The weather was disappointing; Land’s End was drab, and the moors more so. Unseasonably cold and blustery winds blew in off the sea, and even a locale as legendary as Tintagel, perched on its storm-weathered cliffs, looked uninviting, with much of its antique mystery lost to a dank, swirling mist.
Feeling let down, a little depressed, I drove south across country towards Torbay, and the closer I got to the south coast the more the weather seemed to be improving. So much so that by the time I found myself on the approach road to…well, maybe the name of the town doesn’t matter. And for a fact, I wouldn’t want anyone of an enquiring mind to go exploring there, perhaps seeking the location of lightning strike Number Three. No, that might not be entirely advisable.
And so we get to it…and so I got to it:
To the small hotel on a hill looking down on the promenade; where, beyond a sturdy, red stone sea wall, the English Channel glinted azure blue in the warm summer sunlight. The tide was on its way in, sending slow-rolling wavelets that were little more than ripples to break gently on the sandy shore. Blankets, windbreaks and parasols were plentiful above the tidemark; below it some dozens of children braved the shallow water, and a handful of adults with trousers rolled up, or skirts held high, paddled at the very rim of the sea, occasionally stooping to gather seashells.
The scene was peaceful, idyllic, irresistible: I could look at it for hours! And, since several of this small hotel’s rooms had canopied balconies facing the sea, I could probably do just that. A simple sign inside the lobby’s glass doors said “vacancies: rooms available,” which helped me make up my mind. It was high season; many of the hotels were full to brimming; I considered myself fortunate to have discovered this quaint old Victorian place.
Leaving the road and following a sign to the parking lot, I drove carefully down a steep driveway to the rear of this once-handsome, now slightly careworn four-storey building, and there found a small, walled rock garden and swimming pool. Below this vantage point, the tiled roofs of a handful of other establishments—hotels and cafeterias—flanked the road down the hillside to the seafront. Parking my car, I stood admiring the view for a few moments more, then used the hotel’s rear entrance and climbed two flights of stairs to the reception area…
There were two people at the desk: the receptionist, a pleasant German woman in her late twenties, who I later discovered to be the hotel’s general dogsbody, and a pale middle-aged woman, the proprietress, who seemed somewhat nervous and quietly preoccupied. I can’t better describe this first, lasting impression she made on me—with her periods of fitful, apparently involuntary blinking, and the way her hands were wont to flutter like caged birds—except to say she appeared more than a little neurotic. I didn’t notice this immediately, however, for at first it was the German girl who saw to my requirements.
I asked about a room, if possible one with a balcony facing the sea. She checked in a ledger, ran her finger down the page, paused at a certain blank space and frowned. Then with a brief, obligatory smile for me, she turned a curious, enquiring glance on the pale owner of the place. And:
“Room number, er, seven?” she said. But with the inflection or emphasis that she placed on “seven,” it was almost as if she had said “thirteen.”
And it was then that I noticed the other woman’s agitation. Ah! That’s the word I was looking for, missing from my previous brief description: her “agitation,” yes! A sort of physical and (however suppressed) mental disquiet. She opened her mouth, and her throat bobbed as if she swallowed, but no word was uttered, just a small dry cough.
I turned back to the German girl. “Room seven? Does it look out across the Channel? Does it have a balcony? I’ll be needing it for four or five days.”
“It is—” the girl began to answer, at which the pale woman found her suddenly urgent voice:
“Seven is a corner room. It only looks half-way out to sea. That is, the view isn’t direct. We usually leave it…we keep number seven empty, as a storeroom.” And nodding—blinking and fluttering her hands—she repeated herself: “Yes, we use it as a storeroom…Well, usually.”
Now disappointed and perhaps a little annoyed, I said, “The sign at the main entrance says you have vacancies. That’s why I stopped here. So are you now telling me I’m wasting my time? Or rather that you are wasting it, by causing me to stop for nothing?”
