9
Wilf can see no way out of the tower room except for the way they came in. He’s impatient to see the rest of the main house and waits tetchily while Lambert shuffles around the rim of the room, tapping the flagstones as he goes. One stone gives an a barely imperceptible shudder; the stick produces an echo instead of a dull knock.
‘This is it’ says Lambert, and gets down on his knees. ‘Very effective. Took me a long time to find it. Months. But I knew there must be a route to the next floor’. He’s scrabbling at the edge of the stone, struggling to get a purchase as he’s wittering on. ‘You’d think it would be easy to remember, wouldn’t you, once I’d tracked it down, but with the room being circular … confusing, rather … ha!’
Under his pressure the flagstone vibrates, growls, and finally, with a hideously drawn-out croak, tips on its axis and upends itself, coming to rest vertically like a headstone. Wilf glares at the pitch-black cavity it’s uncovered. Lambert grins up at him.
‘Do you dare? I can promise you it’s not as bad as it looks. Not quite’.
Terror seizes Wilf’s mind and muscles. He speaks with an effort.
‘That goes into the ground, not up to the next floor’.
Coward, says a memory of Aggie’s voice. The word billows and trails around his thoughts. He turns away to focus on the trees through the window.
‘Would you like to go back?’ asks Lambert, gently. He sounds crestfallen. After a silence he carries on: ‘It does lead upwards, in fact. Quite ingenious. But I must say I suffered some trepidation myself, the first time I ventured in’.
Wilf hears a scuffling and turns back to see Lambert sitting with his legs dangling into the hole and both hands braced on the floor behind him. His voice stutters as he lowers himself in—
‘I’ll just have a decco before we leave. Kindly don’t shut the door!’
Lambert slides into the darkness like a snake into a pool, then seems to make contact with a firm surface below and dips his head and shoulders out of sight.
Wilf saunters back to the window and leans back, straining for a view towards the house. He can see a wall—more recent and in better shape than the perimeter wall—and beyond it a series of long metal ridges, slicing through fronds and branches: the remnants of greenhouses, Wilf assumes. So that must be the old kitchen garden. A scuttling underfoot. He returns to the flagstone and places his hand delicately on its upper edge. He could easily give it a shove, cover the hole and go, leaving Lambert like Rapunzel in the tower. The sense of power over another life gives him an almost erotic thrill. Alarmed, he snatches his hand away from the stone and rams it into his back pocket. There’s a thump and a movement somewhere towards the wall. Curiosity is getting the better of him. Wilf squats, takes several deep breaths and calls:
‘Lambert, hold on! I’m coming!’
From deep within the wall comes a faint reply: ‘Right-ho!’
Wilf is shorter than Lambert; by the time his feet meet solid ground his head is almost under the floor and he has to twist uncomfortably to retain his desperate grip on the edge of the opening. Then he’s submerged in the dark, stale air, inhaling dust and age, afraid to move in any direction. Something flickers to his right: torchlight. Lambert’s voice says,
‘Over here. Mind your head.’
Wilf bends double and ducks under a broad, supporting beam of some kind to his left. He feels the panic rising from his belly and holds his breath. Four spider-steps get him past the beam and he can straighten up again. The thought occurs to him that they’ll have to do all this again to get out; he dismisses it and concentrates on that wavering finger of light.
‘That’s it—keep going’ says a much closer voice, and there’s Lambert, apparently hanging in mid-air. When Wilf reaches him Lambert shines the torch downwards to show that he’s balanced on an impossibly narrow stairway of bricks, each one jutting out at a right angle to the wall and only as wide as one foot. He swivels round and seems to float up, steadying himself with one hand and wielding the torch with the other. Wilf climbs after him, hand over hand, foot over foot. A scraping and a squeaking, a glorious expansion of light and they’re staggering onto the third storey through a sliding panel door.
This is a much smaller room, peppered with objects and remnants of furniture: a broken chair, a candlestick, an unidentifiable hank of worked wood. There’s a fireplace too and a disproportionately broad chimneybreast. Soft pigeon murmurings and the whisper of wings drift from somewhere above.
‘All this’ says Lambert, waving his stick at the scattered objects, ‘is relatively recent. Someone used this as a bolthole after the last official inhabitants had long gone, I suspect’.
‘You mean someone went through all that secret passage business just for a bit of peace and quiet?’
Wilf pushes a wedge of hair from his forehead and frowns at the grit and dirt that come off on his hand.
‘Or for safety’s sake’ says Lambert, adding with a tilt of the head, ‘Prison or refuge?’
‘Come on, Lambert’ snaps Wilf. ‘Enough mystery. Let’s have some facts’.
But Lambert has already set off through a connecting door to a second, even smaller room, curved at one end like a segment of orange. The curve of wall is covered, ceiling to floor, with etched figures and symbols, faded and scratched away in places but dominated by the clear outline of a massive crucifix. The areas between its shaft and crossbar seem to be peopled by saints: Wilf can see traces of haloes, though most—along with some of the faces—have been scrubbed out. There are phrases as well, tucked around the edges in minute calligraphy, and also partially obliterated. He makes out the words ‘Dies’ and ‘avid’.
Lambert waits while he studies it all, then says,
‘Facts are rather thin on the ground, I fear. Clues are mainly what we have’.
They complete their circuit of the third floor, passing through a cell-like space with nothing of interest except a recess hiding a long drop to the ground—a privvy, explains Lambert, which would once have deposited sewage straight into a rank and watery ditch. Then, to Wilf’s great relief, they reach a normal stairwell, which spirals up to the fourth level. This is no more than an attic, with clattering floorboards, a low ceiling and wooden struts at regular intervals around the circumference. Lambert points out the rectangular slots that formerly supported partition walls. A doorless opening leads to the final flight of steps and the roof—which is safe enough, Lambert promises, as long as they keep to the edge. The outer wall is mercifully high; Wilf rests his arms on the lower castellated ledge and Lambert pokes his head over the upper, his hair flapping from side to side in the wind. For a few minutes they scan the density of treetops, brushed here and there with autumnal crimson and bronze. Lambert bellows something which is carried away out of the garden, then stoops to bring his mouth to Wilf’s ear.
