[Brenda & Effie 02] - Something Borrowed

by Paul Magrs

  ‘Um,’ I say, not very edifyingly, and suddenly I want to scurry into the kitchen.

  ‘Spit it out. I’m not putting up with this . . . this . . . sulking for a moment longer.’

  ‘Sulking!’ I cry. ‘It’s you who’s sulking, you miserable old stick!’

  ‘I’ve a good right to sulk!’ she shouts right back. ‘I’ve been shot!’

  ‘Don’t go on about it!’ I bellow at her, much louder than I mean to. ‘Did I shoot you? Was I the one?’

  ‘We’re getting off the point,’ Effie snaps. ‘What’s up? Why have you got the hump with me?’ Her eyes are black, like little nuggets of Whitby jet. Smouldering at me.

  I take a deep breath. I just have to tell her. That’s all. Okay. I’ll tell her. I’ll ask her straight out. ‘It was you, wasn’t it, Effie? All along. It was you sending out those terrible letters to everyone.’

  I watch her keenly for her reaction.

  And now it is Effie’s turn to look flabbergasted.

  It takes a good portion of the evening to talk it through. Effie can’t believe that I have accused her.

  ‘I thought we were friends!’ she keeps crying out, through her sobs. Each time she says it, I feel lashed with shame. ‘I thought you were my friend!’

  We move from room to room, round the upstairs of Effie’s house, as she gets up and staggers about, throwing her hands up in the air, and I follow. I try to reason with her; I try to console her. ‘I thought you were my friend!’

  ‘But Effie . . .’ I try to say. ‘All the evidence . . .’

  ‘Evidence, pah!’ she cries, rounding on me. ‘Evidence can be made to say anything!’

  I’m not so sure about that. I’m bursting to tell her about the typewriter and the dodgy ‘s’, but she isn’t having any of it. She is seething with anguish and can’t listen properly at all.

  ‘I am your friend, Effie. You have to believe me.’

  ‘Some friend! Accusing me! Laying all this . . . horror at my door!’

  ‘I didn’t want to believe it,’ I say. ‘At first I couldn’t believe it. But the evidence . . .’

  ‘Stop going on about the evidence!’ she yells. ‘I don’t care about that!’ She comes right up close to me and thrusts her beaky nose in my face. ‘I want to know whether you really believe, deep down in your bones, that I really could be responsible for sending out those horrible letters to people? That I could have done such a thing?’

  ‘No! Yes! I don’t know!’ I throw up my hands.

  ‘Hmm.’ Effie bridles. ‘I can see that we have got what they call “issues”.’ She looks me up and down. ‘Who do you think you are, eh, lady? Moving here, next door to me. Getting me involved in the most lurid and hair-raising capers ever dreamed up. Getting me to risk life, limb and sanity on a practically daily basis . . . and then you have the gall! The gall to call me your friend! And the sheer brass neck to then accuse me and pillory me for something I just haven’t done!’

  I go quiet. Effie has stopped shouting now. She’s sagged into her favourite chair and she’s sobbing.

  ‘I don’t care what the evidence suggests, Brenda. I simply didn’t write those notes. I would never, ever do such a thing. And I wish that you had had more faith in me.’

  I hang my head. Poor Effie! Her lying there in a coma, and I’ve already been judge and jury and gone and hanged her. No wonder she’s cross.

  ‘What’s the answer, then?’ I ask her. ‘What’s been going on?’

  ‘We shall have to think,’ she says, rapping a knuckle against her perfect, porcelain teeth. ‘There is something cunning here. Something strange.’ The knottiness of the problem is distracting her from her temper, and I’m glad. ‘Fetch the note you say you received,’ she tells me suddenly. ‘I want to examine it for myself.’

  By now it is dark out. As I descend the many levels of Effie’s narrow house I can see that the sea mist has crept up from the harbour and there’s a terrible nip in the air as I step outside. How late is it? I’ve lost all track of time while I’ve been ensconsed with the volatile Effie. No matter. I hurry on my way, back to mine, to fetch the letter.

