THE COMPANY OF STRANGERS - Book review

Robert Wilson’s spy novel The Company of Strangers was published in 2001. It spans the period 1940 to 1991, though over two-thirds of the book is set in the 1940s.

In 1940 Andrea Aspinall has survived German bombing in London which reinforces her hate of Germans. Her mother seems cold towards her so there is no love between them either. We then leap two years to the German invasion of Russia. Captain Karl Voss is disillusioned by the incompetence of Hitler who is unwilling to admit his forces face defeat against the cannon fodder of Russia. ‘It’s as if God’s lost control of the game and the children have taken over – naughty children’ (p328). Before he can be slaughtered, he is sent home to Berlin on compassionate leave in 1943. While there he is approached by a high-ranking officer; he is to be transferred to the German Legation in Lisbon. He is to become a spy – with the intention of shortening the war by clandestinely meeting with sympathetic British agents... 

In 1944 Andrea is recruited and trained as an agent for ‘the Company’ to work in Lisbon under the name of Anne Ashworth. Despite Portugal being neutral and one of England’s oldest allies, the country was not regarded as a safe haven. Under Salazar’s quasi-fascist regime, ‘Secret police – Gestapo trained – called the PVDE. The city’s infested with bufos – informers’ (p82). ‘... what she knew about the Portuguese – they understood tragedy, it was their territory’ (p413).

Voss is entangled in the secret machinations of Operation Valkyrie – the assassination attempt on Hitler – as well as his growing relationship with Andrea. There are shifting allegiances, it seems, and nobody can be trusted. That includes the bickering Americans, Hal and Mary Couples, Andrea’s host Wilshere and his demented wife Mafalda, the SIS agents Meredith, Sutherland, Rose and Wallis and the suspected turncoat Lazard. There is also the mystery of her predecessor, the American Judy Laverne who was either deported or died in a terrible motor accident. And behind the scenes Russian spymasters are lurking.

The febrile atmosphere in Lisbon is projected realistically and the action scenes, where blood is spilt, are dramatic and exciting. From time to time the suspense is high, too. And while the plot is convoluted it remains compulsive, and despite the narrative moving across many years the reader’s interest is held for the 560+ pages.

The book title crops up at least twice. Once when strangely she suddenly harbours a fear while flying, when God might ‘let them drop from the sky and she would die in the company of strangers, unknown and unloved’ (p417) and referred to again on p542.

When writing of the tragedy of Portugal, he could have been referring to the tragedy of the main characters. Sadly, I found the ending unsatisfactory – though in all probability truthful. This is only my opinion, after all. Indeed, Wilson is a good writer and has a gift for the telling phrase and metaphor, such as these samples:

‘She gave him a smile torn from a magazine’ (126). [Like this, better than giving him an insincere smile...].

‘blistered with rust’(p203) – a good description.!

‘He stirred his tea for a long time for a man who didn’t take sugar’ (p431). [conveys disguised mental turmoil, perhaps].

‘She listened again to the settling house and painted the desktop with her torch beam’ (p202). [better than his torch lit up the desktop].

‘Cardew shifted in his seat and looked as wary as a grouse on the Glorious Twelfth’ (p95).

‘Cardew stared intently at the windscreen as if the entrails of squashed insects might lead him somewhere’ (p97).

‘... fighting his way into unconsciousness, desperate  to stop living with whatever he had in his mind’ (p118).

‘The wind was stronger out here, blowing sand across the road, which corrugated to washboard, hammering at the suspension’ (p121). [good visuals!].

The blurb refers to this book as a thriller. While there are thrilling interludes, I feel it is too sedate to be a thriller. It’s a good novel, though.

Editorial comment – for the benefit of writers:

‘the incessant chatter in the room suddenly grated on Anne’s ears like a steel butcher’s saw ripping through bone’ (p160). [Probably should be a butcher’s steel saw, since he wouldn’t be a robot?]

‘I tried to join the WRENS...’ (p181). This should be either lower case Wrens or uppercase WRNS.

So many scriptwriters do this all the time: ‘... she saw Lazard and I together in the casino...’ (p269) – Should be ‘Lazard and me’. And ‘...Rocha had seen Voss and I together in Bairro Alto’ (p330).

I feel that metaphors are sometimes best jettisoned:

‘... a voice as clipped as a shod hoof on cobbles’ (p149).

‘He searched himself for words, like a man who’s put a ticket in too safe a place’ (p163).

‘He waited for a lifetime, which in normal currency was only twenty minutes’ (p320).

GERTRUDE - Book review

 

Hermann Hesse’s 1910 novel Gertrude is a slim work told in the first person. The narrator Kuhn comes from a reasonably wealthy family – who are not particularly keen on his chosen profession in music, as a violinist and a composer. His relationship with both parents is somewhat distant, though he grows closer to his father in time: ‘Youth ends when egotism does’ (his father tells Kuhn) ‘maturity begins when one lives for others.’ (p89)

Early in his life Kuhn suffers a serious accident and has to contend with a pronounced limp. He finds making friends problematic and repeatedly fails when seeking companionship with women. However, his musical ability is recognised by a notable opera singer, Heinrich Muoth, a flamboyant character, imbiber of alcohol and a womaniser; a friendship develops.