‘I can tell you what I’ve pieced together about the place’ he shouts, ‘but I’m afraid it isn’t much’.
The next gust showers them with light, cold rain.
‘Let’s go down!’ yells Lambert.
As soon as they descend into the stairwell the wind is silenced and their voices boom. Wilf says,
‘Do you get a lot of visitors wanting tours?’.
‘No … ‘ says Lambert, and Wilf thinks it’s all the reply he’ll get. Then, as they re-enter the attic, Lambert goes on, ‘Matter of fact, you’re only the second this year’.
’Shame’ says Wilf. ‘Follies, secret passages, coded messages—it could be a real winner’.
‘Quite so. At present, however, we are overwhelmed with indifference. Even our friends the vodka-drinkers know nothing about the secret passage.’
They descend to the third storey and pause again at the crucifix.
‘Maybe’ suggests Wilf ‘when the guide’s published it’ll stir up a bit more interest.’
Lambert shrugs. ‘Either that, old chap, or the whole place will rot away to nothing. Or some mandarin will suddenly realise it’s there and put a road through it.’
10
‘Well—the state of you. I’ll have a word with that Lambert’ says Gwennie Price.
Wilf looks down at the dust and gooey cobwebs smeared across his shirt and jeans. She gives his shoulder blade a sharp little shove towards the kitchen.
‘Get those into the washing machine, off you go. I’ll find you a dressing gown.’
Wilf undresses quickly, keeping an eye on the kitchen door. Presently it opens just wide enough for Gwennie to hand in a towelling robe. She says,
‘Just stick it all in the machine and turn it to C. Half-load. Powder’s under the sink.’
The clothes grind and churn in the machine. Wilf wonders whether to wait for it to finish. He looks round the narrow kitchen. Fudge-coloured splashback tiles with vague floral patterns. A stand-alone cooker with an eye-level grill. A dishcloth neatly laid over the edge of the sink. A bunting row of tea-towels in their plastic holders. Everything gleams. There’s a box of Swan Vestas, a bundle of white candles and an frilly-edged gas-lamp on a high shelf—in case of power cuts, he supposes. Wilf opens the tall cupboard in the corner and peeks in. A boiler and a campstove. He closes the door softly. What did he expect? Another secret passage?
‘Are you decent?’
Wilf tightens the cord around his waist. The robe is too small, only just reaches his knees, and the sleeves bite his armpits. Not Gwennie’s robe—a child’s, maybe.
‘Well, I’m—’ he starts, but she’s already in, bustling past to put the kettle on, careful not to look at his knees.
‘I don’t think I’ll start any trends’ says Wilf, edging out.
‘Aha, well, you have started one, as it happens’ says Gwennie. She follows him into the dark hall. Wilf pulls on the cord again, afraid that the robe will part like curtains to reveal his boxers.
‘Had another visitor today’. She’s silhouetted against the yellow kitchen light. Wilf can see the glint of her eyes and teeth. He fights the urge to clamp a protective hand on his groin.
‘Asking for a room’ adds Gwennie in triumph. ‘I’ll have to clear the spare’. She leans towards him, sweetly. ‘I’ll need a hand, lugging some of that stuff …’
So, thinks Wilf: clothes in the washer, and here am I in my undies being roped in to shift furniture—I’m one of the family now. The kettle fumes and rattles and Gwennie starts back to the kitchen.
‘No hurry, though’ she says, over her shoulder. ‘Booked for tomorrow. Got to go somewhere else tonight, she said.’
‘She?’
Gwennie turns, startled by his tone.
‘Not a problem, is it, dear? She seems very nice.’
Wilf says, ‘No. Not a problem at all’, and makes for the stairs, escaping the artificial ring in his voice. He recognises the same sudden chill that overcame him in the Big House. The curve of the bannister under his hand; the squeak of the stair under his foot; the smell of food and air-freshener and carpets—all this domesticity, so familiar and so alien. From the kitchen he hears Gwennie humming, hears the rush of water and the soft chink of china—innocent sounds, assuming a horror-film menace. Suddenly Wilf is engulfed by a memory so vivid that, with an effort, he could re-enter it and live it again. Another ordinary house. Another woman moving around her kitchen. The same exaggerated jollity. Across 30 years or so Wilf endures the full force of homesickness with his 11-year-old self on a school exchange trip. Now, as then, he distracts himself by noting the surroundings. Green doorframes, he remembers, and rugs instead of carpets, and cooking smells, comforting but foreign. A family in translation. He switches off the recollection and with it his adult yearning for home, for his skewiff rooms and his maps, and for Aggie.
‘Tea, love?’ calls Gwennie.
Wilf pauses on the stairs, swaying slightly.
‘Lovely’ he calls back. ‘Down in just a minute’.
11
‘It’s a kind of escape, I suppose’.
The wicker chair crackles as Lambert leans back and sweeps a theatrical arm at the papers on his conservatory floor. Wilf sits forward, unable to arrange himself neatly in the bowl-shaped seat.
‘I do this’ he says ‘with maps’.
‘Maps? Really?’
’I like maps’ says Wilf. ‘I spread them out on the floor, like this’.
There are photocopies of pamphlets in heavy, smudged type; print-outs of genealogy charts; hand-written lists; articles cut out from newspapers and magazines. All set out in overlapping layers and framed by a foot’s-width of clear floor to allow access to the chairs.
‘It’s a strange thing’ says Lambert, reaching down for the mug of tea at his feet. ‘However violent and brutal the past, it can still be a consolation. A distraction. From the violence and brutality of the present’.
‘Over and done with, I suppose’, says Wilf.
‘Quite so’.
Wilf sips his own tea, which is too weak and too hot, and he’s drawn again to the wide, grey view of sea and sky through the window to his right. A short, sloping garden runs from the back of Lambert’s house to a low hedge and the cliff-edge, and is all but hidden from sight, now that they’re seated. They may as well be floating in mid-air. Wilf can’t imagine anyone who lives here needing an escape.
‘It’s hard to believe the world’s in such a mess,’ he says, ‘when you’re sitting here looking out at this’.