“Mister, er…?” She managed to control her blinking.
“Smith,” I told her. “George Smith.” (Actually, that isn’t the name I gave her; George might be correct but Smith definitely isn’t. I think I’ll keep my real name to myself if only for fear of ridicule. And anyway, what’s in a name?)
“Well, I’m Mrs. Anderson—Janet Anderson—and this is my hotel,” she replied. “And I must apologize, but we’ve been very busy and I’m really not sure that room seven is ready for occupancy. It may well be full of linens and…and blankets?” She seemed almost to expect me to answer some unspoken question, or perhaps to accept what she’d told me.
“It may be?” Frowning, looking from one to the other of the pair, I shook my head. “So what’s the problem? I mean, can’t we simply send someone to check it out?”
By now Mrs. Anderson’s hands (and incidentally, that wasn’t her name) looked ready to fly off her wrists! “A problem?” she repeated me, and then: “Send someone to…to check it out?”
“Ah…!” the German girl’s sigh was perfectly audible, and probably deliberately so. “Das ist mein fehler! Ich bin schuldig!” she muttered. And then, reverting to English as she turned to the older woman: “No, no, Madame! I am sorry, but this is my fault. I did not think it was important to tell you that I have tidied and made clean number seven. The room has been empty for quite some time, yes, but is now ready for a guest…er, with your permission?”
Gripping the edge of the desk—in order to steady herself, I supposed—Mrs. Anderson said, “Do you think so? Ready for a guest?” She sounded anxious. “Is it all right? Is it really?”
“I am sure of it.” The German girl nodded. “Shall I let Mr., er, Smith see the room for himself? Perhaps he will not want it after all.”
She turned and reached for a key in an open cabinet on the wall behind the desk; at which the older woman at once appeared galvanised and quickly moved to block her access. For a moment the scene was frozen, the two women staring hard at each other, until finally Mrs. Anderson gave way and, however reluctantly, stepped aside. Then, blinking her eyes ever more rapidly, in a veritable torrent of words, she said, “Yes of course…by all means…do show him the room…there’s no problem…none at all! Be so good as to attend to it, will you, Hannah?”
With which she hurried out from behind the desk, offered me an almost apologetic, twitching half-smile, and without further pause went off into the hotel’s cool interior.
More than a little bemused, I could only shake my head as I watched her pass out of sight. It had been a very odd five minutes…
It was as Hannah had said: room number seven was very clean and tidy. Small but spacious enough for me, with its double bed and white-tiled bathroom, it was most privately situated on a split-level landing three steps up from the main floor at that end of the hotel farthest from reception. And I could see why it might be used occasionally as a storeroom: set apart from the rest of the guest-rooms, it could well be that it was originally intended as such, only to be converted at a later date.
Following Hannah through the hotel, which seemed paradoxically empty, I had attempted to orient myself as best possible, only to find it a rambling, irregular sort of place whose design overall was higgledy-piggledy and very confusing. One thing I had noticed for sure: close to the bottom of the three steps that rose to my landing, there was one door that opened into a small bar-room—a little too close for my liking, by reason of my once-liking, and I could smell the beer—and another leading to the large dining-room with its panoramic window looking across the bay. To one side there was also a flight of dog-leg stairs ma
rked “Private: Staff Only,” that climbed to a landing before angling out of sight toward the front of the hotel. According to Hannah the rooms up there were occupied by a pair of female, casual workers from the Czech Republic—“common room-maids,” as she described them, sniffing and tilting her nose—also by Mrs. Anderson, by Hannah herself, and by “the chef.”
So much for the interior layout…
As for number seven, the somewhat isolated room I was being offered: “I’ll take it,” I told her, after opening curtains and double-glazed, floor-to-ceiling sliding doors, and stepping out onto the canopied balcony, from which the view of the promenade and beach was sidelong, less than perfect but acceptable.
