The Haunt (5 page)

*

Angela Hartop had just turned into their lane, walking from the bus stop, pulling a loaded shopping trolley and carrying a parcel under the other arm. There was no way he could have driven past and left her.

She was unsurprised when he pulled up beside her and waited while he put her luggage in the boot. She looked hot and tired, the faint down on her upper lip was moist, the tender skin under her eyes looked bruised.

Owen noted the details without any idea what he was going to make of them. ‘I’d have offered you a lift if I’d known you were going into town.’

‘You’re very kind.’

‘I was going anyway.’

‘I think James has fallen in love with you.’ Owen laughed. She said, ‘It’s not to be wondered at. He needs a man in his life.’

When he stopped the car at her gate she said, ‘You don’t want him though, do you?’

‘On the contrary, I’ve become quite attached to him.’

‘Is it your wife?’

‘Elissa?’

‘Is she why you closed the gap in the fence?’

‘I did it because my garden’s no place for a child, there are too many thistles and stinging nettles.’

She opened the car door. ‘I’m obliged for the lift.’

*

‘I know you don’t like the smell of beer, it makes you sick and you’re always hoping there’s another reason: I know the reason,’ said Antony Wallington to his wife, Pam. ‘You didn’t have to come on this holiday.’

‘Neither of us has to do anything. It’s our creed.’

‘What will you have to drink?’

‘A very small, very dry sherry.’

‘A very small, very dry sherry,’ he said to the barmaid. ‘And a pint of bitter.’

She looked askance at him as she pulled his beer. ‘We don’t serve very small sherries. And just dry, not very dry.’

‘Just dry will do.’

Where does compulsion start, he was thinking. With Pam it had started as a gut reaction. He would have been happy if he hadn’t come across some half-finished baby clothes. Too shaken to confront her with the discovery, he had watched
like a hawk. But a hawk watches for its dinner; he was watching for his lifestyle.

When she didn’t change shape and didn’t finish the baby clothes, he realised he was in a situation which could persist as long as their generative powers lasted. He had always thought they shared the same fears and expectations. They had muddled along in ignorance and bliss. Now he saw what could be coming to them, and she wanting it to come, knitting for it. The very idea of birth was abhorrent. A clumsy, squalid, risky business. Pollenation had it beat every time. He wanted none of it for Pam – or himself.

As he set the sherry before her, she said, ‘Why is this pub called the “Dolly Pentreath”? Did she die of drink?’

‘Look,’ he said, ‘we’re here on holiday in a lovely place, the Cornish riviera, we’re supposed to enjoy ourselves.’

‘It’s me, isn’t it? It must be me not enjoying this lovely place.’

‘Is it because you’re pregnant?’ She looked up, startled. ‘Because if you are—’

‘I’m not, of course I’m not! It’s nothing to do with that—’

‘It’s got to be doing with something.’

‘I hoped it didn’t show.’

‘By God, Pam, you’d better tell me the truth.’

‘I’ve told you the truth. Why on earth should you think otherwise?’

‘Because you’re making baby clothes.’

She stared, the penny dropped, light dawned and she laughed. ‘Those! They’re dolls’ clothes!’

‘Where’s the doll?’

‘My landlady – she used to be my landlady – her little girl was always dragging her doll around stark naked. I couldn’t bear to see it. I promised to make it an outfit so it would look like a real baby and she’d get the idea and be gentle with it.’

He said, ‘You’re really sticky, you know that?’

She sighed. ‘This lovely place worries me. The loveliness doesn’t go deep.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Don’t be angry, please Nanty. Sometimes I don’t even think about it. Yesterday I was lying on the beach watching the gulls hovering and soaring and I thought this will put me right. It’s what I’ve been waiting for.’

Exasperated, he sank half his pint in one swallow. ‘Gulls are what it takes to put you right?’

‘Then I saw a huge great face, up on the cliff, leering at me.’

‘Oh come on, if you’re on the beach and there’s a man on the cliff you wouldn’t be able to see him leer.’

‘There wasn’t a man, only a face, hundreds of feet of face in the rock, like those American presidents.’

‘You dreamed it.’

‘Dreams reveal what you’re thinking.’

‘It was a trick of the light on a geological formation.’ She sipped her sherry and grimaced. He said, ‘I can see you’re not going to enjoy this holiday. You’ve made up your mind not to.’

‘I feel as if something’s waiting to happen.’

‘Why did you come?’

‘To be with you.’