He stares towards the horizon, though in this weather it’s hard to tell where water becomes cloud. From here the sea is motionless. Wilf is irritated. He needs a force-nine gale, a walloping storm, to stir his spirit and sweep him on to the next place on his itinerary. He should be writing up his research notes now, reporting back to Paul—not sitting in Lambert’s sun-room admiring his archives. But he doesn’t quite know how to go about it, any more. Maybe he’s lost the knack. He turns various elements of Hestyn in his mind, assigning chapter heads and captions. Hissing Marsh. Hestyn Beach. The Big House. This steel line of ocean. Wilf can’t make the place out, much less chop and stack it all between the covers of a guide. He thinks of Hestyn summarised into double-page spreads, bold for place-names, italics for addresses, cleaned of typos and widows, snipped into quaint angles and details. He thinks of all the additional detail stored away on DVDs in the Sitwell files. Betraying a secret. Breaking a spell.
Lambert has replaced his mug and is sitting back again, chin up, elbows on the edges of his chair, fingers lightly laced. Preparing to enlighten. A wave of sunlight closes Wilf’s eyes, and when it’s passed he keeps them closed.
‘From what I can gather’ says Lambert, ‘—and information, as I think I have intimated, is scarce—the tower was occupied twice. Or possibly gave shelter to two sets of occupants at the same time. One, obviously, was the enigmatic soul who carved his name into the wall’.
‘John somebody’ says Wilf, to indicate that he’s still awake.
‘John Auvrice. Indeed. In 1798, as he was obliging enough to inform us. There may have been other occupants too…’
‘Occupants? Plural?’
Wilf’s eyes snap open. Despite himself, he’s intrigued.
‘Nothing concrete. But there’s a tale still told hereabouts that revolves around French soldiers, washed up on the coast during the Napoleonic Wars and holed up in the tower. Captured spies, according to one variation. Yeees … They’re said to haunt the place, naturally’.
‘Now he tells me’.
Wilf is hooked now. It occurs to him that he’s got more in common with Lambert Stokes and his futile ferreting through the past than he ever had with Aggie and her fierce, insistent concern with the present. He becomes aware of a conversation replaying somewhere in his head. He sees two figures from a distance. Himself and Aggie. Standing on a dirt track, outside an empty wooden hut. Mountains tearing across a dusty, orange sky. Wilf tries to concentrate on Lambert’s voice, to add meaning to the sound of his words. But Aggie’s flailing arms compete for attention. Her anger buzzes across the years like a dodgy radio signal, erupting into occasional clarity.
‘It’s not enough just to give in’.
That’s what she said.
‘We should be sparking off each other. We should delight in each other.’
Wilf’s reply is muffled in time and self-pity: ‘I do delight in you—’
‘It’s not enough’ says Aggie, biting off the end of his sentence, ‘just to give in. That’s not love’.
‘Difficult to verify’, Lambert Stokes is saying. ‘Especially given the circumstances. Scarcity of evidence. Difficulty of access’.
‘Data Research Act’ says Wilf, and the closeness of his voice finally snaps him into the present.
‘Precisely’ says Lambert. ‘The world has changed, as we’re always given to believe. Makes it awkward for a chap who’s just … curious. Can’t simply snoop around history any more. Some cove in every library waving forms in triplicate, demanding one’s ID card and proof of legitimate interest. One rather expects to be hauled off in a Black Maria and given the third degree’.
Wilf nods and rolls his eyes. ‘I know. I’d have a much harder time doing my job, without my publisher’s indemnity’.
‘Ah, yes—Commerically Legitimate, isn’t that the phrase?’
‘That’s it. Covers the kind of stuff I need to find out. Which is hardly a threat to national security’.
‘Trouble is’ says Lambert. ‘any harmless blighter looks suspicious to a chap who’s on the lookout for guilt.’
They smile at each other. Wilf glances at the collage of dates and names and theories at his feet, and pictures Lambert Stokes in an interview room, blinking his hawkeyes under a ring of harsh light. Abruptly, Lambert swoops forward again for his mug and scowls at the contents. ‘Stone cold … Fancy a top-up?’
Wilf doesn’t want more tea, but he accepts anyway, to put off the chore of writing up. After Lambert’s disappeared to the kitchen he sits watching the view for a moment, but the stillness eventually provokes him to his feet. He follows Lambert towards the kitchen, scuffing papers as he sidles along their edge, and finds him measuring loose tea into a pot. The light is quite different in Lambert’s kitchen—sliced and dealt into portions, arranged in squares and strips across the heavy basin and the lino floor, colouring the room in delicate, shell shades of ivory, silver and lilac. Wilf watches Lambert go about his task.
‘Nice house’ he comments.
‘Thank you.’ Lambert touches the handle of the rattling kettle as if to reassure it. Wilf goes on:
‘You were lucky to find it.’
Lambert turns to face him, leans against the sink, regards him with a strange expression. Challenging. After a pause he says,
‘It belonged to my aunt. A very frail old lady. I’m sorry to say she passed away two years ago’.
Wilf makes a few sympathetic noises, then subsides into silence. The kettle shrieks. Wilf says,
‘Anyway. It’s very nice.’
‘Yes’ agrees Lambert, pouring water over his looted tea leaves. ‘My aunt always loved the sea view’.
12
It wasn’t Wilf’s fault. He’s been over and over it, and he’s sure of this: he never set out to deceive Aggie. Of course, the whole relationship was a deception, in one sense: even Wilf has to concede that. But he never pretended to be someone else, to be braver, more driven, more radical or angrier than he was. He just followed his brief and did his job. No, Wilf insists to himself, it was Aggie who cast him as a certain character, and set herself up for a fall. Even when she was still at Sitwell’s, demolishing his manuscripts, berating him for being so bloody polite, so bloody complacent, Aggie seemed to believe she was helping him release his inner self.
‘Tell it like it is, Wilf’, she’d say. ‘You’re the traveller. You’re the eyes of your readers. Speak your mind’.
To Aggie, Wilf was a maverick, searching for his voice. It wouldn’t occur to her that he chose not to encounter the seamier side of life.
