Strange Stories Read online

  ‘Time matters less.’

  ‘I should have hated going to a place where time mattered or that you’d been to before. You’d have had nothing to remember me by.’

  He hadn’t been quite sure that her words exactly expressed her thought, but the thought had lightened his heart.

  *

  Holihaven station could hardly have been built in the days of the town’s magnificence, for they were in the Middle Ages; but it still implied grander functions than came its way now. The platforms were long enough for visiting London expresses, which had since gone elsewhere; and the architecture of the waiting-rooms would have been not insufficient for occasional use by Foreign Royalty. Oil lamps on perches like those occupied by macaws lighted the uniformed staff, who numbered two, and, together with every other native of Holihaven, looked like storm-habituated mariners.

  The stationmaster and porter, as Gerald took them to be, watched him approach down the platform, with a heavy suitcase in each hand and Phrynne walking deliciously by his side. He saw one of them address a remark to the other, but neither offered to help. Gerald had to put down the cases in order to give up their tickets. The other passengers had already disappeared.

  ‘Where’s the Bell?’

  Gerald had found the hotel in a reference book. It was the only one the book allotted to Holihaven. But as Gerald spoke, and before the ticket collector could answer, the sudden deep note of an actual bell rang through the darkness. Phrynne caught hold of Gerald’s sleeve.

  Ignoring Gerald, the stationmaster, if such he was, turned to his colleague. ‘They’re starting early.’

  ‘Every reason to be in good time,’ said the other man.

  The stationmaster nodded, and put Gerald’s tickets indifferently in his jacket pocket.

  ‘Can you please tell me how I get to the Bell Hotel?’

  The stationmaster’s attention returned to him. ‘Have you a room booked?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Tonight?’ The stationmaster looked inappropriately suspicious.

  ‘Of course.’

  Again the stationmaster looked at the other man.

  ‘It’s them Pascoes.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gerald. ‘That’s the name, Pascoe.’

  ‘We don’t use the Bell,’ explained the stationmaster. ‘But you’ll find it in Wrack Street.’ He gesticulated vaguely and unhelpfully. ‘Straight ahead. Down Station Road. Then down Wrack Street. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  As soon as they entered the town, the big bell began to boom regularly.

  ‘What narrow streets!’ said Phrynne.

  ‘They follow the lines of the medieval city. Before the river silted up, Holihaven was one of the most important seaports in Great Britain.’

  ‘Where’s everybody got to?’

  Although it was only six o’clock, the place certainly seemed deserted.

  ‘Where’s the hotel got to?’ rejoined Gerald.

  ‘Poor Gerald! Let me help.’ She laid her hand beside his on the handle of the suitcase nearest to her, but as she was about fifteen inches shorter than he, she could be of little assistance. They must already have gone more than a quarter of a mile. ‘Do you think we’re in the right street?’

  ‘Most unlikely, I should say. But there’s no one to ask.’

  ‘Must be early closing day.’

  The single deep notes of the bell were now coming more frequently.

  ‘Why are they ringing that bell? Is it a funeral?’

  ‘Bit late for a funeral.’

  She looked at him a little anxiously.

  ‘Anyway it’s not cold.’

  ‘Considering we’re on the east coast it’s quite astonishingly warm.’

  ‘Not that I care.’

  ‘I hope that bell isn’t going to ring all night.’

  She pulled on the suitcase. His arms were in any case almost parting from his body. ‘Look! We’ve passed it.’

  They stopped, and he looked back. ‘How could we have done that?’

  ‘Well, we have.’

  She was right. He could see a big ornamental bell hanging from a bracket attached to a house about a hundred yards behind them.

  They retraced their steps and entered the hotel. A woman dressed in a navy blue coat and skirt, with a good figure but dyed red hair and a face ridged with make-up, advanced upon them.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Banstead?’ I’m Hilda Pascoe. Don, my husband, isn’t very well.’

  Gerald felt full of doubts. His arrangements were not going as they should. Never rely on guide-book recommendations. The trouble lay partly in Phrynne’s insistence that they go somewhere he did not know. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said.