  I’ve tucked it away in the safe in my bedroom. I’m not sure why I’ve hidden it so securely. Weird, really. I open up the small safe and take out the single sheet of paper. While I’m there I stare at my other treasure for a few moments. Just a few trinkets, a couple of mementos. I turn them over and savour them for a few moments. Not a lot to show for a life as long as mine, but there are some fine things tucked away here in my safe. Waiting for a rainy day.

  I’ve just slammed and locked the safe door in my dark bedroom when I hear the noises. The night-time noises. Surely they’ve started early? Scritch and scratch and thud thud thud. It’s been a few nights since I’ve heard them this clear. And, if I’m not mistaken, there is a new determination and clarity of purpose in their ghostly hullaballoo this evening. Thud, thud, thud. Creaking treads on the attic steps. Whump and thump. Pitter. Patter.

  I am frozen, of course. Unlike my usual night-time hauntings, these have come while I am dressed and up and about. In a way, I have no excuse for not going to see what it is making all these extraneous noises. I can’t just lie back and pull the bedclothes over my head, attempting to block it all out. I can’t just lie rigid in terror and wait for it all to go away. This evening the onus is on me to be brave. To go and see what it actually is plaguing my night-time hours. To get to the bottom of this other mystery in my life.

  I swallow all my bravado down. I crush my poison pen letter into my bosom. I try to quell my heaving heart and I dash, full pelt, through the darkened rooms of my flat. I don’t even give myself time to think. Whump. Tinkle. Tap tap tap. And I fling open the door on to the landing.

  Nothing. There’s nothing there. And the house is silent once more.

  I stand suspended at the top of my stairs, breathing raggedly. I could howl with frustration, I really could. This is torment and torture! Who can be doing this to me? I don’t deserve this! I am trembling with frustration, fatigue and fright. I’m itching to put a stop to all this. But my enemy, my tormentor, is too swift and clever for me. I’m left like this, wrung out and panting.

  The attic ladder is down. The attic hatchway is open. I never left them like that. Somebody has left them like this in their haste. Concrete proof. They’ve left proof behind, Brenda. They have come from – or gone up to – your attic.

  My attic? But what’s up there? Old rubbish! Necessary supplies. Loads of old gubbins that no one, surely, could want. No one in their right mind.

  I don’t want to go up there. I won’t go up there. I’ll leave it till daytime to go up to my attic and check it out. I’m not doing it now. Why should I? It’ll all be the same in the morning. Why give myself the willies all over again? What am I, some weird kind of masochist? No, leave it for now, Brenda. Block it all out of your mind. Get back to Effie’s with your poison pen letter. Get back to the job in hand. What was that again? Ah yes. False accusations and losing the friendship of the witch next door.

  And so my own home is no longer my safest haven. This thought could make me cry, as I dash out of the B&B and lock it up behind me. That place has been my sanctuary. And now I can’t wait to get out of it.

  But: best hide all traces of my upset. I don’t want it to be complicating matters with Effie. In the lamplit street I hastily rub away my tears and hope that they’ve not done too much damage to my make-up. They probably have, though. I bet I look a sight. But I straighten myself up and head back to Effie’s. It’s late, and there’s so much to talk about. And I haven’t cleared up after dinner yet. There’s washing-up and recriminations still to come.

  Effie has had time, now, to think about what she wants to say to me. When I get back she accepts the letter I have brought, and sits me down.

  ‘You don’t know what it’s been like here, Brenda. You really don’t know what my life has been like. You’ve come here and, to you, this town is your perfect home. On the
surface of it, everything seems wonderful. Everything is fine. And why shouldn’t it be? This place is idyllic, in a frosty, foggy, windswept, spooky kind of way. So you are content. Your life settles so nicely about you, into gentle busyness and consoling routine. You are needed and wanted here. You make friends. You have days out. You even attempt to solve a mystery or two. How pleased you are with yourself, for managing to feel at home at last, after all these years. Clever Brenda.

  ‘But – think on. Some of us aren’t as clever, or as lucky. Some of us aren’t as happy here. Do you think I’m pleased with my life, Brenda? And with what I’ve managed to achieve here? I’ve never wandered the whole wide world, as you claim to have done. I’ve not lived through two bloody, eventful centuries, right in the thick of it, as you have been. I’ve never seen tumult and turmoil as you have done. What have I seen?