“As you wish,” Hannah answered, handing me the key. “When you return to reception you may want to check in. Mrs. Anderson insists on payment in advance—by cash or card, whichever you choose, but no cheques—and, if you intend to eat in the hotel this evening, you may wish to order your meal in advance. Now, if there is nothing else, I—”
“Hannah, if you’ll permit such familiarity,” I cut her off, “may I ask you a rather awkward question?”
“An awkward ques—?” she began to repeat me, then paused to raise a knowing eyebrow before continuing: “Ah! About Mrs. Anderson, I think. Her, er, mannerisms?”
I nodded. “You’re very astute.”
“No, not really.” She shrugged. “Anyone could see that Mrs. Anderson is of a nervous nature. Well, she always has been, but recently…” And there she paused.
“Recently?” I prompted her.
But Hannah shook her head. “No, it is not my place to speak of such things. Not behind her back, and not to a stranger.”
“Of course not,” I agreed. “It’s just that I feel concerned about her. Perhaps I’ve upset her in some way—something I may have said or done? She didn’t seem to want me here!”
Hannah bit her lip, thought it over for a moment, and said, “No, it is not you. It is this place, this area which she finds disturbing…” And looking around the room, and out through the balcony doors, she waved a vague, all inclusive hand at nothing in particular. “Even this room—perhaps especially this room—or some of the things that have happened here.”
“Things have happened? In this room?”
She shrugged, stepped closer to the open balcony doors, and looked out. “Out there, and…and up there.”
I followed her gaze—out across the ribbon of the road and up a hillside clad in ivy and old man’s beard—craning my neck to take in the gaunt aspect of another, rather dilapidated-looking hotel perched up there on that higher level. And:
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “Up there,”
“But you also mentioned this room,” I pressed her.
“Yes,” Hannah said, moving toward the door. “Mrs. Anderson does not like this room. This is the first time she has let it in the eleven months I have worked here. But we had a very poor winter, with only a few guests, and while things are now improving, I know she still needs the money. That is why…” But here she paused.
“Why you argued on my behalf? At the desk, I mean?”
Now she smiled and said, “Aha! But you too are very astute! Also persistent! Myself, I am not a superstitious person. There is nothing wrong with this room Mr. Smith, and I hope you enjoy your stay here.”
“But—”
“Now I have work,” she said. “You will excuse me?”
While I would like to have known more, what else could I do but let her go?
As she left, Hannah closed the door quietly behind her…
Moving my luggage, a single small suitcase, from my car to room number seven, I stopped at the desk to order dinner and pay for four nights in advance. Hannah was obviously busy elsewhere for when I rang the bell it was Mrs. Anderson who came from a small office at the end of the desk to attend to me. She looked a lot more settled than the last time I had seen her, and while dealing with the business in hand she was able to talk to me.
“You’re from London, Mr. Smith?”
“Ah, my accent!” I said, nodding. “No mistaking London, eh? Well yes, I’m London born and bred, but not just recently. Newcastle, but I wasn’t there long enough to pick up the accent—thank goodness!”
She smiled. “I hear lots of accents. I’ve become expert in recognising them.”
“And how about you?” I answered. “I’m no expert myself but I’d guess you’re local—or West-Country at least?—or then again, maybe not. It’s like I said: I’m no expert!”
“From Cornwall originally,” she said. “We owned a hotel in Polperro; that is, my husband and I. But business was very bad three years in a row, so we sold up, moved here six years ago, fell in love with this place and…and bought it.”
As she paused her smile gradually faded, then for a moment or two she began that rapid blinking again. She must have seen my reaction however—my startled expression—and as quickly took hold of herself. Then:
“I’m sorry,” she began to apologise, “but my nerves aren’t up to much these days. I’m sure you’ve noticed, and…”
I held up a hand to stop her. “There’s really no need.”
But with her voice trembling ever so slightly, she quickly continued: “…And I think that you deserve an explanation. For it might have appeared I was being unnecessarily rude to you.”