Kuhn makes the acquaintance of a rich merchant called Imthor, who invites him to play a Trio in E flat major that Kuhn recently composed, accompanied by another violinist and cellist. At this soiree Kuhn meets Gertrude, Imthor’s attractive daughter, and is smitten: ‘I dedicated my music and my life’s breath, my thoughts and my heart to her.’ (p65).

Gertrude is an accomplished singer and appreciates Kuhn’s musical skill. However, partly due to his awareness of his disability, Kuhn finds it hard to summon the courage to reveal to her his feelings, which remain unrequited. 

Kuhn’s life takes on complications when Muoth is introduced to Gertrude and they become an ill-matched doomed pair. This is not a romantic novel and there is no happy ending. It is however believable, annoyingly where Kuhn’s lack of self-worth is concerned, and ultimately tragic, though a kind of contentment pervades the ending.

Looking back, Kuhn states ‘… my life has not been empty and worthless. Even if my external destiny has unfolded itself as it does with everyone, inevitably and as decreed by the gods, my inner life has been my own work, with its joys and bitterness, and I, alone, hold myself responsible for it.’ (p5) [An attitude sadly lacking in many these days, it seems.] 

This was an early work for Hesse. At one point Kuhn befriends one of his teachers, Mr Lohe, who dabbles in Eastern mysticism; perhaps also signalling Hesse’s early introduction to the subject: ‘Then came the teachings about Karma. It appeared to me to be a religious interpretation of the law of causality, which was not unattractive to me.’ (p51)    

Hesse seems to get into the skin of a musician. ‘… it has been a continual consolation to me and a justification for all life that there is music in the world, that one can at times be deeply moved by rhythms and pervaded by harmonies. Oh, music! A melody occurs to you; you sing it silently, inwardly only; you steep your being in it; it takes possession of all your strength and emotions, and during the time that it lives to you, it effaces all that is fortuitous, evil, coarse and sad in you; it brings the world into harmony with you; it makes burdens light and gives wings to the benumbed!’ (p6)

Ruminating later on music, Kuhn states, prophetically: ‘… that light and dark were closely related and that sorrow and peace were rhythm, part and spirit of the same great music.’ (p26) 

‘It was simple, lyrical music, which softly pined and faded away like a summer evening, neither happy nor sad, but which hovered in the mood of an evening that is ending, like a cloud glowing at sunset.’ (p128)

Kuhn finally meets Gertrude a third of the way through the book. Yet, perplexingly, he does not describe her eyes. ‘The pretty girl made on impression on me as soon as she came in…’ (p65).  He mentions ‘her lovely bright eyes’ but not their colour (p67). He also makes friends with a musician, Teiser, and he describes his friend’s ‘blue-grey childlike eyes’ (p69). 

A harbinger is inserted by Muoth: ‘Youth is the most difficult time of life. For example, suicide rarely occurs amongst old people.’ (p71)

Anyone appreciating music will undoubtedly empathise with Kuhn in his tale of love, despair, and redemption. 

Notes:

I cannot understand why Hesse referred to a place simply as ‘R’ – particularly when other places are mentioned.

Blurb warning. Do not purchase this copy. The blurb on the back is in effect a synopsis of what is going to happen, including the tragedy at the end, destroying any shock or surprise. The blurb-writer should have been shown the door! Thankfully, other editions don't appear to have used this version of the blurb.

Love on the doorstep

Forty-four years ago on a Friday (16 February, 1973), Jennifer, my wife-to-be appeared on my doorstep.

No, she wasn’t selling anything.

I was serving in the Royal Navy then and rented a room in a Gosport three-bedroom house owned by John Bevan, a civilian who worked at the Alverstoke Institute of Naval Medicine’s Royal Naval Physiological Laboratory (RNPL). At the time, he gained fame for the ‘deepest dive’. In March 1970 young laboratory scientists John Bevan and Peter Sharphouse made experimental dives in a pressure chamber, which proved that a man could survive in the sea for 10 hours at a depth equivalent to 1,535 ft. This was 300ft below what was believed to be the maximum at the time, described by American colleagues as ‘a hyperbaric moon landing’.

John’s girlfriend Brenda was a university friend of Jennifer’s. Before this weekend, Jennifer told Brenda she was at a loose end and Brenda invited her to stay at John’s house – there was room. Jennifer was teaching in Oxford.

The weekend arrived. In the lounge I’d been watching Rene Cutforth’s documentary about Czechoslovakia; I was doing research for a novel I planned to write some time in the future.

John was out when the doorbell rang and I answered it.

Standing on the doorstep were Brenda, who I knew, and Jennifer.