  ‘You know what men are like when they’re ill?’ Mrs Pascoe spoke understandingly to Phrynne.

  ‘Impossible,’ said Phrynne. ‘Or very difficult.’

  ‘Talk about Woman in our hours of ease.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Phrynne. ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘It’s always the same trouble with Don,’ said Mrs Pascoe, then checked herself. ‘It’s his stomach,’ she said. ‘Ever since he was a kid, Don’s had trouble with the lining of his stomach.’

  Gerald interrupted, ‘I wonder if we could see our room?’

  ‘So sorry,’ said Mrs Pascoe. ‘Will you register first?’ She produced a battered volume bound in peeling imitation leather. ‘Just the name and address.’ She spoke as if Gerald might contribute a resume of his life.

  It was the first time he and Phrynne had ever registered in a hotel; but his confidence in the place was not increased by the long period which had passed since the registration above.

  ‘We’re always quiet in October,’ remarked Mrs Pascoe, her eyes upon him. Gerald noticed that her eyes were slightly bloodshot. ‘Except sometimes for the bars, of course.’

  ‘We wanted to come out of the season,’ said Phrynne soothingly.

  ‘Quite,’ said Mrs Pascoe.

  ‘Are we alone in the house?’ inquired Gerald. After all the woman was probably doing her best.

  ‘Except for Commandant Shotcroft. You won’t mind him, will you? He’s a regular.’

  ‘I’m sure we shan’t,’ said Phrynne.

  ‘People say the house wouldn’t be the same without Commandant Shotcroft.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘What’s that bell?’ asked Gerald. Apart from anything else, it really was much too near.

  Mrs Pascoe looked away. He thought she looked shifty under her entrenched make-up. But she only said, ‘Practice.’

  ‘Do you mean there will be more of them later?’

  She nodded. ‘But never mind,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Let me show you to your room. Sorry there’s no porter.’

  Before they had reached the bedroom, the whole peal had commenced.

  ‘Is this the quietest room you have?’ inquired Gerald. ‘What about the other side of the house?’

  ‘This is the other side of the house. Saint Guthlac’s is over there.’ She pointed out through the bedroom door.

  ‘Darling,’ said Phrynne, her hand on Gerald’s arm, ‘they’ll soon stop. They’re only practicing.’

  Mrs Pascoe said nothing. Her expression indicated that she was one of those people whose friendliness has a precise and seldom exceeded limit.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ said Gerald to Phrynne, hesitating.

  ‘They have ways of their own in Holihaven,’ said Mrs Pascoe. Her undertone of militancy implied, among other things, that if Gerald and Phrynne chose to leave, they were at liberty to do so. Gerald did not care for that either: her attitude would have been different, he felt, had there been anywhere else for them to go. The bells were making him touchy and irritable.

  ‘It’s a very pretty room,’ said Phrynne. ‘I adore four- posters.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Gerald to Mrs Pascoe. ‘What time’s dinner?’

  ‘Seven-thirty. You’ve time for a drink in the bar first.’ She went.<
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  ‘We certainly have,’ said Gerald when the door was shut. ‘It’s only just six.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Phrynne, who was standing by the window king down into the street, ‘I like church bells.’

  ‘All very well,’ said Gerald, ‘but on one’s honeymoon they distract the attention.’

  ‘Not mine,’ said Phrynne simply. Then she added, ‘There’s still no one about.’

  ‘I expect they’re all in the bar.’

  ‘I don’t want a drink. I want to explore the town.’

  ‘As you wish. But hadn’t you better unpack?’

  ‘I ought to, but I'm not going to. Not until after I've seen the sea.’ Such small shows of independence in her enchanted Gerald.

  Mrs Pascoe was not about when they passed through the lounge, nor was there any sound of activity in the establishment.

  Outside, the bells seemed to be booming and bounding immediately over their heads.

  ‘It’s like warriors fighting in the sky,’ shouted Phrynne. ‘Do you think the sea’s down there?’ She indicated the direction from which they had previously retraced their steps.

  ‘I imagine so. The street seems to end in nothing. That would be the sea.’

