This was going to be a great holiday, he thought, rubbing his hands. But as Ivy turned her face towards him, all such ideas of a romance with her fled in a second. She was hideous. There was a violent scar down the left side of her face, distorting the corner of her lip and making her look as if she was permanently grinning. A rictus grin. The smile of death.

  Ivy was used to the reaction her facial disfigurement made upon the unsuspecting public, but somehow Elmer’s reaction galled her even more than usual. He had been smiling at her until he saw the scar. His look of horror was patently obvious; he had made no attempt to conceal it. Who did he think he was to recoil like that? After all, he was no oil painting himself, with that ridiculous red wig and paunch. The man looked well into his middle years and they didn’t hang on him well.

  However, she welcomed him politely, passing the book for him to register. She handed him a key from the hook and rang the bell. Before it had even stopped vibrating, an acne-covered youth swooped upon Elmer’s bags and disappeared up the stairs with them.

  “My oh my,” said Elmer to Ivy, “that’s some speedy bellhop. They make ’em lean and fast back in the States, but that boy is something else, upon my word.”

  “Oh, that’s only Johnny,” said Ivy. “He’s got nothing else to do all day. Just waits for the bell then springs into action. I don’t think he’s said two words to me or anyone else since he’s worked here.”

  “Well, shoot, ma’am,” said Elmer, remembering not to scratch his head too hard for fear of dislodging his wig, “I would like a boy like that to run errands for me. Even better that he don’t open his mouth too often. I like ’em quiet and respectful.”

  Ivy, who if she ever thought of Johnny at all, thought of him as some sort of baggage carrying machine, was amused by the man’s enthusiasm. Johnny was useful to her, there was no doubt of that, and he generally carried out his duties well and without any fuss. But he was sometimes conspicuous by his absence and she had, on more than one occasion, been forced to take the guests’ bags up to their rooms herself. Those were the times when she almost decided to sack him; after all there was always another Johnny waiting in the dole queue. But she knew, deep down, there weren’t many lads who would work as hard, and for such long hours, as Johnny, and certainly not for the pittance she paid him. So Johnny remained safe in his post, whether he knew it or not.

  Elmer followed Johnny up the stairs, fishing in his pocket as he did so. When he handed him a shiny shilling piece, his jaw dropped so far it seemed as if he was going to dislocate it. Johnny had never been given such a large sum in all his young life, not all in one go. Finally, he managed to gulp his mouth shut and stammer a ‘thank you, mister’.

  “Don’t mention it, son,” said Elmer, surveying his room. “There’s plenty more where that came from. If you do me little errands and such. I like things just so.”

  Johnny couldn’t speak. More money still? It wasn’t possible, was it? He’d heard of the white slave trade, but wasn’t that just girls and women? Not spotty-faced youths like himself. He wondered what would be the nature of the little errands. Although he didn’t speak much, he wasn’t stupid and had a varied and wide vocabulary gained from avid reading. Mainly penny dreadfuls, the kind of reading that most young boys lapped up, but he had tried, and succeeded in, reading most of ‘The Pickwick Papers’. He rather thought of himself as a latter-day Sam Weller, although, being taciturn of nature, his pearls of wisdom, unlike those of the loquacious Dickens character, remained unspoken.

  Carefully putting the precious shilling in his pocket, he returned to his post in the basement, thinking all the time of the strange American who seemed to have taken a fancy to him. But, he wondered once more, what ‘little errands’ was he expected to do?

  August 1957: Blackpool

  The second day of the holiday dawned just as fair as the first. Bernard opened his eyes at half past eight and smelt frying bacon. He yawned and stretched. He felt renewed. There was definitely something in the air of Blackpool that was efficacious. All was right with the world, and he was here to rest and enjoy himself, far away from the everyday cares of his South London parish.

  As he slowly rose from his comfortable bed, Robbie burst into the room, hair awry and a worried look on his face. All, it would seem, was not right with his world.