I was vaguely aware that my purple jumper had a hole in its shoulder seam. As we chatted, it transpired that we had a great deal in common. Jen had taken her degree in Newcastle upon Tyne University, and had digs in Whitley Bay. Those rooms were at the top end of Oxford Street – which happened to be the same street of my family home. We were not destined to meet then; I was usually at sea, or living in the south, in Hampshire. We discovered that we were both adopted. We liked similar books, movies and music, though both of us thereafter broadened our appreciation from each other’s interests. Surprisingly, she didn’t mind my sense of humour and puns! Oh, and the holey seam was eventually mended; true love will conquer all, it seams.

My heart wasn’t my own afterwards, either.

We got engaged six months later and were married a year to the day after first meeting on that doorstep.

Note:

Dedication in Mission: Prague (to be re-issued soon)

‘To Jennifer with love. Holey jumpers, this brings back memories of love at first sight, Rene Cutforth, Ma Vlast and all.’

Film review - Song for Marion

This is a ‘feel-good’ movie with accolades such as ‘Wonderful and heart-warming’ and ‘A film to fall in love with’.

Song for Marion is a small British film that’s all about character.

Grumpy pensioner Arthur (Terence Stamp!) is distressed by the ailing condition of his wife Marion (Vanessa Redgrave). One of Marion’s outlets is performing in the local choir, the OAPz,  run by Elizabeth (Gemma Arterton). It’s not really a spoiler, since the title gives it away: Marion is determined to perform in a choir competition, but unfortunately she dies before that can happen. Arthur shuts himself off from the world, won’t talk to his estranged son (Christopher Eccleston), and wants to grieve in his own way.

Stamp shows in his minimalist acting how to deliver a character with a broken heart who is incapable of seeking solace. Elizabeth subtly worms her way into Arthur’s orbit and through guile and charm, she begins Arthur’s life affirming journey, a journey that is at times amusing, often poignant, and beautifully told.  The acting honours are shared equally by Redgrave, Arterton and Stamp; he’s a revelation.

This could so easily have been Hollywood schmaltz, but instead it’s grounded and sensitive. Music is the international language, the language of love, indeed.

Worth keeping a tissue or two to hand.

Footnote: revealed in the credits: surprisingly, although the film is set in London, it was mainly filmed in Newcastle upon Tyne and Durham.

Released 2013, 90 minutes run-time

FFB - Spectrum of a Forgotten Sun

Fifteenth in E.C. Tubb’s ‘Dumarest Saga’ is a splendid fast-paced science fiction novel.

Earl Dumarest covers a lot of ground – and space – in this one! Fighting as a mercenary on the planet Hoghan, he ends up on the losing side and is captured. However, his abilities are recognised and he is offered a way off the planet, if he can assist in a little bit of interplanetary smuggling. And one of the main looters is the Lady Dephine (not Delphine as shown in the blurb and on Amazon). Some sci-fi writers can’t write good female characters; Tubb can: ‘Life alone is never enough. Always there is more, for unless there is, we are no better than beasts in a field. Our senses were given us to use; our ambitions to be fulfilled. How well you understand, Earl.’

The pace never lets up: there’s betrayal, a deadly plague on the spaceship, landfall on Emijar, a planet controlled by strict codes of conduct where transgressors can expect to be challenged to fight to the death, and here too are the olcept, nasty critters that are hunted for trophies and attaining manhood. The dead are mummified and deified, though it’s no comfort to them: ‘Time enough for the chemicals to penetrate the tissue, to harden soft fibres and dissolve points of potential corruption. To seal the flesh in a film of plastic, perhaps, or to petrify it, to protect the body against the ravages of time. To produce monuments to the dead.’

And there’s a grand passion between Dephine and Earl. Love: ‘Sweetness and pain, the ineffable joy of affection and the haunting fear of loss. The vulnerability of total surrender. The willing discarding of all defences and the embracing of the unknown…’

Not forgetting another possible clue to the whereabouts of the long-lost planet Earth. ‘Stowing away as a boy… The captain allowed him to work his passage and kept him aboard until he died. When alone, the boy had moved on, ship after ship, world after world, always deeper and deeper towards the heart of the galaxy. To regions where even the very name of Earth had become a legend.’

And the story has a neat twist at the end, too.

As always, Tubb provides us with glimmers of prose that is almost poetry: ‘Her faith had been strong and she had died happy. Now she would drift for eternity or be drawn by gravitational attraction into a sun and disintegrate in a final puff of glory. A minute flame which would, perhaps, warm some future flower, grace some unknown sky.’ And then we’re brought down severely with: ‘Fanciful imagery which had no place in a ship which had become a living tomb.’

And Dumarest’s philosophy, usually within a single paragraph, helps paint a picture of the man: ‘… No human being, no matter how insignificant, can safely be demeaned. Always there is present the danger of restraints snapping, of self-control giving way beneath the impact of one insult too many. Of pride and the need to be an individual bursting out in a tide of relentless fury.’