  ‘Bugger all, that’s what.

  ‘I have seen the sun set and rise again over Whitby’s ragged rocks and crumbling roofs. I’ve seen the sea mist creep in and creep out again. I’ve seen the insides of this decrepit place. This wretched home of mine and all its accumulated junk. I’ve seen the haughty expressions on the portraits of all my dead aunts. I’ve seen them watching me, every day of my life. And this has been the full extent of my life, Brenda. Scraping a living in this place. Not much excitement. Just struggling along.

  ‘Now, you must realise that your coming here was quite a big deal for me. I made a friend. I never had many friends before. Not to speak of. I had been warned by my many aunts not to trust people on the outside. But I knew at once that we would get on, Brenda.

  ‘You may think of me as a cold old fish, but I welcomed your friendship. I tried to meet you halfway. I tried to trust you. And you repaid that trust. When you told me all your secrets. About your past and everything. I was so touched by that. I mean, I was appalled and amazed, of course. But I was touched, too. That you felt you could open up to me like that. I blushed with the sheer pleasure of it. Somebody’s secrets. Freely told to me. Entrusted to me.

  ‘And you were there all through that funny business, when I foolishly thought I had fallen in love. When that damned gigolo Alucard swept in and turned my head. Throughout all that, you were there for me. I felt I could depend on you for anything.

  ‘I thought you understood, Brenda. Understood what it meant to me, to be trusted. How I would never take the idea of that lightly.

  ‘You see, I come from a long line of witches and wicked crones. Everyone here knows that’s been my family’s business. We have been tortured, celebrated, consulted, tolerated, spurned and burned. We have been cast out, brought back, demonised and exorcised. Forgotten about, chased out, coaxed back, dug up and installed as local treasures. What we never were – none of us – was trusted. But you trusted me, Brenda. You gallumphing, addlebrained, monstrous idiot. You loved me enough to trust me. And tonight you have gone and chucked that back in my face.

  ‘And that’s all I have got to say on the matter.’

  We sit looking at each other for a moment. All the way through Effie’s speech I’ve sat there silent, not daring to move a muscle. I never reacted to anything. I never tried to break in or anything. All those words came spilling out of her. One continuous rush of words. Like they were dammed up inside her. Like this was the real letter that she might have written to me. I look away from her.

  She glances down at the poison pen letter I have received and pushed into her hands. She spares it a quick glance. ‘I didn’t write this, Brenda. Of course I didn’t.’

  This is an unfamiliar bed. So I toss and I turn. I try the pillows round this way and that. My back aches if I lie this particular way. My head feels wrong if I try it like that. All my bones are cricking and cracking like a walk through wintry woods. It’s a narrow bed. A clapped-out bed in a room no bigger than a cupboard, and obviously unoccupied since the death of one of Effie’s maiden aunts. There’s a little light spilling under the paper blind, and that only serves to illuminate the horrid engravings framed on the walls. I can’t make head or tail of the subject matter and, frankly, I don’t want to. I wish I was home next door, in my own luxurious attic. I am here out of compassion and a sense of duty. And guilt, of course. Great big steaming dumplings of guilt, served up with gravy and mint jelly.

  Poor Effie. I wish I had never doubted her.

  This house of hers smells of vinegar and dust. As if everything has been pickled and inexpertly preserved. It’s not much of a life she’s had.

  At this point I try lying on my front. This is a novel position and not one that’s at all comfortable, or conducive to sleep. I give a great moan and turn over to face the cold, clammy wall. And that’s when the noises start up.

  Tappity-tap. Trip-trap.

  No. It can’t be.

  Tap tap tap.

  Never in a month of Sundays!

  Trip-tappity. Trip trap trap.

  Those are my ghosts. Those are the noises that my visitors make.

  Thud thud crash thud.

  They can’t be here. They simply can’t. I refuse to believe in them. I pull the duvet up to my chin, hoping to block them out. My pulse and heartbeat are racing, raging and banging in my ears, so I can’t hear anything for a while anyway. But then:

  Thumpety thump. Scritch. Scratch.