Not that Wilf is naïve. Not naïve, no way. He defends himself robustly as he’s trudging around Hestyn or lying in his box room with his hands behind his head, conducting yet another retrial of their relationship. Not naive. Not guilty. He reads the papers, makes the connections, knows the difference between propaganda and fact, between guidespeak and life. Wilf has no illusions about his trade. For every pretty view and beach idyll and luxury hotel, he’s very well aware, there’s a displaced community, a shanty town, an exploited workforce, a child picking through shit for enough junk to sell. For pity’s sake, he’s written enough notes about enough hell-holes to understand what goes on. But unlike Aggie—unlike Aggie’s version of him—Wilf doesn’t want to venture through back alleys or linger in the shit with the scavengers. He’s never set out to change the world. Don’t rock the boat, that’s Wilf’s motto. However good your intentions, he silently lectures Aggie, you’ll probably only make things worse. Better to concentrate on the wide, blue sky and the wide, white sand. Better to write about the glorious past, and cheer people up, than dwell on the rotting present.
After Aggie had given in her notice, Paul summoned Wilf for a tête-à-tête.
‘Between you and me, old son’ he told him, leaning confidentially across his desk, ‘this works out pretty well for us. Aggie will give us our money’s worth, once she’s off the leash. And you can tag along and keep an eye on her’. He shifted his attention to his computer screen, adding as an afterthought, ‘You’ll have to take a pay cut, of course. Sorry about that, mate, but I can’t afford to pay two fees for one book’.
Paul commissioned them to write a guide to Spain, before it slipped into the Discomfort Zone. They made their way around the country together. Aggie wrote about regional tensions, religion, race, politics. Wilf covered the practicalities: which buses they caught, what they ate, where they stayed, how much it all cost. If they fell into conversation with a market trader or a drunk in a bar or a priest in a church, Aggie pumped for views about the government and the price of tomatoes, Wilf picked up tips on cafés and short-cuts. And everything—the dust and sweat, the buses that never turned up, the blisters and mouth-ulcers, the meal that gave them the runs—all of it re-emerged in Wilf’s text shimmering with romance. He read some of his notes to her as they sat cooling their feet in a fountain on a Barcelona square.
‘Wilf’ she moaned, ‘it’s so gushing’.
She emphasised the word by giving him a little shove with her whole torso, like a cat. Then she sat forward, elbows on knees, chin on hands. She moved her feet in the water and said through her fingers,
‘It is amazing, though’.
Wilf watched as the loose knot she’d made of her hair lazily unravelled and slid apart, revealing the grubby back of her neck. He turned a couple of pages of his notebook. If he put his hand on her neck would she take it as a come-on? Wilf didn’t understand the rules. They shared rooms to save money. She was startlingly relaxed about changing and washing, padding around semi-naked in his presence. On their tedious, airless bus trips she often snoozed on his shoulder. But there were no lingering looks or faltering sentences to hint at anything more than a working friendship. Wilf struggled with this language as he did with his ropey Spanish. Every exchange, however casual, was fraught with doubt and effort. He made his decision and laid a hand lightly on her shoulder. She didn’t tense up or wriggle or react in any way.
‘I love you’ he managed not to say aloud. ‘And I never want to go home’.
Aggie sighed a full, long sigh that made the muscles work under his palm. She said,
‘God, I stink. If Hisham knew how long I’m going between showers he’d have a fit.’
They took a bus from Valladolid to Coca to see a 15th-century castle. Its pink turrets hovered like an ice-cream mirage over the plain. Wilf was enchanted. He talked Aggie into taking the tour. They were joined by middle-aged twin brothers from Manchester in identical sun-visors, belly-hugging T shirts and knee-length shorts. In a round tower room the guide encouraged them to whisper into the wall and test the acoustics. Wilf pressed his cheek to the cool surface.
‘Aggie’ he breathed. ‘Aggie’.
‘Wilf’ replied the wall. Wilf turned to see Aggie on the opposite side of the room, grinning at him over her shoulder. Then a new whisper circled the wall and escaped into his ear:
‘Did you bring the wet-wipes?’
One of the twins rolled exasperated eyes at the other.
‘Listen to him. Even nags me through the wall’.
The twins had a hire car and offered Wilf and Aggie a lift back.
‘No thanks’ said Aggie, ‘we’re chancing it’.
‘There’s only one bus a day’ warned one of the brothers. ‘You’ll be stuck if you can’t get a room’.
‘We’ll get one’ announced Aggie. ‘We’ll take the risk.’
‘Young love’ said one twin to the other, then turned to Wilf. ‘We were on a pilgrimage when we started off’ he said. ‘Only we sort of gave up.’
After they’d gone Wilf and Aggie ate in a bar and made enquiries. Sure enough one of the customers had a room for the night. It was bare and had no bulb in the light but it was all they needed. Wilf unrolled his sleeping bag on the floor while Aggie laid hers on the bed and sat on it, cross-legged and pensive. He didn’t like these preoccupied moods of hers. He made a bid for attention.
‘What was your favourite bit?’ he asked. Her eyes shifted from her thoughts to him.
‘What?’
‘Which bit did you like best? Of the castle?’
She dug her thumb and forefinger into the corners of her eyes and worked at them.
‘Did you hear what he said about the dungeon?’ she said at last.
Wilf didn’t answer. While he was still marvelling at the imposing architecture, Aggie was haunted by a reference to the prisoners dropped in through the ceiling and left with their broken bones to rot.
Wilf tried to think of a suitable reply, but everything that came to mind was so trite. Aggie suddenly shifted on the bed, leaned forward to drag her backpack from under it, and plunged her hand into one of its inside pockets. It re-emerged holding a small, mottled plastic sleeve. She bowed over it, curtained by her hair, and drew out a photograph. After staring at the picture for a moment she handed it to Wilf. Aggie, beaming, a little plumper in the face, with a shorter, neater haircut; strands of her hair blown in the breeze across her eyes; her hand frozen in the action of reaching up to sweep it away. Next to her, another woman, wearing a veil (hijab? half-veil), laughing or shouting, eyes wide and humorous. Aggie said,
‘That’s Naima. Hisham’s sister.’
Wilf said, politely,
‘Nice. Nice picture’.
Aggie said, ‘She’s dead’.
‘Oh!’ said Wilf. ‘I’m so sorry’. He looked up at her, but Aggie’s eyes were on the photo in his hand, not on him.