 
Over the years commentators have wondered why the saga has never been taken up as a TV series. Particularly these days; the CGI wizards could do a great job. Perhaps it’s because TV series have moved away from the lone protagonist – now it seems a series involves a number of regular characters, it’s an ensemble piece, rather than a one-man show with guests.

Saturday Story: The Crew's Nest - Ruth's Story

Portsmouth Hard: Wikipedia commons

 

THE CREW'S NEST: RUTH'S STORY

 

Nik Morton

 

Some buildings have souls.  They live and breathe and remember things. 

I'm THE CREW'S NEST, a public house, though I've also been described as an inn, a hostelry and a pub.  I've been here since 1793, on The Hard overlooking Portsmouth Harbour, and have seen and heard much of interest over the years.  Until recently a pub was a meeting-place, where locals would congregate and swap stories about their work and home lives, where they would sing and laugh and be entertained by characters and musicians, where loves blossomed and, sadly, sometimes died.  In the days before plastic and television.

Now there is talk of pulling me down to make way for some tall edifice; an office block, or a multi-storey car-park: these places do not possess souls.  Always they - the faceless 'they' - seem intent on pulling down the old, discarding the substantial that is redolent with memories to replace it with the plastic and the 'new'.  I have heard this plaint often enough to believe there is truth in it.

Modern builders generally don't use the right materials - they are artificial; even the wood isn't real!  I've seen the buildings all around me razed to the ground and in their stead pristine offices rise, gleaming and bright, full of empty promise until, in no time at all, they quickly tarnish and look thoroughly woebegone: they entirely lack character.

These new places are constructed using manufactured stuff where in the old days the materials were hand-created, with the touch of man and woman in the straw, in the carving, in the feel of the very fabric of the building.  That human contact imbued us with a life of our own.

I know they are talking about pulling me down because I listen.  Every fibre of my being can absorb thoughts and feelings and over time I have even learned a number of languages, though the modern vernacular is the most difficult as there seem to be new words to comprehend almost every day.

Before I go the way of most old buildings, I would like to tell you about some of the people I have known.  I shall begin with the present and my current owner, Ruth Gibson.

*****

Ruth Gibson raised her tired blue eyes and looked out the small panes of the bow-window of her pub, THE CREW'S NEST. Swathes of mist meandered from the Solent, the griseous curtains obscuring the Gosport side.  Already, the Isle of Wight ferries had stopped running and stranded travellers milled along The Hard.  Custom might perk up a bit, she thought.

Portsmouth had never been the same since the Navy reduced the manpower and ships.  The town suffered.  Especially the pubs, she reflected.

Not like the old days! Business had been brisk in 1950 when Mr Atkins had taken her on as a new barmaid at the age of eighteen.

Now, she owned the place.  Mr Atkins had left it to her when he died twenty years gone... They'd had some good times.  She wiped the stained bar-top, as if rubbing away the memories of the more painful moments in her past, and smiled gently at Old Tom, one of her regulars. 

Despite herself, she wondered if Old Tom still recalled Jack Palmer...

The other four regulars and their cheerful wives had also been great friends of Jack.  Poor Jack.  He got on well with all of them.  So infectiously humorous.

Second time in Pompey he'd taken her out on her night off.  Within a couple of weeks they were in love.  The post-war years were like that, it seemed, the ever-present Communist threat not allowing time for long courtship.

Ruth recalled the night she heard about the terrible storm that seriously damaged Jack's ship off Korea...  She was very happy, his latest letter tucked next to her heart, with a promise of marriage when he returned.  Tom was playing on the piano. Frank Phillips on the wireless announced the incident - "five hands washed overboard, lost at sea two days ago..."

At first she didn't believe it and for many weeks she never slept properly, restive with sorrow. 

Mr Atkins and the regulars were sympathetic, but it didn't help.  Her world had shattered. 

From that moment on she knew she would never marry.

Over the years, she'd endeavoured to keep the place as it was when Jack used to come in –

apart from an occasional lick of paint.

Still the same, she thought, heart heavy with remembering. 

The original dark wooden beams in the ceiling; cracked and peeling green walls adorned with

oak-framed pictures of Dreadnoughts and Torpedo-boats; a few dusty picture-post-cards

pinned alongside them.

      
Many of the old brand-names had disappeared, but she'd retained the bottles and lined the shelf

above the bar, harbouring dust and memories.

         
"Same again, Ruth, please," Tom croaked.  "Thinking about Jack?"
         
Returning to the present, she poured his stout.  "Yes, it's nearly the anniversary of - of the storm..."
          
Tom sighed, cragged features crinkling.  "By, how time flies..."
          
"I'm going to miss this place - and all of you..."
          
Leaning his short fragile frame on the bar, he supped through cracked lips. 

"Aye, that compulsory purchase thing..."

           
"To make way for a multi-storey car-park!"
 