  They have come to the wrong house. How can that be?

  Thud thud thud.

  I hope they don’t wake Effie. She needs natural, deep, replenishing sleep. What good will it do her recovery if she keeps being woken all the time? I hope she’s not disturbed by this. All this palaver. This crashing about on the bare boards of the landing . . . this toe-curling screeching of doors. I hope she’s not sitting up, bolt upright in bed, as I am now.

  Trap trap trap.

  I wonder . . . Could these be different ghosts? Could they be the spirits that already haunt this house? Effie’s forebears, parading up and down the upper rooms. Could it be them? If it were, I could gladly sleep again, sound in my bed. I know that those ghosts are only here to protect the place and that Effie is quite used to them. I know they do not mean her any harm.

  Tappity tap tap.

  But, no. These aren’t her dead relatives. These are the miniature footfalls and the tiny thuds, clatters and bangs of the presences I am used to by now. They have followed me here. They have pursued me to another house and they have come here to taunt me and torment me. I am meant to be helping Effie, I think. And here I am, bringing unholy shades into her home. I am responsible for this. More upset for Effie! And I will simply have to do something.

  Tappity tap.

  I have no choice. I sit up again and throw back the bedclothes.

  Trembling all over, I get out of the narrow bed.

  I am absolutely terrified. Chilled to the marrow. I feel I am about to face something that I have deliberately hidden from and avoided for months on end. Each night I have tried to ignore these visitors. I have blocked my senses to their eerie hullaballoo.

  Now I ease myself across the confines of the room and glide to the bedroom door. It is time for me to confront the source of that endless, infernal noise. So I thrust open the door.

  The noises are worse. They’re getting louder, more insistent. I totter up the hallway, slipping a little on the mouldering silk rugs. Why didn’t I put something on my feet?

  ‘Brenda?’ It’s Effie. She is outside her own bedroom door. Whispering hoarsely at me and clinging to the shadows. My heart goes out to her immediately. She has obviously sprung straight out of her bed. Scared as hell. She hasn’t put her turban on. Her dressings have fallen loose. Her wispy old lady’s hair stands up fluffily in the moonlight.

  ‘It’s me,’ I say, going to her. ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘Those sounds,’ she says, and pokes her head out of the shadows, to look up the next staircase: the one that leads to the very top of her house. It is from up there that the noises are coming. As if in response, they redouble their clattering racket. TAP-TAP-TAPPITY-TAP.<
br />
  ‘I don’t know,’ I tell her. ‘I think . . . I think they have followed me. They are the same as the ones I hear . . . at home.’

  She nods, taking this news in calmly. ‘Usually I sleep so well,’ she tells me. She shrugs her thin shoulders. She’s only wearing her thin cotton nightie. I want to tell her to get back to bed. That I will look into this by myself. But somehow I know she wouldn’t go. And, really, I am glad she is there. She looks at me. ‘I was lying awake and thinking tonight. Even before the noises started up. I was fretting.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘About whether we would still be friends.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘After our row and everything.’

  ‘Oh, Effie.’ Without even thinking about it, I grab her in a vast hug. You’d expect her to complain and wriggle free like a cat, but she doesn’t. ‘Of course we’ll still be friends. And it wasn’t a row. I was just being silly. And insensitive.’

  CRASH! Thud-thud. Scritch-scratch.

  Effie pats my arm. ‘I appreciate that. Shall we go and investigate now?’

  I nod. Investigating is . . . Well. It might not be what we do best, exactly. But it’s what we’re both happiest doing. And it’s with a perverse and brave delight that we broach that top flight of stairs. With the noises of my ghosts ringing in our ears. We manage to advance up the staircase side by side, neither one of us having to take the lead.

  On the top landing there are a number of doors. It is obvious which one the spirits are haunting. ‘The office.’ Effie nods at the furthest door.

  Tap – tap – tap – tap.

  The door is already slightly open. We tiptoe over and I give it a gentle push.

  Screech. I know that her office is an L-shaped room. As we peer round the door frame we can’t see the whole thing yet. We can’t see the desk. Someone or something could be hiding right behind the door, ready to jump out and get us.