“Mrs. Anderson,” I began, “whatever the problem is, I don’t need you to explain. I’m only a little worried that my presence here might be aggravating things…my presence in room number seven, that is.”
Despite my apparent concern and words of sympathy, however, my mentioning the room was quite deliberate. Hannah had told me something about that room—she had even made it sound as if it was haunted or something—and I wanted to know more; it was as simple as that. Looking back on it, maybe I should have remembered what people say about cats and curiosity.
Mrs. Anderson seemed to have gone three shades paler. “Room number seven,” she finally said. Not a question; nothing emphasized; she had simply repeated me coldly and parrot-fashion…as if my words had triggered some response in her brain causing it to switch off, or at the very least to switch channels. Then the blinking started up again and her hands began fluttering on the desk’s mahogany top.
Whatever this recurring condition of hers was, it was obvious that my words had brought on this latest attack. And now my concern was very real.
On impulse I reached across the desk and trapped her hands, pinning them there. She at once relaxed and in that moment, but only for the moment, I almost felt uplifted: some kind of faith healer!…But no, I didn’t have the touch; it was little more than concerned, caring human contact.
Sensing the calm come over her, as quickly as I had reacted to her problem I now released her and took a pace back from the desk. And: “I’m…so sorry!” I said, not knowing what else to say.
“There’s really no need,” she answered, no longer blinking and apparently in control once again, but avoiding further eye-to-eye contact by gazing at her slender white hands. “It’s not your fault, Mr. Smith. It’s a matter of association: that room, and the memories. You see, I loved my husband very much, and—”
She paused, and before she was able to continue—assuming she intended to—the hotel’s frosted-glass outer doors beyond the small lobby swung open, and a rising babble reached us as a large party of noisy, chattering people began entering from the pavement in front of the place. Out there, a coach was just now pulling away.
Now Mrs. Anderson looked up, away from me and toward these others as they claimed her attention, smiling and trading small talk with her where they passed us by. And some colour returned to her face when a pair of men carrying a wicker basket between them stopped and nodded, beamed their satisfaction and indicated their burden.
“For tonight,” one of the two said with a laugh, “that’s if chef will oblige?”
“Oh, I’m sure he will!” Mrs. Anderson answered him. “That’s if you’l
l pay something for his time, Mr. Carson, and if you’ll also cover my losses?”
“But of course we’ll look after the chef!” Carson answered. “And your takings won’t suffer any. These—” he tapped a finger on the basket, “—are only for those who caught ’em, who took a chance and held back from ordering an evening meal. And there’s maybe a couple of pounds extra left over for your freezer.”
Now she was smiling, albeit a little wanly. “You had a good day, then? You made a good catch?”
“Some nice ling,” the other replied. “Wreck-fish, you know? And a few beautiful red mullet! Do you want to see?” He made as if to lift the basket’s lid.
“Goodness no!” She turned her face away. “Better get off to the kitchen before you stink the whole place out!”
And laughing, the two made off after the rest of the group.
“A fishing party,” I said, unnecessarily; many of them had been carrying their fishing tackle, and they’d certainly seemed overdressed for a warm summer day! Anyway, I now understood why the place had seemed so empty.
“Two coach loads of them,” Mrs. Anderson answered. “They’ve been here for a week, fishing from some boats they’ve hired out of Brixham. The other coach should be arriving any time now. In a few more days they’ll be gone; the place will be mostly empty again and I’ll miss their custom. They’re no trouble and during the day they’re mostly out, but they do use the bar quite a lot in the evenings.”
Smiling, I replied, “Where they down a few drinks and start telling tall tales of the ones that got away, right?”
“Myself, I don’t really approve of drink,” she said, frowning for no apparent reason. “Though I must confess that the bar keeps the place ticking over. Which reminds me: I have stock to take care of. Please excuse me…”