Tom grimaced. "Cars!  Damned nuisances!  Nothing's the same with their new motorways, overflies an' an' things!  We're left to cower through disgusting tunnels - subways?  More like sub-human, if you ask me!"

Ruth trilled the till.  "I suppose the Nest is a trifle old nowadays," she allowed.  Tom seemed ready to protest, but she went on, "I mean, we don't get the younger generation in, and the sailors seem to prefer the modern bars.  Without you and my other regulars, Tom, I'd have had to close down long before..."
          
Gnarled veined fingers rolling a slim cigarette, he nodded.  "Old or not, this has been my local for I don't know how long - since I started drinking... I'll hate to see it go - "  He lit the cigarette, lips trembling, eyes squinting against the smoke, as if viewing his past self through the mists of years.  He coughed, wheezing in air.  "

Still, you should get a few in tonight."  He thumbed outside.  "Look at it - a real pea-souper!"

The door creaked open and two young lads sauntered in, dressed in the latest gang-fashion.  The taller one whistled.  "Hey, Pete, looks like we stepped out of Dr Who's time machine!"

"Two Scotches," Pete ordered gruffly, leaning against the bar and studying the room.  Then he sniggered, nudging his friend.  "Ron - see old grandad's hands shakin' with his pint!"  He hooted wildly, disconcertingly.  "Want a hand, Pop?"  Their speech was peppered with expletives in lieu of punctuation.  In lieu of intelligence, Ruth amended, tight-lipped.
 
"Up to his neck in muck and bullets..." mumbled Ron in a mock croaking voice.  He grinned.  "Should be put down when they're that old!"  They laughed then gulped down their drinks - without paying.

Heart hammering too fast, Ruth wanted to silence their inane chatter, to stifle their rudeness.  It was hooligans like these who gave the younger generation a bad name... Her whole body seemed to shake with tension.  She had to speak, to say something.  She wouldn't stand for their nonsense and foul language.  She wouldn't!

 
"That's one pound ninety, please," she whispered quickly.
 
Wide-eyed, Ron and Pete swivelled round, licking their moistened lips.  "You want money, Ma?" Pete asked.
 
She swallowed thickly, but kept her eyes on his.  Those eyes held no mirth, no compassion, they seemed soulless... "Yes."  He was about Jack's age, she thought; no more than twenty... It didn't seem right, Jack dying while the old values were trampled upon...
 
"Okay, get us another short each and we'll pay for the lot."
 
By now the whole room was listening, eyeing them furtively.  There was no-one really young enough or fit enough to face up to them.  In a sense, the atmosphere was as thick as outside. Slowly, she nodded, fearing that if she didn't get them another drink they would start smashing things... She had read of such goings-on.
 
Shakily, holding the measured glasses out of their reach, she said with a firmness she didn't feel, "£3.80, please."
 
Wiping the back of his hand across his sneering mouth, Pete said in an aside to Ron, "She's a crafty old biddy!"
 
Ruth had never heard such a mirthless laugh before.  It chilled her.
 
At that moment a tanned, tall powerfully built man with brown hair entered.  He looked in his mid-thirties.  Fog swirled round his feet. Ruth placed the drinks down.  "I'll be back for the money in a moment," she told them, turning to serve the newcomer.
 
But Pete leaned over, upsetting the drinks, and grabbed her wrist before she could back off.  "No you don't, Ma!  We want servin', first!"  Indicating the spilled drinks, he wheedled, "Now look what you've done!" "You're hurting me!" she gasped.
 
His cold, heartless eyes alarmed her.  She heard Tom bravely protesting. 
 
Then the old regular was silenced by Ron's threatening growl.
 
Everything was going wrong!  Her vision went hazy - she was going to faint, she was sure...
 
Suddenly, Pete's grip slackened.
 
Legs wobbling, Ruth saw the stranger clasping their collars.  Their chins hung unhappily, eyes full of hang-dog pleas.

"I believe you both have a bill to settle," the stranger said, his voice with an antipodean inflection.  He shook them both roughly for added emphasis.
 
Fingers fumbling, the pair dropped their money on the bar-top and Ruth subtracted the amount owed.  Reaction made her fingers shake as she manipulated the till.
 
She managed a smile, relief flowing through her.  "I think you can let them go now."
 
"Sure, Ma'am."  He released them.
 
Collecting their change, the youths dashed out without even a backward glance, ushered on their way with raucous laughter.
 
Ruth sighed and held onto the bar-top, reassured by its age and solidity.  Her legs still felt weak.  "That was very kind of you.  Let me buy you a drink."
 
"No, it's all right," he said with an easy, strangely haunting smile.  "I'm with my father - and he's paying.  I think you knew him - Jack Palmer..."
 
Save for Jack's son, not one person in the bar moved a muscle, so dumbfounded were they by Jack's resurrection.  At first their gazes reflected disbelief.  Then it seemed realisation came.  This fellow was Jack's son, so he was married now, so why should he return to break poor Ruth's heart?  The past was best left alone...
 
