. He felt safe to me. But in those days I was less likely to trust anyone. If I liked the look of someone I was curt with them, stand-offish. I just about barked at him and his brother that Tyler was in the drawing room with one or two of the others. Waiting with the port and the fire raging. To me they were like little boys, playing silly boys’ games, and at first I didn’t have much patience with them.
But I listened to their welcomes and their hellos in that drawing room, as I stoked and banked up the fire. I bustled about, making busywork, listening all the while. Then I was intrigued: it was rare to hear Professor Tyler so animated. He could be such a glum and starchy presence, but when Cleavis was there and the Smudgelings were in session, his mood became expansive, even ebullient.