‘The Bay Bridge Bomb’ she explained.
‘Shit!’ said Wilf, and looked back at Naima’s animated face. He’d seen the front pages at the time, of course: their ranks of photographs, blurred or crisply posed or—like this one—snapped in mid-sentence, mid-laugh. All 16 victims: their names, their histories, their features—had filled the papers day after day. He’d probably seen Naima several times, along with the rest of the country. Was it four years ago? Must be five. He shook his head.
‘Shit …’
‘Yeah.’ Aggie nodded, and went on nodding. Wilf was beginning to get pins and needles in one of his legs, but he didn’t like to move. He had no idea what to say next. Eventually Aggie spoke again:
‘Hisham used to say, at least she went quickly. Not injured, you know … he reckoned that would have been the worst thing, for her …’
‘I see …’
Aggie pursed her lips.
‘I think’ she said ‘that’s a load of bollocks. Naima loved life.’
‘I can tell’ said Wilf, surreptitiously moving the weight from his numb leg. Aggie said,
‘Hisham never really got angry. You know? Which is weird, because Naima was the opposite. Real firebrand. Loved an argument’.
‘Same as you, then’ said Wilf. Aggie looked grateful.
‘We had some belters’ she said, exaggerating her Scottish accent. ‘Politics. Religion. Sex. Art. You name it. Nothing was off-limits. She was … great.’
Quietly, Wilf returned the photograph, and Aggie sat regarding it.
‘I even had a go at her about that veil’ she said at last. ‘Mainly to wind her up. And she said, listen, sister, you stick to your threads, I’ll stick to mine’.
If Aggie and Hisham had come together in grief, Wilf found himself wondering, would they eventually drift apart? He succumbed to the urge to rub his leg, pummelled it violently, to get the blood moving. Aggie was slipping the photo back into its cover, sliding it into the backpack pocket.
‘Anyway’, she said. ‘Just thought I’d show you, that’s all’.
‘Yes’ said Wilf, inadequately. ‘Thanks.’
The following day, before catching their bus back to town, they wandered around the local church. Four white tombs sat in ornate, immovable memory of the Fonsecas, for whom the castle was built. Wilf made a few notes and watched Aggie taking in the curls and twists of marble. He knew she was contrasting this insistent tribute with the nameless miscreants of the past, reduced to a freakshow footnote in the tourist guide’s patter. Only Aggie did justice to their wasted lives. Only Aggie reached down the centuries to guard their humanity. Wilf said her name and she looked up, surprised. But he didn’t know what he couild say. So he shook his head and shrugged and went back to his notes.
13
‘It’s funny’ says Gwennie. ‘I thought she’d be here by now. I hope she hasn’t got stuck somwhere. Transport is still so … iffy round here. More potatoes?’
Iffy, thinks Wilf. Is that a Gwennie Price sort of word? He wonders whether there’s a trace of some other life under the localised accent and the flowery housecoat. She’s already ladelling out a fresh dollop of mash, despite his protests, which are muffled by a mouthful of sausage.
‘One thing we never run short of here—’ says Gwennie, ‘potatoes. Tons of them on the allotments round town. Tons. Go on—there’s plenty to spare.’
And Wilf does pitch in, immediately. He hasn’t tasted such good food in years—maybe not ever. He glances at the newspaper propped against the condiment bottles. ‘Another Petrol Price-Hike. Home Office Denies Ration Plans’. Then he allows the buttery softness of the mash and the plump flavour of the sausages to draw him away from the headlines. These are stories from some other world—a world where two short weeks of petrol restrictions could bring the whole system to the brink of collapse. Goods lorries abandoned on the motorway. Food rotting in shops barricaded against looters. Truckloads of animals stalled en route to slaughter. Out there, thinks Wilf. Out in the cities and suburbs, the gentrified villages and market towns that have long since abandoned their stalls for the out-of-town malls. Not in Hestyn. Hestyn, shielded from the modern world by geography and rhododendrons, will ride any crisis, with its outlying dairies and pig farms and acres of spud-producing allotments.
Gwennie wanders to the french windows, still turning and folding the remainder of the mash in her bowl.
‘I’m sure she said she’d be here by six’. She gazes into her garden as if the new guest might pop out of the shrubbery. Wilf reluctantly swallows his mouthful and asks,
‘What’s her name?’
Gwennie shakes her head slowly, dreamily, and says,
‘Was it…? No … don’t remember… Head like a sieve, me. Wrote it down somewhere.’
Wilf still hasn’t written up his notes. There’s a text on his mobile from Paul, asking for a progress report. Wilf considers the evening’s options: scribbling away in his box room, or sitting in front of Gwennie’s telly, listening to her theories about the mystery guest’s whereabouts and waiting for the doorbell to ring. He decides to go for a stroll after supper. Clear his head. Then maybe he’ll get some work done.
Wilf can’t understand why it’s not darker here. He stands at the very end of the harbour wall and looks out across the silvered reeds of Hissing Marsh. There’s no moon tonight, as far as he can tell, but still the marsh and the harbour wall behind him hover in a spectral glow, almost as bright as daylight but without the solidity of shadow and shade. It must be the sea, thinks Wilf. That’s what it is. The sea makes everything strange. A surge of breeze unsettles the drowned sailors and provokes a crescendo of whispers. Wilf listens for names. He thinks of widows and mothers, anchored with grief, straining for the last sound, the last fragment of identity, before their husbands and sons merged with the sea and the sand. Faces on the sea floor; features opening, blossoming like flowers, drifting from their centre, floating free. Wilf isn’t sure, now he comes to think of it, whether these whispered names would be a comfort or a torment. Personally he finds it far easier to contemplate the loss of individuality. De-compose. A word of infinite consolation. He’s assaulted by a sudden retch of sorrow, which reaches his eyes and his throat before he masters it. He calms himself with the rhythm of this place, lets it lull away the droning in his ear. At this ghostly hour, the fraudulent harbour moves to its own pace, clearer and more consistent than it was among all the other business of the day. The marsh delivers its liturgy in waves, rising and falling, rising and falling. Beyond it, somewhere at the back of the mind, is the ocean’s heavier beat. As he stands there Wilf feels his own body succumbing to the relentless, ponderous pulse. His heart, the ebb and flow of blood in his veins, the slow pumping of his lungs—in, out, in, out … If he could stay here long enough, if he could root himself here, swaying with the universe, maybe he too would become part of another, magnificent, indifferent life.