But perhaps their thoughts were very much akin to Ruth's.  Jack had returned to see her.  Married or not, he'd thought of seeing her after forty-two years.
 
Grey flecks in the hazel, just like Jack's eyes; and, even with the accent, his voice was mellifluous, his touch gentle as he held her hands on the counter.  It was as though some of his youthful strength flowed from him, preparing her.
 
"I'm Alan - Dad said you both wanted a son called Alan..." he explained.  "He'd been washed up on the Japanese coast, three-quarters drowned.  Suffering from advanced exposure, sunburned and starving, he was as near as anything to death, Ruth. "A girl found him, got her father - an Australian diplomat - to rush him to hospital.  She saved his life.  He married her..." he ended in a whisper.
 
"But - ?" she managed to croak.
 
"Why are we here?"  He shrugged his enormous shoulders.  "Dad asked me to come in first.  Afraid you wouldn't be here after all these years."  His eyes lowered.  "You see, Ma died two years back.  Even though he loved us, he's always wanted to return.  We thought he was just homesick..."  He looked up, into her eyes.  "But now that I've met you, I can see why - "
          
The door swung open.
 
It was like viewing an apparition. Jack stood in the narrow doorway, wisps of fog eerily meandering around him.

Brown hair thinning, cheeks slightly hollow, the corners of his eyes creased with years, yet he was still instantly recognisable. 

Ruth's heart pounded and she sensed herself reddening.  She wanted to say his name but her mouth was dry. 

Jack's son gently squeezed her trembling hands.  Compulsory purchase, multi-storey car-park, inflation, bills - all paled to insignificance.  The pub had been a substitute, a surrogate for her affection.  But no longer. Jack smiled.  The same old smile; laughter-lines more pronounced, that's all.  As he walked up to the bar, smiling awkwardly, she discerned moisture other than fog on his lids.

And she wondered about her own damp downy cheeks.  Nervously drying them, she whispered, "The usual, Jack?"

She was already drawing his mild and bitter as he nodded.  "Yes, please, Ruth."  Seeming to force his eyes away from her, he peered around the room, apparently marvelling at the immutability of the place. "It's just like it used to be, Ruth - it hasn't changed."  Then he looked at her.  "Nor have you..."

*****

At that moment I was pleased for both Ruth and Jack and I even forgot about my uncertain future too!  But it still looms large...  I may have a long memory stretching back two centuries, but like all the people who have trodden on my boards I have no inkling of the future, which is probably just as well.

If there is a next time I might then relate an incident in Mr Atkins's life?  A strange, contrary man, was Joseph Atkins...

* * *

Previously published in The Portsmouth Post, 2005.

Copyright Nik Morton, 2014.

Saturday Story - 'The House of Aunty Berenice'

Wikipedia commons

 

 

THE HOUSE OF AUNTY BERENICE

 

Nik Morton

 

Purple was etched beneath her wide eyes. The slightly built girl in the shadowy doorway wore an eggshell-blue dress and apparently nothing else. Some people answer and look as if they're truly at home, in body and spirit; somehow, she didn't seem to belong, not here in this dilapidated house, not in shadow.

            'Hello,' Swan greeted her, conscious of his total lack of originality. He removed his brown trilby, reassured by the touch of the felt brim. Why be concerned about showing freshness to her, why impress a stranger? 'I'm looking for a Miss Winkworth - she used to live here...' What an utter mess he was making of it! Affected by the presence of this slip of a girl!

            She opened the door a little further, as though reluctant to admit daylight, anxious to preserve the shadows. He studied the silent puzzlement in her chestnut-brown eyes.

'I'm an investigator,' he began and withdrew a Perspex card. 'She's her late uncle's beneficiary...'

            Long auburn hair shimmering, she nodded and beckoned with slim fingers for him to enter.

Swan cast a final apprehensive look up at the shabby Georgian facade. Probably his over-active imagination, but he could feel the charged atmosphere, a palpable thing, as he stepped over the threshold.

What little wallpaper the hallway possessed was peeling off the damp walls, baring cracked alabaster. Cobwebs looped everywhere. Strangely, the air was not musty; it seemed chill, sharp, a smell like hoar-frost. Tangible. Air in suspension.

Her shapely body tended to flow beneath the dress; hips and buttocks rolled provocatively yet she appeared blissfully unaware of her sexuality, giving him the fanciful impression of someone fragile and unearthly.

Dust and grit moved under his feet.

He shouted: 'Wait!' Voice echoing. 'We can talk here!'

She turned, a crease of disapproval marring her brow. 'You should know better than to shout,' she whispered softly. 'Aunty will hear you. We don't want that, do we?' Her eyes lanced up at the flaking ceiling.

Inquisitively, he followed her gaze. 'Aunty?' he queried, unbuttoning his raincoat.

