Undercurrent (2 page)

'Where could I go?'

'Oh, for God's sake, anywhere but here.' The man brushed him forward. Henry could not move. He was weighted by feet which seemed to have grown larger and heavier and he knew he was wearing his mulish face. The man pushed past him and squelched his way to the desk.

'Here, hold the bloody torch, will you?'

'The what?'

'The torch, you cretin.'

'Oh, you mean the flashlight. Sure.'

A torch was something which carried flame. It illuminated a barbecue on summer evenings and was an emblem of peace in the Olympics. He held the flashlight while the man leafed through an address book, his movements radiating irritation.

'Probably all full. Too late, you were the last. Ah yes, of course.

Wait a minute. . .' There was a gleam of malice in the eyes, caught in the flash. Henry felt himself intensely disliked and bridled at the unfairness of it. The man was eyeing his coat. He should have smiled himself, commiserated, done something, cracked a joke. A clever, diplomatic person would do that.

'There's only one place for you. And that hat,' the man added, snapping the book shut and shoving Henry towards the door.

'The House of Enchantment.

Lovely place,' he added in a voice rich with irony.

'The what?'

'The House of Enchantment. That's what they call it. Look, you aren't prejudiced, are you? Homophobic or worried about ghosts or anything like that? It'll do fine.' This time, he was pushing Henry, hard. 'Go right. Follow the seafront for about a hundred yards. No 196 and a half.

Keep left and keep counting. You can't miss it, squire. Princess Di might have stayed there. All we ever had was fucking Nelson.'

Henry and his suitcase were back on the road. He pulled up the collar of his jacket. It was a special jacket, soft grey leather with plenty of pockets, lined with fur, an understated piece of casual luxury and he was glad of its warmth. He turned left and walked on the seaward side. On his right, the sea growled and crawled and boomed. On the other side of the road, he could make out the irregular contours of houses, some dark, some illuminated, all impervious to the weather and the carnage inside the hotel. The patent indifference of those lit windows was oddly comforting.

The suitcase, weighed less by clothes than the vitamins, minerals and therapies he found so vital to his health, felt like an ungainly rock bouncing sharply against his back. His hat (deerstalker with flaps, Sherlock Holmes style, purchased in a hunting store and sartorially ridiculous anywhere else) suddenly left his head like a bird in flight and he watched by a streetlight as it flung itself into the waves and danced for a split second in the foam. There was nothing he could do about the hat. The beach was steep, the waves high and he was cold to his bones. It was only a hat; he could not even keep a hat and the hat seemed an emblem of his own ineptitude. He was lost.

The contours of a huge wall loomed on one side. There were no houses along here.

He passed the wall and the houses resumed.

She would have called them higgledy-piggledy. He counted slowly, eighty-one, eighty-two, eighty-three, before the numbers reverted to fifty. He attempted to whistle to forestall the ignominy of tears, tasting salt on his lips. He had come all this way to find a woman and that made him five times the fool.

The House of Enchantment stood on a corner at the highest point of the road facing the sea. The room was elegantly, if heavily furnished. The only touch of modernity was the TV

screen, which showed a series of silent, summer images. Peter Piper sat in an armchair inside the bay window of the first floor sitting room, holding the dog in his lap and pointing out features of the seascape, namely the crests of the retreating waves and lights in the distance. 'Now look there, Senta, that one's probably some kind of tanker. It isn't the lightship. Love the way it's all lit up, like a Christmas tree, don't you? Static, ain't it? My, oh my, they must be pleased to see land. Might make them think they could swim for shore. I bet they're wishing they were right here, with us, instead of out there, with them. Do you think we'll ever get anything to eat? Tim's being a horribly long time with it. A man could die before he gets any food round here.' He fondled the soft fur of the dog's ears. 'One more, dearest, only one more.'