Sooner or later he’ll have to go back. He’ll have to muster the energy to greet the new guest, if she’s arrived, back there in the ordinary darkness of the town. Another wave of whispers washes over him. He’ll stay a little longer. He can take his time; Gwennie’s given him a spare key. He’ll give the guest a chance to settle herself in her room. And tomorrow he’ll leave Hestyn and its spirits, and catch the early train. He’ll ring Paul and tell him it’s all under control, he’s got everything he needs, and he’s on his way to the next coastal town.
14
‘Winter’s on the way’ says Gwennie. ‘The mornings will be pitch black soon enough’.
‘Honestly, Gwennie, there was no need for you to get up. I could have grabbed something for myself—’
‘Grabbed something?’ Gwennie glowers at him and pats her neatly parted hair. ‘You can’t face the day on a mouthful of nothing. A good breakfast will keep you ticking over for hours on end’.
Wilf fidgets in his seat and takes another look through the open door into the hall, checking that his backpack’s still there, crammed and buckled and waiting to go. His insides gurgle.
‘There you are’ says Gwennie smugly. ‘I’ll be with you in half a mo’.
She returns to the kitchen and Wilf contemplates a quick getaway. He’s paid the bill; there’s nothing to stop him. Hoist the backpack, three strides to the front door, a shouted nicety and he’s away before she can fry the second egg. She can hardly chase him down the street, with the oven on and all. But the smell of bacon and eggs and brewing tea is mesmeric. Saliva swills around his mouth and his innards crunch. It won’t take long, will it, to down a plateful? And he can still be off in plenty of time for the train.
Gwennie enters with a trayload. It looks stupendous—almost unreal: smooth domes of egg-yolk above perfectly circular whites; crackling bacon rinds; tomatoes like fist-sized jewels; a side-plate of fluffy bread-and-butter … He can barely wait for her to set out the dishes. Before putting down the tray Gwennie nudges the door shut with her foot.
‘Good to get an early start’ she says, raising her voice to normal pitch. Until now they’ve both been using subdued morning voices. ‘Where did you say you’re off to next? Beaumont Beach, was it? Sad state that place is in nowadays. I remember when it was really glam. The Monte Carlo Casino, the Royal Hotel … Boarded up, now. Seedy. Very sad.’
She witters on while Wilf loses himself in the beauty of her cooking. Suddenly a touch of snideness intrudes.
‘Don’t know when Madam’s thinking of showing her face’ she says. ‘Eleven-thirty she turned up last night, did I tell you?’
‘Yes’. Barely half an hour before he’d got back from Hissing Marsh. Close shave.
‘Martha Crick, her name is.’
Martha Crick. Wilf’s manic chewing slows down. Aggie once commented that he had a music-hall name. And here’s another. Martha Crick. Faintly comic. A silent movie name. He likes it.
With conscious care he wipes a slick of tomato juice with his bread-and-butter. Then the doorbell rings. He and Gwennie jump with shock and his knife clangs across the table. Heading for the hall, Gwennie places a hand on her chest.
‘That gave me a start! Who on earth—at this hour!’
Wilf hears her open the door, then the questioning rise of her voice against the familiar stage-boom of Lambert Stokes.
‘Can Wilf come out to play?’
She’s fussing up the hall with him, explaining about Wilf’s imminent departure, and by the time Lambert’s at the breakfast room door his birdface is lengthened still further by disappointment.
‘Leaving?’ he echoes. He holds his stick at the usual dandy angle but the other hand is wedged sulkily into his pocket. ‘But we haven’t yet discovered a half of Hestyn’s secret pleasures!’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting anything smutty’ warns Gwennie Price, behind him, and Wilf finds this unaccountably funny. He nearly chokes on his bacon and egg. Something about the two of them, framed in the doorway like characters from a Rowlandson cartoon—Lambert with his beak and cane, Gwennie bunned and pinned and peering around his shoulder—something about them, and maybe something about Martha Crick’s name has lifted Wilf’s mood.
Gwennie says,
‘Well, if you can persuade him, Lambert … The room’s still free and I’m glad of the business. Have you had any breakfast?’
‘My usual, dear lady’.
‘Disgusting habit. Sit yourself down. You’ll have some tea and toast to take the taste away’.
Lambert drags a chair to Wilf’s table with a martyred air, and Gwennie leans through the doorway conspiratorially and explains,
‘This man has offal for his breakfast every day. Can you imagine?’ – before disappearing again into the kitchen.
’Good for the internal organs’ says Lambert, tragically. ‘Liver and kidney. Enriches the blood’.
Wilf actually feels guilty for leaving.
‘I’m sorry, Lambert’ he says, ‘but I’ve got a schedule. My train ticket lasts till the end of the month. If I don’t get the whole thing done by then I’ll be stranded.’
Lambert waves an elegant hand.
‘Ah, please, pay no heed to me. I realise that you have your own priorities. And long gone, I know, are the balmy days when one could trot into a rail station on a whim and make a spontaneous purchase. Still. I’ve so enjoyed having a companion who appreciates Hestyn’s cryptic corners’.
‘And I’m in your debt’ says Wilf ‘for all your expertise and knowledge… But surely we’ve exhausted the corners by now.’
‘No, no!’ Lambert’s back straightens and his eyes widen with hope.
‘As I said before, there’s many a treat still in store! Remember—we haven’t yet ventured to the upper or the lower floors of the Big House!’
Wilf’s fork stalls on its way to his mouth. Lambert presses his advantage.
‘No bare dereliction on those floors, I assure you—plenty to tease a man’s mind. You’ve seen our friends in the fresco—well, they are merely, as we might say, the advance guard. You cannot possibly do Hestyn justice without seeing the other floors!’
Crockery is clacking up the hall in time with Gwennie’s steps.
Wilf is still staring at his plate thoughtfully as she clinks to the table with the tea-tray.
‘Victory, Mrs P!’ cries Lambert, rubbing his hands. ‘I believe our young visitor will extend his booking after all!’