  ‘Come on. Let’s run.’ She was off, before he could even think about it. Then there was nothing to do but run after her. He hoped there were not eyes behind blinds.

  She stopped, and held wide her arms to catch him. The top of her head hardly came up to his chin. He knew she was silently indicating that his failure to keep up with her was not a matter for self-consciousness.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

  ‘The sea?’ There was no moon; and little was discernible beyond the end of the street.

  ‘Not only.’

  ‘Everything but the sea. The sea’s invisible.’

  ‘You can smell it.’

  ‘I certainly can’t hear it.’

  She slackened her embrace and cocked her head away from him. ‘The bells echo so much, it’s as if there were two churches.’

  ‘I’m sure there are more than that. There always are in old towns like this.’ Suddenly he was struck by the significance of his words in relation to what she had said. He shrank into himself, tautly listening.

  ‘Yes,’ cried Phrynne delightedly. ‘It is another church.’ ‘Impossible,’ said Gerald. ‘Two churches wouldn’t have practice ringing on the same night.’

  ‘I’m quite sure. I can hear one lot of bells with my left ear, and another lot with my right.’

  They had still seen no one. The sparse gas lights fell on the furnishings of a stone quay, small but plainly in regular use. ‘The whole population must be ringing the bells.’ His own remark discomfited Gerald.

  ‘Good for them.’ She took his hand. ‘Let’s go down on the beach and look for the sea.’

  They descended a flight of stone steps at which the sea had sucked and bitten. The beach was as stony as the steps, but lumpier.

  ‘We’ll just go straight on,’ said Phrynne. ‘Until we find it.’ Left to himself, Gerald would have been less keen. The stones were very large and very slippery, and his eyes did not seem to be becoming accustomed to the dark.

  ‘You’re right, Phrynne, about the smell.’

  ‘Honest sea smell.’

  ‘Just as you say.’ He took it rather to be the smell of dense rotting weed; across which he supposed they must be slithering. It was not a smell he had previously encountered in such strength.

  Energy could hardly be spared for talking, and advancing hand in hand was impossible.

  After various random remarks on both sides and the lapse of what seemed a very long time, Phrynne spoke again. ‘Gerald, where is it? What sort of seaport is it that has no sea?’

  She continued onwards, but Gerald stopped and looked back. He had thought the distance they had gone overlong, but was startled to see how great it was. The darkness was doubtless deceitful, but the few lights on the quay appeared as on a distant horizon.

  The far glimmering specks still in his eyes, he turned and looked after Phrynne. He could barely see her. Perhaps she was progressing faster without him.

  ‘Phrynne! Darling!’

  Unexpectedly she gave a sharp cry.

  ‘Phrynne!’

  She did not answer.

  ‘Phrynne! ’

  Then she spoke more or less calmly. Panic over. ‘Sorry, darling. I stood on something.’

  He realized that a panic it had indeed been; at least in him.

  ‘You’re all right?’

  ‘Think so.’

  He struggled up to her. ‘The smell’s worse than ever.’ It was overpowering.

  ‘I think it’s coming from what I stepped on. My foot went right in, and then there was the smell.’

  ‘I’ve never known anything like it.’

  ‘Sorry, darling,’ she said gently mocking him. ‘Let’s go away.’

  ‘Let’s go back. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Phrynne. ‘But I must warn you Im very disappointed. I think that seaside attractions should include the sea.’

  He noticed that as they retreated, she was scraping the sides of one shoe against the stones, as if trying to clean it.

  ‘I think the whole place is a disappointment,’ he said. ‘I really must apologize. We’ll go somewhere else.’

  ‘I like the bells,’ she replied, making a careful reservation. Gerald said nothing.

  ‘I don’t want to go somewhere where you’ve been before.’ The bells rang out over the desolate, unattractive beach. Now the sound seemed to be coming from every point along the shore.

  ‘I suppose all the churches practice on the same night in order to get it over with,’ said Gerald.

  ‘They do it in order to see which can ring the loudest,’ said Phrvnne.

  ‘Take care you don’t twist your ankle.’