  “What on earth’s the matter?” said Bernard, wrapping his dressing gown around him and searching for his slippers. “Breakfast’s not finished serving has it?”

  “Trust you to think of food at a time like this!” thundered Robbie.

  “A time like what?”

  Robbie stomped up and down without speaking. Bernard repeated his question. “A time like what, Robbie? What’s all the fuss about? Didn’t you sleep well?”

  Robbie stopped pacing and glared at his friend. “You are joking of course?”

  “Er, no, actually. I slept like a log myself.”

  “Well, bully for you!”

  “Look, Robbie, sit down – please. What’s all this about?”

  Robbie sighed and made an effort to calm down. He slumped onto the bed, and looked down at his slippers. “I’m sorry, Bernie, old boy, what must you think of me?”

  Bernard sat in the bedside chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. “It’s all right, Robbie, not to worry. You must have a reason for being like this. Can’t you tell me?”

  Robbie cleared his throat. “It’s not easy – but I’ll try.”

  Bernard’s interest was well and truly piqued now. “Take your time,” he said. “I’m listening.”

  Robbie gave him a weak smile, and proceeded to tell Bernard all about his wakeful night.

  He was still feeling uneasy as he entered his room after bidding goodnight to Bernard. He undid his watch strap and placed it on the small bedside table. He yawned and walked over to the window. He opened both shutters and leaned out. As he breathed in the sweet night air, he could hear an owl in the distance. It was like being in another world. It was Blackpool, but it could have been the south of France or somewhere even more exotic. He began to relax. There was no sound other than the rustle of leaves as a little breeze played with them. Then he thought he could hear a nightjar. Not many of them to the pound, he thought. He listened to the melodic tune of the tiny bird and smiled to himself. Why had he been worried? This place was so peaceful. Nothing wrong with it at all.

  He was going to enjoy this holiday. The misgivings he felt earlier seemed insignificant now. Here he had no worried patients to deal with. More to the point, no hypochondriacs. He was fed up with prescribing placebos to patients who thought they were ill, wasting his time. He loved his job, he saw it as a true vocation; but people got on his nerves sometimes.

  He smiled to himself and yawned again. That’s funny, he thought. He couldn’t hear that nightjar now. Nor the owl. The trees were dead still. There was no sound at all.

  He turned towards the bed and felt a shiver go up his spine. All his fears returned. The bed looked normal enough. The covers had been turned down and all he had to do was get in it. He looked around the room. There was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing at all. He picked up his watch and placed it against his ear. He couldn’t hear it tick. But it was showing the right time, and the second hand was moving.

  He scratched his head and sat on the bed. He was dog-tired. The sea air had braced him up and then spat him out. Slowly he leant back against the pillow, pulling up the bed sheets to his chin. He closed his eyes. Then he opened them. The dead quiet was unnerving him. Why couldn’t he hear anything? Had he gone deaf suddenly?

  His eyelids slowly descended again and he drifted off into a fitful sleep. He awoke with a start to feel a body lying beside him. What on earth? Was Bernard in the bed with him? Maybe something had frightened him too. He reached for the bedside lamp and pressed the switch. Nothing. The bulb must have gone. Bother, he thought. Why can’t people who run hotels check out these little details? He must remember to tell Mrs Conway about it in the morning.

  “Er, Robbie?” he whispered. He couldn’t even hear his own voice. It was true then: he must have gone deaf.

  The body beside him stirred and nestled into him. He could smell perfume. My God, he thought. Bernie’s gone off his head. Then he realised what he had known all along: this body didn’t belong to Bernard. It was a much smaller, more delicate and feminine body. Two soft breasts were pressed against his own. Some woman in the guest house had obviously mistaken his room for her own. He didn’t flatter himself that she had sought him out specially. He knew he was attractive to women, but not to the point where they invaded his bed without an introduction.

  He didn’t know what to do. Should he wake her or should he just slip out and join Bernard for the night? The mistake could easily be cleared up in the morning with the minimum of fuss. He mustn’t embarrass the woman; that would never do.