Gwennie pours his tea and the room thickens with its fruity, mud-rich scent.
‘Well,’ she says, without looking at either of them, ‘I must say, I’m very glad to hear it. He’s very welcome to stay here as long as he likes’.
15
The rhododendrons seem to have spread a little more since their last expedition. Wilf and Lambert puff and hack their slow way along, saying nothing. At this early hour the overgrown track is as cold and black as deep water, yet both men are sweating by the time they reach the park, and Wilf has taken off his jacket and tied it by the arms around his waist. No high wind fends them off this time, and as they stride across the grass the half-ruined wall looms up like a benevolent, sleeping creature.
‘Glorious’ shouts Lambert, as they reach the gate. The manor’s shells and buttons and encrustations are fiery in the morning light. Today it’s Wilf who leads the way up the drive. The door scrapes and snorts. They move from the briny outdoors into mellow dustiness that prickles their throats and nostrils. The fiddler is still tuning his violin, frowning with concentration; the singers loll on their balustrade, noting the intruders with bored eyes.
‘No time to waste’ declares Lambert, and Wilf follows to the main staircase. Though the steps are wide and shallow at the base, they become narrower and steeper as the flight curves round to the right. Wilf grabs the wooden bannister rail until, with a sweep of his cane, Lambert directs him to the other side of the stair, away from a gaping hole where three or four bannister rods have fallen away.
‘An accident perhaps, or the effects of fire’ comments Lambert, as they lean against the wall and contemplate the remaining stumps of turned wood. ‘But I fear it may be dry rot. I hope and pray not. If so the house itself may have vanished by the time its description graces your guide’.
Wilf realises with a lurch of anxiety that he hasn’t even remembered to bring his notebook. But after all, he reassures himself, he’s not likely to forget what he sees, and Lambert is always on hand to fill in the detail.
‘Onward and upward’ cries Lambert, and brandishes his stick to lead them around the final twist of stairway and onto the first-floor landing. From here Wilf can see the jutting rail of the minstrels’ gallery ahead, and the sheen of colours behind it, but no means of access.
‘More secrets’ says Lambert happily. He bounds forward, reaches up to the full extent of his long arm and fiddles with one of the plaster flowers that droop from the coving. There’s a clunk and the wall seems to relax; Lambert gives it a gentle push and a small door opens, set a foot above floor level and just large enough for an adult to squeeze through. Wilf peers through it onto the tiny gallery and out over the hall.
‘Not safe to go any further, I’m afraid’ warns Lambert. ‘Balcony floor’s a touch rickety. Can’t think anyone actually used it much, to tell the truth. No room there for real musicians’.
Further along, a wide corridor opens out to their left, lined with doors. From the landing the doors look solid and forbidding, but as Wilf and Lambert creak along the corridor they can see that some of the panels are splintering, some of the brass doorknobs missing, and one door, about halfway along, has a large gap where the wood has mouldered away. Wilf looks through it into a dull space of floorboards and bare plaster, with a small fireplace, a leather banquette covered in small eruptions of stuffing, and a window blanked by a grubby modern blind.
‘One of the guest rooms’ says Lambert. ‘Nothing much of interest in there’.
Wilf tries the handle of the next door, expecting it to be locked, but it swings open to reveal another, emptier room, also dimmed by a window-blind. He begins to feel cheated.
‘I thought you said “no bare dereliction”?’
Lambert wags a finger. ‘The best is yet to come’.
At the end of the corridor they turn right, into another passage, darker, colder and narrower. Their footsteps change in pitch and tone as they move from floorboards wisped with near-extinct carpet to bare stone. Wilf tells himself they must be running out of house by now. He turns for a last look at the guestroom doors before they lose sight of them, and assures himself that the doorknob turning of its own accord was a quirk of his imagination. When he looks back Lambert is changing direction again, into an opening on the left, and as Wilf catches up he sees another staircase, widening downwards and narrowing upwards into a recess that seems to lead to an attic.
‘Welcome to the servants’ domain’ says Lambert, flinging out his arms, and his voice bounces back from the stairwell. ‘Uncomfortable as you are in confined spaces, you may be relieved to know that we are leaving the servants’ sleeping quarters to their ghosts and descending instead into the engine-rooms of the aristocratic machine.’
As Wilf canters after him the walls retreat again, and the stairs deliver them into a cavernous area linking kitchen, housekeeper’s office, storage spaces and cellar access. There are glass-panelled doors and arched alcoves. Two bells and a nameplate —’Drawing Room’—cling to a panel on the wall among regimented lines of holes and broken hooks. From somewhere fresh air is washing through. Everything looks late-Victorian, functional, familiar—like a civil service office. There’s none of the eccentricity of the owner’s floors. Here, it could be business as usual. It could be a converted hotel, or a living museum. If a maid hurried out of the kitchen or a footman came marching up from the cellars, Wilf wouldn’t be at all surprised. Lambert beams at him, enjoying the expressions on his face.
‘It looks as if it’s still in use!’ Wilf says.
‘Even were the rest of the building to fall,’ says Lambert, ‘I wager this part would stand ready to supply and serve whichever new version might be thrown up in its place’.
Wilf says, ‘How come the downstairs is in such good nick?’
‘Such a fine, solid structure’ says Lambert. ‘Stands firm against weather and decay. You see, there really is no very good reason for Hestyn House to die. Mould, dry rot, these are worries, of course. But such matters can be rectified, given the will and the wealth. The will is my contribution; the wealth will flow from yours, from your guide and the public interest it will arouse’.
‘Honestly, Lambert, I think you’re overestimating the effects of this guide’ says Wilf.
‘Nonsense, dear boy. Think of Pevsner. Think of Cook. Good grief, think of Wainwright’s walks—hand-drawn and humble. A little canny targetting and—you know, people are in such need of distraction’.
Wilf sighs. Here we go again, he thinks. Why is everyone so keen to make him a spokesman, to load him with responsibilities he doesn’t want to bear? Roaming and reporting—that’s all Wilf is fit for. It’s not for him to take on the world’s ills, or even Hestyn’s. Leave that kind of thing to Aggie and her ilk. Lambert leans towards him.