            'You're my Knight Errant. You need not trouble yourself with Aunty Berenice. She died two years ago...' And she turned gracefully on her bare feet and resumed her interrupted journey.

            Everything pointed to her being slightly mad, but he was curious. She spoke intelligibly: her mind seemed synchronised, for she said her aunt died two years ago, and that coincided with Abigail Winkworth's disappearance... Smiling to himself, he felt his revolver snug in its holster. She was small and harmless...

            At the end of the hall she waited by a woodworm-pitted door. Through the circular skylight, noonday sun played on her wan high cheekbones. Dust motes glided aimlessly in the sunbeam.

Dryness increased in his mouth as he noticed the dark aureoles of her breasts and the darker triangle beneath the flimsy dress. Yet she appeared unconcerned, innocent, and his cynical mind found that difficult to grasp.

Wordlessly, she took his hand warmly in hers. A kind of frisson traced his spine, tautened his stomach muscles. Was this feeling primitive, merely genetic pimping, or something more profound and spiritual? She led him into a bare sour-looking green room whose parquet floor was littered with cans of food. A naked light hanging on flex from a damaged ceiling rose lent stark illumination.

            Cut into the wall opposite was an archway, with a dark-stained wooden cellar-door secured by a rusty bolt. Chopped-up remains of a dining table and chairs were stacked against one wall. An axe rested against the fireplace tiles; the grate contained crisp black book-pages and furniture, while to the left stretched a ceiling-high bookcase, almost empty now, only a few books lying forlorn and well-thumbed, threatened-looking...

She must have read his features, for she said, 'I can't eat books, but they can keep me warm and cook my tinned food.'

            It was sunless in here, bleak. With an effort, he smiled and pointed to the bolted door. 'Is that the wine cellar? Have you a good vintage locked away, perhaps?'

            Her mouth twisted open. 'It - it's dirty,' she stammered, holding him back. 'Anyway, there's no light...'

            He shrugged, his joking having fallen quite flat. 'I was just curious.'

            'And the bolt's jammed,' she persisted.

            Though now mystified about the cellar, he switched the subject. 'Do you live entirely out of tins, then?' The concern in his voice was genuine. Lost waifs, scruffy urchins, hurt strays, he'd met them all - some were hysterics, others paranoid, and some were the real thing, emotionally damaged in a none too caring society. But over these last two years he’d hardened his heart against them all. Until now. At the moment, as she looked wide-eyed at him, he could feel his legs becoming jelly.

'Usually I get something out of the deep-freeze, but -' she sighed - 'that's jammed as well.' Her tone contained no plea for him to mend the freezer door. 'Besides,' she added, 'I like a change now and again - and the tins give me that.' Without warning, she sat down cross-legged in the middle of the floor. He was grateful to rest his quaking legs and knelt by her side. She gripped his hand tightly.

            Reflective, she jerked her head to one side, flicking wisps of hair from her eyes. No tide-marks, hair glistening and healthy, she seemed clean and content, but for the eyes... 'It's a fascinating room, when empty, isn't it?' Her eyes roamed over the ramshackle place. Not much furniture left to cook with, he mused. 'I've lived here three years now - not only in this room...' She gestured nervously. 'I mean the whole hunk of house. Hunk of house - do you like that?'

            'Yes, I do.' Her eyes shone at him, and he saw tears behind them, streams of emotion that had never trickled forth. She seemed so defenceless, so fragile. And, he feared, desirable...

            'My name's Mystique Recondite.'

            Where did reality begin and end with her? Still, the name suited her! 'What did you mean - your Knight Errant?' he asked.

            'I want to get away from this,' she suddenly confessed in a whisper and her eyes rolled as though aware of an indiscretion, 'this thing, this house...' The change in tone - and in allegiance - was disconcertingly abrupt, almost to the point of schizophrenia. Then it dawned on him that she had not been outside the house in those three years... No wonder she was so wan, so erratic, seeming less than sane.

Intrigued and a little scared, he felt his skin creep icily down his spine. Her grip tightened, nails digging into his palm. Clearly, underneath her cheerful uncaring manner she, too, was afraid of something.

'Mystique. Do you know the woman I'm seeking?' He was now anxious to get away, yet, perversely, he did not want to leave her alone here. 'Miss Abigail Winkworth - is she related to your Aunty, perhaps?' A crumb fell from the ceiling.

'Yes. But before I say any more you must promise you will never leave me, bring me back here.'

            Under normal circumstances he would have laughed, dismissed her demand as a demented plea, to be patronised only until the men in white coats arrived with a straitjacket. But he'd known her so long now, or felt he had, he could not deny or betray her. He nodded.

            'Promise!'

            The ceiling shook with her words. Crumbled and flaked.

            'I promise you'll never be left here.'

            She leaned forward, pouting. 'You have twisted the words.' Her lip curled back. 'It's like milking a reluctant cow to get you to say it!'

'All right, Mystique. I promise I shall never leave you, bring you back.' And he meant it. Mystique sighed contentedly. 'What's your name, Knight Errant?'