He might have told her she was going the wrong way about it. He might have told her a thing or two. He twiddled his empty glass. ‘I think I’ll have another.’

At the bar counter someone was holding forth. ‘I’ve nothing against the English weekend. It’s an institution, but only for the Establishment. Essential services should maintain their essence through Monday to Monday. The veriest banger has the right to have its wants supplied on a Saturday afternoon. My car’s a very banger, it’s sitting in the road like a broody hen and you tell me no one will do anything about it.’

‘You might find a garage open for repairs in Falmouth,’ said the barmaid.

‘How do I get to Falmouth?’

‘There’s a bus tomorrow afternoon.’

He winked at her. ‘What’ll I do till then?’

He was pleasantly pissed, thought Antony, envying the condition.

‘There’s a hotel.’ The barmaid drew Antony’s second pint. ‘The Bellechasse. This gentleman’s staying there.’

‘The Bellwhat?’

‘It’s French for nice hunting,’ said Antony.

‘Sounds expensive.’

‘It’s not.’

‘Is it far?’

‘You could walk it.’

When Antony went back with his beer, Pam said, ‘Do you have to keep drinking?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who was that you were talking to?’

‘His car’s broken down and he’s stranded. He was asking me about the hotel.’

‘Our hotel?’

‘There’s another?’

Pam sighed. ‘Drink makes you surly.’ It was spoken softly and reasonably but there was no reason.

‘Do you know about cars?’ The stranded man had come with his go-lucky air and a tot of whisky.

Antony shrugged. ‘Not much.’

‘There’s not much wrong with mine. She’s got a charge like a rhino when she’s roused. Trouble is rousing her.’

Pam said, ‘Don’t you belong to any of the motoring organisations?’

‘Can’t run to it. I’m an underemployed painter.’

‘Where did you break down?’ asked Antony.

‘A mile or so back. Just petered out. The starter motor works but that’s all. Probably a screw loose somewhere. You wouldn’t take a look, would you?’

‘I’ll look but I can’t promise anything.’

He held out his hand. ‘Olssen, Charlie.’

‘My name’s Wallington, and this is Pam.’

‘Would you mind if we go and look at the car?’ Olssen said to her.

‘I shan’t come.’

‘We won’t be long. Ten minutes there, ten minutes back, two ticks to fix it.’

‘I’ll go back to the hotel.’

When he and Antony were outside, Olssen said, ‘Does she mind?’

‘She doesn’t like pubs.’ Antony had seen a crust of paint on the seat of Olssen’s jeans. ‘I suppose the bottom’s out of the building trade?’

‘I guess so.’ Olssen sounded unconcerned.

‘It’s bound to recover. People have to have houses, they don’t have to have flowers.’

‘Nor pictures.’

‘I’m a florist.’

‘People have to have flowers for weddings and funerals and to take to hospitals,’ Olssen pointed out.

‘I picked a bunch from the hedgerow, to see how many varieties there were. I counted forty-five.’

‘Mostly weeds?’

‘They were flowers, beautiful and free-gratis.’

‘What did you do with them?’

‘Threw them away. Pam didn’t want them. She said, like you, they were weeds.’

Olssen was starting to roll. Antony liked him for it, he didn’t trust a man with a strong head. They came to a bend in the road. Olssen pointed with an unsteady finger, ‘There she is.’ With the bonnet up, the car looked ready to take a bite. ‘Going like the clappers till we got here. She knew I was thinking of taking her to the breakers.’

‘If it’s a simple fault and I can spot it I might be able to get you going.’

Antony tried the starter. It whirred but did not fire the engine. ‘Can you rely on the petrol gauge?’

‘I took on ten litres at Truro, it was working then.’

‘Seems the petrol’s not getting through. I’ll check the fuel pump. Have you got a rag?’

Charlie rooted in a holdall on the back seat and brought out a piece of material. Antony held it ready while he disconnected the fuel pipe. A few drops of petrol spilled out. ‘Turn on the ignition.’ Olssen obeyed and petrol squirted on to the cloth. ‘Pump’s okay.’ Antony reconnected the pipe. ‘These yours?’ He held up the petrol-soaked cloth – a pair of silk pants.

‘Hell, no.’

‘You’ve got some hairy old plugs. When were they last changed?’

‘Not in my lifetime.’

‘I’d say it’s either a problem within the carburettor or an ignition fault. The plugs need sandblasting, or better still, renewing. I’m not an expert, you don’t have to take my word.’

‘I’ll take it. What do I do now?’