He took a walnut from a dish and Senta took the nut from his fingers, daintily. She held it between her paws, cracked the shell with her teeth, delicately, and consumed the fragments of kernel with a precision which amazed him. 'One of these days,' Peter said, fondly, 'you'll be able to sweep up the pieces, too. We used to get Harry to do that, didn't we? Make him exercise his hands, poor darling Harry.' He got up to stoke the fire with a log and several chunks of old wooden flooring. It seemed wasteful to put such good wood on a fire, but it was free from the skip and anything they could gather or garnish for nothing was used. Scavenging was an art form, a challenge, an integral part of the way they lived. The fire spluttered. There was always that crucial point in the tending of a fife: the making of the decision to refuel it, lower the temperature, heft the fuel. Part of the discipline. 'By ritual, so shall you live,' Peter murmured to the dog, handing her another walnut.

'I'm so glad you're alive. I'm so glad there's no one else here but ourselves.

Who cares about money?'

He went downstairs. The dog followed. Condensation dripped from the landing window; he pulled his cardigan across his chest.

Rooms were warm enough; stairwells and corridors were freezing; contrast was good for health. He must remember to put hot bricks in the beds. House bricks hidden inside envelopes of fur, constructed from an ancient coat of his mother's, were an invention of which he was particularly proud. They were also perfectly true to the spirit of the age in which they wished to live, and unlike the conventional hot water bottle, did not leak.

There was a long, rather grand flight of stairs from the first floor to the ground. The dining room was to the left of it, lit with a fire.

From the kitchen beyond, traversed by another chilly corridor, there drifted the smell of curry. The table was set with a white linen cloth; three places laid this evening, he noticed.

Sometimes Timothy went mad and laid it up with crystal and silver for five or six, and Peter knew they would be eating the excess of the meal in another form the following day, but tonight his deference to either ghosts or other guests was limited to one, placed to the left of an artful arrangement of twigs and leaves in front of the seat nearest the fire.

They always ate in style: Tim insisted. Food, he said, was far too important to treat with disrespect. There had been a tricky spell when Tim had been determined to raise a pig and a few chickens in the back garden. Considerations of neighbourly relations had prevailed, but he still nurtured hopes of raising an ostrich.

At least a month's supply of low-fat meat. If we had live-stock, we would have to hide them, Peter had murmured, and I do so hate deceit, don't you? It might be feasible to keep an ostrich indoors in a house of four floors, to say nothing of the cellar. A house which was ideal either for hiding people or leaving them in perfect peace, and that included the paying guests. Once they were up in the attics and the second floor, no one would know they were there, but Peter said an ostrich would make a noise on the stairs.

Or interfere with privacy. Timothy adored the guests, but he did tend to go over the top in his concern for their comfort. He believed that anyone who came to the door arrived by divine intervention.

Peter never liked to mention it, but he had the strange feeling that some of them thought they were not so much being made at home as seduced, and that would create entirely the wrong impression.

They were there because they were needed.

Tim's evening apparel varied according to whim and whichever of his motley collection of charity shop clothes was clean at the moment. It was part of the rituals governing their lives that clothes were changed before dinner, although this did not mean that evening dress as such was de rigueur. It simply had to be something that had not been worn all day and it could never be shorts or a swimsuit, even if they intended to bathe after dining in the height of summer in the sorts of temperatures currently difficult to imagine.

Peter had donned the tweed suit which almost fitted over his ample chest, with an unbuttoned shirt beneath, revealing the least colourful of his tattoos, the ensemble complete with pristine white socks and training shoes. Timothy, in celebration of a vaguely Eastern style of meal, wore a heavy cotton jellaba which swept around his ankles and to save himself from tripping over its voluminous length, the folds were hitched in at the waist with braided yellow furnishing cord, bright against the scarlet of the cloth. With his slender height and hooked nose, he looked like a misplaced cardinal.

Homemade bread and salad was placed on the table; spinach leaves, Peter noticed with salivating approval, in sufficient quantity for a small army. Then the doorbell rang.

Clanged, to be more precise. It was an old school bell attached to a spring, activated by a prominent, salt-rusted handle pulled from the outside. The oldest devices were the best. Peter eyed the empty place setting at the table, beamed approval to Timothy, who tutted in response and consulted the watch hanging round his neck.

'He's cutting it a bit fine, isn't he? It's eight-thirty already and I'm starved. Supposing he wants a bath first?'

'Well, he can't have one, can he? The food won't wait.'