            'Alann - with a double en.' He smiled and sensed a change in the air, like a pressure-increase heralding a storm. Now the vile staleness of the discarded cans, of the age of the place, permeated his nostrils and throat and sickened him. As though some odour-shield had been withdrawn.

            He heard the unmistakable creaking of floorboards. Upstairs.

            'I like you, Alann,' he heard her say.

'I like you a lot.' Her vermilion lips curved. Engaging, yet incongruous at this time; tongue flicked, licking her lips.

Against his will, a lascivious stirring below his stomach began to warm his blood.

Hinges squeaked and her smile froze.

He followed her alarmed eyes. In some mysterious manner the cellar's bolt had loosened; the door swung slightly ajar. Fetid air floated out, a miasma that crossed the room and pressed against him.

The ceiling uttered a moan. Pieces of whitewash and cement dropped in little clusters, making a series of scratching sounds.

            'Aunty must be angry' he said and instantly regretted it.

            Mystique cried out, 'No, Aunty! Not him! Please! Not this one!' She jumped up, made to let go his hand. 'I won't let you!'

But he hung on: he didn't intend losing her.

Now the ceiling issued a monstrous belch. The green walls dulled, wan and indistinct.

His nostrils snatched some nauseous odour, reminiscent of a slaughter-house he once visited on a case.

Plaster cascaded onto the rubbish already there.

Mystique hesitated, despair clouding her eyes.

He clutched her hand tighter, fingers interlaced.

            The roof quivered, emitting a fountain of dust.

And the cellar door swung wide: a spectral light shone from within.

Tempted to seek shelter, he ran across the room with her, came up against the wall. But he held back, lest they become buried alive... Swan pressed her against the wall, close to his inadequate sheltering body.

            Hunks of house dropped in dribs and drabs, bounced on rubble. Clouds of choking dust leapt up only to subside and leap again. A rogue alabaster splinter pipped his shoulder.

            All he could hear was the trundle of falling debris. It grew into a deafening, continuous, horrible roar.

            As his watering eyes focussed on the beckoning cellar-entrance to his left he could see the spectral glow emanating from what appeared to be bones.

His head spun giddily as Mystique's words forcefully returned: 'Not this one! I won't let you!' The cellar was a trap.

            Something hard and jagged rapped his shoulder-blades. He experienced a cold trickle of blood as he felt the stabbing pain of Aunty Berenice's displeasure.

            Mystique stood immobile, eyes clamped shut. Dust stuck to the sweat on their faces, to his injured back.

His once-reassuring revolver pressed against his ribcage; he released a barking laugh on dust-flecked lips. What good was a gun against anything like Aunty Berenice? On the edge of hysteria, he laughed again. One moment the thunder bellowed, the air screamed; the next, an unreal deathly silence enveloped them.

            Only the centre of the ceiling had fallen.

            Unexpectedly, Mystique lifted her dusty lips to his. Her gesture was more thankful than coquettish.

'Thank you, Knight Errant, my Alann with the double en,' she said. 'When you laughed, she was beaten. There's been no laughter in this house for years.' Nor compassion, concern, love... Her eyes glistened. 'You see, you were my Knight Errant!'

He had no logical answer to that. But he believed instinctively that Aunty Berenice had been the beneficiary he'd sought. His client had referred to her as a sour, disillusioned old woman who thrived on hate and fear. She had destroyed her family and her children's lives, then vanished. Yes, she would have probably changed her name. But she could not change her nature: even in death she had endowed her house with her own brand of bitterness and spite. Even to the point of manipulating Mystique.

Yet he was no longer interested in client or job. Holding her hand, he recalled his promise. His heart pounded, and not because of their ordeal.

He now had no wish to break his promise, ever.

            Without so much as a backward glance they left the firemen and the police and the curious onlookers to sort out the shambles, to bar up the entrance and exits, to close the House of Aunty Berenice until it could be razed to the ground, removed forever from the world of Mystique Recondite.

 ***

Previously published in Dark Horizons, 1985.

Copyright Nik Morton 2014.

If you liked this story, you might also like my collection of crime tales, Spanish Eye, published by Crooked Cat (2013), which features 22 cases from Leon Cazador, private eye, ‘in his own words’.  He is also featured in the story ‘Processionary Penitents’ in the Crooked Cat Collection of twenty tales, Crooked Cats’ Tales.

 

Spanish Eye, released by Crooked Cat Publishing is available as a paperback and as an e-book.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton/dp/1909841315/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1399383023&sr=1-4

http://www.amazon.com/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton/dp/1909841315/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1399382967&sr=1-5

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton-ebook/dp/B00GXK5C6S/ref=sr_1_4?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1399383023&sr=1-4&keywords=nik+morton

http://www.amazon.com/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton-ebook/dp/B00GXK5C6S/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1399382967&sr=1-5&keywords=nik+morton