  The din as they reached the rough litde quay was such as to suggest that Phrynne’s idea was literally true.

  The Coffee Room was so low that Gerald had to dip beneath a sequence of thick beams.

  ‘Why “Coffee Room”?’ asked Phrynne, looking at the words on the door. ‘I saw a notice that coffee will only be served in the lounge.’

  ‘It’s the lucus a non lucendo principle.’

  ‘That explains everything. I wonder where we sit.’ A single electric lantern, mass produced in an antique pattern, had been turned on. The bulb was of that limited wattage which is peculiar to hotels. It did little to penetrate the shadows.

  ‘The lucus a non lucendo principle is the principle of calling white black.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said a voice from the darkness. ‘On the contrary. The word black comes from an ancient root which means “to bleach”.’

  They had thought themselves alone, but now saw a small man seated by himself at an unlighted corner table. In the darkness he looked like a monkey.

  ‘I stand corrected,’ said Gerald.

  They sat at the table under the lantern.

  The man in the comer spoke again. ‘Why are you here at all?’

  Phrynne looked frightened, but Gerald replied quietly.

  ‘We’re on holiday. We prefer it out of the season. I presume you are Commandant Shotcroft?’

  ‘No need to presume.’ Unexpectedly the Commandant switched on the antique lantern which was nearest to him. His table was littered with a finished meal. It struck Gerald that he must have switched off the light when he heard them approach the Coffee Room. ‘I’m going anyway.’

  ‘Are we late?’ asked Phrynne, always the assuager of situations.

  ' ‘No, you’re not late,’ said the Commandant in a deep, moody voice. ‘My meals are prepared half an hour before the time the rest come in. I don’t like eating in company.’ He had risen to his feet. ‘So perhaps you excuse me.’

  Without troubling about an answer, he stepped quickly out of the Coffee Room. He had cropped white hair; tragic, heavy- lidded eyes; and a round face which was yell
ow and lined.

  A second later his head reappeared round the door.

  ‘Ring,’ he said; and again withdrew.

  ‘Too many other people ringing,’ said Gerald. ‘But I don’t see what else we can do.’

  The Coffee Room bell, however, made a noise like a fire alarm.

  Mrs Pascoe appeared. She looked considerably the worse for drink.

  ‘Didn’t see you in the bar.’

  ‘Must have missed us in the crowd,’ said Gerald amiably.

  ‘Crowd?’ inquired Mrs Pascoe drunkenly. Then, after a difficult pause, she offered them a hand-written menu.

  They ordered; and Mrs Pascoe served them throughout. Gerald was apprehensive lest her indisposition increase during the course of the meal; but her insobriety, like her affability, seemed to have an exact and definite limit.

  ‘All things considered, the food might be worse,’ remarked

  Gerald, towards the end. It was a relief that something was going reasonably well. ‘Not much of it, but at least the dishes are hot.’

  When Phrynne translated this into a compliment to the cook, Mrs Pascoe said, ‘I cooked it all myself, although I shouldn’t be the one to say so.’

  Gerald felt really surprised that she was in a condition to have accomplished this. Possibly, he reflected with alarm, she had had much practice under similar conditions.

  ‘Coffee is served in the lounge,’ said Mrs Pascoe.

  They withdrew. In a corner of the lounge was a screen decorated with winning Elizabethan ladies in ruffs and hoops. From behind it projected a pair of small black boots. Phrynne nudged Gerald and pointed to them. Gerald nodded. They felt themselves constrained to talk about things which bored them.

  The hotel was old and its walls thick. In the empty lounge the noise of the bells could not prevent conversation being overheard, but still came from all around, as if the hotel were a fortress beleaguered by surrounding artillery.

  After their second cups of coffee, Gerald suddenly said he couldn’t stand it.

  ‘Darling, it’s not doing us any harm. I think it’s rather cosy.’ Phrynne subsided in the wooden chair with its sloping back and long mud-coloured mock-velvet cushions; and opened her pretty legs to the fire.

  ‘Every church in the town must be ringing its bells. It’s been going on for two and a half hours and they never seem to take the usual breathers.’