  As he made up his mind to leave her in peace, the nightjar resumed its song outside his window. The leaves began to stir again, and the distant owl gave a solitary hoot. His watch was ticking like a time bomb. He realised all this in a split second; at the same time he knew he was in the bed alone.

  He had to stop himself from screaming.

  August 1957: Blackpool

  John Tapperstall surveyed the building with mixed feelings. It was exactly as he had last seen it almost forty years ago, if a bit more dilapidated and in need of a lick of paint. Entering the Sunnyside Guest House he saw Ivy Conway at the reception desk and thought exactly the same about her. Although she was much older of course, everything surrounding her seemed just the same. It was as if time had stood still.

  Ivy sized up the well-to-do, middle-aged gentleman as he approached her. Here was the sort of clientele she hankered after; not the vulgar, working-class types who had obviously scrimped and saved every penny they earned in the factories and mills to have a week’s holiday in Blackpool. Here was a well-travelled man-of-the-world, if she was any judge.

  “Good morning, sir,” she said in her most polite, educated voice. “Have you a reservation?” “Indeed I have,” said John in an accent not quite English, not quite American. It was a gentle, trans-Atlantic drawl with a hint of very British vowels in there too. It was a voice and accent that Ivy thoroughly approved of. The vast majority of her paying guests were hardly able to string proper sentences together. They put t’s in front of nouns and talked about ‘going up t’road’ and, she had no doubt, when at work, they were always complaining about ‘trouble at t’mill’. The language made no sense to her at all, being a Londoner, born and bred.

  “May I have your name, sir?”

  “Tapperstall,” he said, smiling.

  The name seemed to ring some sort of vague bell, but she couldn’t quite place it. “Oh yes, sir, you’re in room twenty on the second floor.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Room twenty has a pleasant view,” she expanded, as she handed him the key.

  “A view of what, may I be allowed to inquire, ma’am?”

  “Er, well, not of the sea, I’m afraid. No rooms have that as we are in a side street.”

  “Well as long as it doesn’t overlook the trash cans, I don’t mind.”

  “No, sir, the trash – er dustbins are on the other side of the house.”

  John Tapperstall took the key and proceeded to the stairs.

  “Won’t you wait for someone to help with your luggage, sir?” Ivy called after him. “Do you know where your room is?”

  “Have no fear, ma’am, I shall find it. And my bag isn’t heavy. Thank you.”

  John smiled to himself as he climbed the stairs. He wasn’t going to let some poor skivvy carry his bags for him. He knew only too well how that felt. He knew that Ivy hadn’t recognised him, but then, he would have been most surprised if she had. The last time she’d seen him was back in the summer of 1920, when, as an acne-plagued youth of eighteen, he had left the guest house for good in the company of Mr Elmer Smallpurse.

  He unlocked the door to room twenty on the second floor, and cast his eye over the furnishings. They had hardly changed since he had last dusted them. The bed, as he sat on it, still squeaked. The top drawer of the small chest still stuck. And the carpet beneath his feet was even more threadbare and slippery now. He opened the ill-fitting window with difficulty and stared out at the row of houses opposite, two of which also took in paying guests.

  Yes, he remembered them too. There were no trash cans or, as he remembered calling them back then, dustbins to offend the eye, so for that he was grateful.

  He unpacked his few belongings quickly. This wasn’t going to be a long stay. He was here for one reason, and one reason only. To carry out the dying wish of his close friend and companion, Elmer Smallpurse.

  Wednesday, 20th August 1957

  The Vicarage

  Dear Vicar,

  This is just a line to tell you your cat remains well but under my feet all the time. He caught a goldfish from the pond at number 32, and I got an ear bashing from old Mr Stebbings after he counted them on Monday night. He said he often sees the cat staring into the pond so hes sure it s him that got it. I had to give him two slices of my Dundee cake to calm him down. Thats Stebbings – not the cat.