The House of Enchantment was the one Henry could see, standing out from the others as he walked towards it, prominent because it had pointed turrets on the roof, like something out of a fairy tale. The details were obscured in darkness, which was some kind of mercy, because he was already thinking, trying as best he could to distract himself from heavy feet, a foreboding, the ever present sense of being a fool after all, and a mounting depression which boomed inside his skull to the same tune as the waves.

He was struggling for composure and counting the numbers of the houses, gazing at the front doors as he passed and imagining what something with such a name would look like. He knew as soon as the turrets loomed into view that he didn't want it to be that one. He wanted something more homely, looking as if it were made of gingerbread, big enough to accommodate a landlady who might serve hot soup, as a minimal compensation for being frustrated in an attempt to dwell in a suite where Nelson might have dallied with Lady Hamilton.

A little bit of conventional kindness would go a long way. He could feel tears gathering behind his eyes again, decided it did not matter if he cried. The rain had pasted his hair to his head; he was showered with spray. Julius Caesar was supposed to have landed some-where near here. He could not think for the life of him why an Italian would bother.

What a house. Painted black, as far as he could tell, with a studded door two steps up from the street. Another fear assailed him as he yanked at a handle marked BELL. Supposing there was no room here, either? Don't think of it. Go back to that station, back on to that slow, slow train.

Dover was next. Go to France. Go. He had always maintained an option to retreat. There was the sound of a bell clanging, followed by furious barking.

The door heaved open with a creak. A vision stood before him, head to toe in scarlet, smiling but slightly impatient, like someone interrupted at an important task and too polite to mention it.

'Oh, come in, come in, come in. Foul out there, but better presently, oh yes. Come in.'

The door closed behind him with a thud. He was propelled to the newel post of steep stairs leading upwards for ever and ever in a rising tide of polished mahogany, the hallway extending way back to foreign regions, tapestries on the walls and gas lamps in sconces, flickering, and an appetizing set of smells. The priestly vision was helping him off with his coat, tutting at the rain on it, admiring the texture; the suitcase was lifted from his shoulder. Before he had uttered a word, he was handed a towel for his hair, his tears, what-ever it was that soaked him last and he felt suddenly weightless.

'We have to eat now, or it spoils. I mean now. Have the seat by the fire and take your shoes off, I would. This way. Timothy, pour the wine.'

More gas lamps in here, a fire warming his back. The wine was purple, glinting through heavy crystal. He remembered to raise to each companion in turn before swallowing.

Christ, that was good.

The bread passed on to his sideplate was nutty and warm; the salad stung the palate with an aftertaste of pepper; the plate was whisked away. There were two elegant tureens in the centre of the tablecloth; he gazed at the rising steam, drunk on the smells.

Tweed suit and cardinal helped him to food as if he was a baby unable to help himself, murmuring encouragement.

‘Plain rice, I'm afraid. Always better with hot food, we find.

Have plenty.' He did. After a second helping, interrupted by minimal conversation,

'Have you come far? America. Oh yes, that far.

Is it warmer there? No. Don't mind if Senta sniffs round your ankles, do you?'

'No. I have a dog at home.'

That last remark, slurred through a mouthful, was a lie dictated by politeness. He did not have a dog; he did not have anything he would like to have except sufficient money, but he had always wanted a dog and did not want to cause offence. The lie was a way to be accepted. He had noticed the dog in passing, a sweet little puppyish brindled sheepdog which was given the same food at the same time but led off to eat in a separate corner out of a separate bowl, for which mercies he was grateful. Plates, dishes, tureens disappeared as miraculously as they were presented.

Henry could not remember if names had been exchanged. Yes.

Timothy. Peter. Henry. Weird. No last names, no mention of payment. Tomorrow would do.

'So why are you here, Henry?'

'Oh . . . Me? I'm a pharmacist. Work, but that's not really why I'm here. I like castles, I guess. I don't know why I'm here. Been all over the world, but never to England. My father died, I needed a change of scene and. . .' Those tears were back, pressing against the back of his eyeballs, just when he was almost dry all over. He tried to get his toasted feet back into his shoes; he felt for his handkerchief and could not find it.