‘More wonders still to come!’ he promises, then sets off towards the cellars, bellowing ‘Follow, follow!’
From his waistcoat pocket Lambert produces a heavy key and unlocks the cellar door. He pulls a hefty brass switch at the top of the cellar steps. From beneath their feet comes the throaty chug of a motor.
‘Generator’ explains Lambert. ‘Courtesy of the Hestyn House Conservation Society’.
A theatrical crescendo of light reveals high vaulting and massive pillars, picked out with shadow. Wilf says,
‘There’s a society? I thought it was just you’.
Lambert gives a dry cough and brushes past to lead the way down the steps. ‘In the main, yes, just myself’ he concedes. ‘But I have secured the services of Fred Tyler from time to time. Retired engineer. Works wonders with old lawnmower parts’.
They cross the wide cellar floor and pass through an archway into a second area, where one faulty light is twitching on and off. They reach a wooden door. Wilf looks back at the cellar as Lambert struggles with a bolt.
‘It’s very clean’ he remarks.
‘I’ve endeavoured to keep it that way’ says Lambert, ‘But actually it rather takes care of itself—’ He’s still tugging at the bolt; the metal grunts. ‘—unlike the rest of the place—’
BANG! The bolt rips thunderously free of its cradle and Lambert almost topples over backwards. He steadies himself, laughs feebly, and pushes the door open.
‘Voilà!’
He puffs his thin chest in triumph and Wilf reels back as if he’s been smacked in the face.
16
In the kitchen at Rosehill, Gwennie Price wipes the last of the breakfast dishes. Her second guest has gone out and she’s got the house to herself. Time to get everything in order and to plan the day. Gwennie likes to get everything in order. That’s one of her skills: the ability to slice great welters of time and event into manageable tasks, arrange them according to priority and deal with them one by one. This skill has served her well, steered her through the mayhem of parenthood, through widowhood and everything in between. She turns the radio on for company.
That was thinker and broadcaster Leslie Gooch with his Spiritual Snippet for the Day. Now here to discuss the relative merits of city and country life are writer Tess Young and journalist …
The announcer’s fruity tones subside into a comforting melody at the back of Gwennie’s mind, as she wipes and puts away each dish and cup in logical order. Big plates stacked at the back of the cupboard, small plates in front, cups and saucers on the shelf below. They click into place. Click. Click. She snaps the cupboard door shut, takes her dishcloth and wipes down the draining board and sink; wrings the cloth, folds it once, hangs it to dry over the dishrack. From another cupboard she takes a spray-bottle and a different cloth. Squirt, squirt on the worktop; wipe, wipe in broad, bold circles. A smell of sugared antiseptic fills the air and catches at her throat. She sprays and wipes the hob, fingering the cloth around lips and into crevices, seeking out stray crumbs and globules. She runs a couple of inches of hot water into the washing-up bowl and puts the second cloth in to soak, then puts the spray-bottle away. Behind it in the cupboard are ranks of other sprays, polishes, bottles of bleach, carpet-soap, stain-removers, cleaners for floors and basins, furniture and curtains, wood, stone, ceramic, plastic, metal. Gwennie has always stocked up well in advance.
She straightens up and smooths her apron in one quick, downward stroke, signalling the end of one round of chores. She surveys the kitchen and in her mind plans the meal she’ll prepare for her guests this evening. Pork chop, boiled potatoes, carrots. Maybe she’ll make an apple crumble. She allots an extra portion of the day for obtaining ingredients (Alf Tirrell the postman had a good crop of apples this year), and for cooking. Then she takes off her apron, hangs it on a hook on the door, and goes upstairs to start on the guest rooms. She wonders whether her new guest might like a full-length mirror. Women are fussier about these things than men. She noticed one in the attic when Wilf was passing her up all that clutter from the spare room: the old wooden-framed mirror that used to belong to her mother. Ugly, heavy old monster, but with a good dusting it’ll serve. Gwennie takes a pole from a corner of the landing and hooks one end of it to the attic door. As the door opens a metal staircase unfolds itself. She labours up the steps. Poor Mr Bromley, nearly did himself a mischief, heaving all those boxes up the attic steps and passing them up to her at the hatch. She felt a bit bad about that, but really, she couldn’t have managed them all on her own. She climbs into the attic and switches on the light, pausing to sigh at the townscape of crates and files and bags that—some day—will need sorting through. Buried in there somewhere are albums full of photographs—her son’s wedding, her daughter’s graduation, and other records of other lives that have passed through the house like a breeze. She stumbles and high-steps over them to reach the far end of the roofspace, where, sure enough, the mirror is lying on its side, propped against a long, wooden blanket-chest. Gwennie takes the frame in both hands and tests its weight. Maybe she’d better wait for Wilf to come back. She doesn’t want it crashing down those steps and ending up in smithereens. Seven years bad luck—no thanks. She’ll just haul it through this mess and get it into position by the hatch. Then she can pss it down the steps to Mr Bromley. Safer all round.
Gwennie eases the mirror away from the chest and starts the slow business of manoeuvring it, lengthwise, across the room. After a couple of moments she lets it rest on a plateau of sealed cardboard boxes and leans forward on her knees, breathing heavily. Presently she starts taking off her wristwatch, and turns back to the blanket-chest. There’s a smoke detector plugged into the wall behind it. Gwennie removes it, and uses the prong of her watch-strap to loosen the screws on its plastic casing. She jiggles the casing free, and from a cavity next to the batteries inside, takes a tiny key. She uses this to open the padlock on the chest. She lifts the lid of the chest and draws back two thick blankets. Packed tightly underneath are rifles, a confusion of batteries, wires and disembodied switches, and a canvas bag. Gwennie removes the bag, unbuckles it and takes out a thin rod, some pads and cloths, a pot of solvent and a bottle of oil. One by one she removes the guns, partially dismantles them and gives them a thorough clean, ramming the rod and cleaning pads into the barrels and finishing off with a brisk polish of the outer metal parts. Then she replaces them, as tenderly as a mother laying her baby in the cot. She covers the hoard, locks the chest and puts the key back in its hiding place. In two brisk movements she brushes one hand against the other—slap, slap—then returns to the awkward task of steering her mirror towards the attic door.
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