  I hope your enjoying your holiday and the doc too, but Lucy is having a hard time of it. She misses him something rotten and I think she will have a nervous breakdown before she is very much older. Mind you she s daft if you ask me. Pining over the doc like that. He dont deserve her, he dont, what he deserves is a kick up the backside. But it s not for me to say and God forbid that I should say it who knows him. It s about time he settled down and married her. You should have a long talk with him while your away and get him to see sense.

  The vacuum cleaner is giving trouble again. I wish you would get me a new one. I cant bend with my back and you said you were going to think about it. Can you do that while your sunning yourself please. I don’t want to spoil your holiday but I cant keep kicking it to get it started. Lucy said I will get an electric shock off it soon and youll come home to a dead housekeeper if your not careful. Cant you ask the bishop for some more money?

  I find it too hot to work properly and I had to go and see the doc whos standing in for your friend. He seems quite nice but I don’t think he knows what hes doing. Said I was right as rain he did. But my corns are killing me and so is my back. All he said was take an asprin. I never thought Id say this but I look forward to seeing your doc when hes back.

  Must close now as the cat is heading for the roses again.

  Yours very truly

  Nancy Harper.

  August 1957: Blackpool

  Robbie still wore a worried expression as he and Bernard sauntered along the baking hot Blackpool promenade. The day was as hot and sunny as the previous one, and Bernard had at last been forced to remove his dog collar. Their conversation was desultory, due perhaps to the heat, and maybe because Robbie’s night time experience had been repeated too many times for his friend to feel much sympathy. Besides they were both hungry and in need of a thirst-quenching drink. Neither man was in the best of humour as they searched for somewhere to stop for their mid-day meal.

  Bernard, as usual, was deeply interested in the prospect of food and was concentrating on finding the best possible place to eat, while Robbie obviously couldn’t have cared less. “How about here?” said Bernard, stopping in front of a pink canopied cafe that exuded an enticing smell of roast beef. “Do you fancy this? They’ve got steak and kidney pie or sausage and mash.” Bernard was salivating.

  Robbie shrugged. “If you like,” he said. “I’m not really that hungry. I need a drink, though.”

  Bernard sighed. “Look, Robbie, why don’t you snap out of it? All right, so you had a nightmare, but that’s no reason to spoil your holiday – and mine into the bargain.”

  “It wasn’t a nightmare, I tell you. It really happened!”

  “If you say so, old man,” said Bernard, studying the menu in the window. The prices seemed a bit steep. Taking his friend’s elbow, he steered him further along the sea front. “Come on, Robbie, you can’t let a mere dream get you down like this. How about fish and chips? That looks a nice place over there.”

  He pointed to another cafe on the other side of the road. The enticing smell of chips and vinegar pervaded the air, and Bernard was ravenously hungry. Food was one of the major joys of his blameless life. Robbie, now with the smell of the frying chips in his nostrils, began to feel hungry too. What if some female ghost had shared his bed last night, he thought, he still had to eat.

  “All right, old boy, whatever you say.”

  They crossed over to the cafe and looked inside. It was very crowded, but there were two vacant chairs at a small table by the door leading to the kitchen. It wasn’t an ideal spot, and the table was already occupied by two men whom Bernard and Robbie recognised at once: Oliver Johnson and Nigel Soames, the latter obviously ‘slumming’ it for a change.

  The friends exchanged glances. Did they want the company of Nigel Soames, the glances were saying. Not only was the man so fat he could hardly fit in the chair, he was also a pompous bore. But the smell of the fish and chips was even stronger now, so the men decided to put up with his company for the sake of their rumbling insides.

  “I recommend the skate,” said Oliver tentatively, as the pair sat down.

  “The Dover sole is delicious,” observed Nigel, between mouthfuls. He, being a superior specimen of the human race, had chosen the most expensive item on the menu. His menial, Oliver, had to content himself with skate.

 

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