‘Wait till Monday.’ Antony wiped his hands on the briefs.

‘Those must be Lumsden’s. I’d forgotten his pack on the back seat.’

‘There’s someone with you?’

‘He missed the bus. What’s it like where you’re staying?’

*

Ernie Clapham was sitting with his feet in the goldfish pond, as was his custom on warm evenings. Pam thought it disgusting. Imagining the softness and coolness of the water, Antony was tempted to take off his shoes and socks
and dip in, but the thought of intruding on another man’s solitary pleasure inhibited him.

Clapham looked up as Antony and Olssen approached. ‘Nothing to beat a paddle when you’ve been on your feet all day.’

‘Mr Olssen would like a room,’ said Antony.

Clapham splashed and churned up the water. ‘The fish tickle my toes, no one’s done that since I was a babe in arms.’

‘And something to eat,’ said Olssen.

‘The wife will fix you a sandwich.’

‘I haven’t eaten since breakfast.’

‘There may be some soup left.’

Olssen put his hands on his knees and stooped over the pond. ‘Look at those colours – green and white like a spring onion. Water plays the devil with skin tones.’

‘Never did mine any harm.’ Clapham hauled up his feet. ‘I’ll show you your room.’

Antony left them climbing the stairs. Pam was in their bedroom, sitting on the bed. She said, ‘You’ve been ages. Why have you been such ages?’

‘I couldn’t get Olssen’s car started.’

‘Whose car?’

‘Charlie Olssen’s the chap we met in the pub. He’s booked in here.’

‘Did you know Dolly Pentreath was the last woman to speak the old Cornish?’

‘Who told you that?’

He hoped she had found someone to talk to, but she said
she had overheard it while she was waiting. ‘I’ve been waiting ages, sitting thinking.’

‘Why didn’t you go to bed?’

‘I wouldn’t sleep.’

‘Take a book, read yourself to sleep.’

‘I keep remembering – that man carrying the child – its clothes all wet.’

She was staring at him wide – no, wild-eyed – and he thought, Here we go again. ‘Look …’ Wherever she looked she wouldn’t see the crabhold round his heart. ‘I’m going down for a bit.’

‘Don’t go Nanty, stay with me—’

He blundered to the door, making as if he hadn’t heard. He wished he hadn’t brought Pam here. The place had bad vibes, bringing out the worst in her. Her worst, he thought glumly, might count as the best in some women. Loyalty, devotion, which she undoubtedly had, emerged as clinging, which he had never wanted in a woman. Her whimsies, which had been light-hearted and irresponsible, now threatened to engulf him.

There was no one in what the Claphams called the ‘sitter’. The television was showing a picture of its own choosing – a black and white blizzard. Antony switched it off.

Without people, this was still a noisy room. He put it down to the chair covers which were unflaggingly chintz, with Afro-modern spinning suns and some geometric patterns mixed with cottage-garden teenies. There was yet another design of muscular vines with leaves like steaks. He sat to examine it more closely.

It surprised him how some people regarded flowers. Women asked for the ‘old jam-tart roses’. ‘We spent a fortune decorating the church for when the bishop came,’ said a vicar’s wife. ‘We did roses because they were his favourite flower. But they were those new button things and they never opened out. Of course abroad they use plastic which has to be kept clean. I don’t see our ladies sponging the arum lilies as an act of faith.’ A man ordering a bouquet had told him, ‘The last time I took gypsophila into the house my wife accused me of mental cruelty.’ Antony had heard that growers were tidying up the self-destruct factor.

Mildred Gascoigne came in, observing that she was tempted to stroll as far as the field gate. ‘The cove looks so pretty when the lights come on.’

‘Ah.’ said Antony.

‘Oh, am I disturbing you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Do you know the gate I mean?’

He thought she sounded wistful, and hoped she wouldn’t suggest they take a stroll together. Charlie Olssen walked in as he was starting to jingle coins in his pocket. ‘Did I just see a Leda and her Swan on a pair of Bermuda shorts?’

‘Senga wears a garment with a strange device.’ said Mildred.

‘Girl nursing a big duck.’ supplied Antony.

‘Hanging a Leonardo on her butt is blasphemy.’ said Charlie.

*

Gilbert Eashing wrote to his solicitor, who was a personal friend and confidant: ‘The last girl you sent came for a day
out, she wanted to sunbathe. I was a tertiary consideration if, indeed, I was considered at all. The girl before her believed that age discredits everything, even experience. Especially experience. She was an addicted gossip and would have made my life a buzz.’