"The Stranger House" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hill Reginald)

6. Pillow problems

At eight that evening, Sam descended the creaky stairs of the pub.

On her walk back from the church, her irrational fear had turned to rational anger. Why hadn’t Rev. Pete or those other two antiques mentioned the hidden stone bearing her name? Two possible answers… no; three. Either they didn’t know about it, or they knew about it but were certain it had nothing to do with her, or they knew it had something to do with her but preferred she stayed ignorant.

The first seemed unlikely. It was Swinebank’s church; Woollass was the local squire – sorry – squire’s son; as for Thor Winander, he gave the impression he’d know everything round here.

The second was the simplest explanation. It was an old inscription that they knew could have nothing to do with her family. Fair enough, though it didn’t look all that old, not antique anyway like some of the not dissimilar lettering on the old headstones.

As for the third, that was less likely but more troublesome.

One thing was sure, before she left she needed an explanation. But she’d give them every chance to volunteer one before she started throwing punches.

This decision made, she lay on her bed for ten minutes, which when she opened her eyes had turned into three hours, giving the chance for the shoulder and hip which had borne the brunt of her fall to stiffen up and turn an interesting shade of aubergine.

She headed for the bathroom opposite her bedroom door. The water was piping hot and the old-fashioned bath deep enough to float in. A long soak eased the worst of her stiffness, and now she realized she was very hungry.

At the top of the stairs she heard voices below at the entrance end of the shadowy hallway. Alerted by the unavoidable creakings, the speakers stopped. Then one of the figures moved into the dim light and said, “Here she is now. You can ask her yourself.”

It was Mrs. Appledore. And the man she was talking to was Gerry the Son.

“We’ve just been talking about your accident, dear,” said the landlady, her pleasant round face touched with concern. “How’re you feeling now?”

“I’m good,” said Sam. “No problem, really.”

The pub had been empty when she returned and she’d worked out that Mrs. Appledore must have been one of the funeral congregation singing that cheerful hymn.

“That’s good to hear,” said Woollass. “We were all very concerned.”

He sounded sincere enough and his gaze felt less like that of an angler examining a strange fish than it had in the church.

“No need,” she said. “Thanks again for your help.”

Not that it had amounted to much but, like Pa said, always be polite till you’ve got good reason not to be.

“Excellent. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay. Now, I must be off. You’ll remember my message, Edie?”

“Ten, not nine-thirty. I think I can just about manage that, Gerry. My best to your dad. It’s a long time since we saw him down here.”

“He feels very susceptible to cold drafts these days,” said Woollass.

“Does he? Well, tell him the only cold drafts he’ll find here is the beer,” retorted the landlady. “Goodnight now.”

As the door closed behind Woollass, she turned to Sam and smiled.

“He’s a good man, Gerry, but diplomacy’s not his strong point.”

“He didn’t come here just to inquire after my health, did he?” asked Sam.

“No. He wanted to leave a message, though as you heard it wasn’t much of a message. But he was very concerned about you. That’s Gerry all over. As someone said, he’s got such a bleeding heart, you can hear it squelching when he breathes.”

“That wouldn’t be Mr. Winander, would it?”

Mrs. Appledore laughed out loud.

“You’re the sharp one, aren’t you? Of course you met him up at the church.”

“That’s right. He was very kind. So what’s he do for a living?”

“Winanders have been blacksmiths and general craftsmen in the village since way back. Thor’s branched out, but. Does arty stuff. And he’s a real salesman, so take care. Now you’ll be wanting something to eat, I expect. Unless you’re planning on going out?”

Memory of the caustic cob had made Sam consider driving down to the fancy-priced hotel in search of dinner, but answers to her questions lay here.

She said, “Yeah, I’m hungry enough to eat shoe leather. What have you got?”

“Anything you like so long as it’s sausage or ham.”

“Sausage sounds great.”

“OK. In you go. I reserved a table for you. I’d better get back behind the bar before the natives get restless.”

The ringing of the bar bell and cries of “Shop!” had already been audible from the bar, but all sound stopped for a moment as Sam pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The room was crowded but a path opened up for her leading to a small round table with a handwritten Reserved sign draped across an ashtray, and the noise resumed as she sat down. She’d brought the Reverend Peter K.’s Guide with her, but before she could open it a pint glass was slammed on the table. She looked up to find Thor Winander smiling down at her.

“A belated welcome to Illthwaite, Miss Flood,” he said. “Glad to see you looking so spry after your adventure.”

“You’re looking pretty spry yourself, considering, Mr. Winander,” she replied.

He laughed, showing good strong teeth, and said, “I won’t ask, considering what? I’m sorry your family inquiries came to a dead end.”

“One man’s dead end can be someone else’s starting point,” she said.

He looked at her speculatively. She met his gaze square on. He wasn’t totally unattractive for a geriatric, and he still had a certain Viking swagger to go with his name.

Thought of names made her ask, “You never told me how you knew what I was called. I’d guess you’d been talking to Mrs. Appledore. Right?”

“Quite right. I ran into her and naturally an exotic stranger in our little village was quite a news item. In Edie’s defense, I daresay she’s been just as forthcoming about me.”

“Well, she did say you were a bit of an artist.”

“I won’t ask what kind,” he grinned. “But it’s certainly true that few visitors to our fair village escape without paying due tribute to my talents. I look forward to seeing you in my studio before you go. In fact, let’s make a date. Tomorrow morning, shall we say?”

“What makes you think I’m in the market for art?”

“What makes you think I’m talking about art?”

Jesus, the old fart was flirting! Did he really think his pillaging and ravishing days weren’t altogether behind him?

Perhaps her disbelief showed, for his tone changed from teasing to something well short of but in the general area of pleading as he said, “It would be good if you could call in. I’m at the Forge, across the bridge and up Stanebank. Enjoy your drink, my dear.”

She watched him make his way to a bench by the window where he sat down next to a man Sam recognized as the menacing gravedigger. Or she thought she recognized him till her gaze moved to a third man on the bench, and there he was again.

Her eyes flickered between the two. Same face, same clothes, and the same blank animal stare which though it seemed unfocused she felt was fixed on herself. Twins? Certainly brothers. Bad enough giving birth to one who looked like that, she thought unkindly, but you must really piss fate off to get landed with two!

And now it occurred to her that if there were two, it didn’t matter if the gravedigger was still clearly visible outside while she was falling off that bloody ladder. It could have been his mirror image whose petrifying gaze she had felt up on the tower!

Something else to look into. But not here, not now. Here she was the solitary young woman, eating alone. Don’t fight it, go with it.

She picked up the Guide. It fell open at the last page she’d looked at, the section on the Wolf-Head Cross. She studied a reproduction of the panel showing the god Thor in his boat. It wasn’t a detailed portrait but there was a definite resemblance to Winander. She squinted down at the picture and sipped her beer thoughtfully. It was good stuff, slipping down so easily she’d almost got through the pint without noticing.

As if her thought was a command, another glass was set before her.

She looked up to see not the aged Viking but the superannuated leprechaun who’d warned her against Illthwaite.

“Good evening, Miss Flood,” he said, his high clear voice pitched low. “I hope you will accept a drink from me in token of apology for any unintentional rudeness I may have shown to you at lunchtime. I should have remembered the scriptures: Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”

“That’s nice,” she said. “But I wasn’t offended. And I’m certainly no angel.”

“Angels come in many guises and for many purposes,” he said.

He didn’t smile as he said it but spoke with an earnest sincerity which made her recall Mrs. Appledore’s warning that he was a snag short of a barbie.

“I hope you have recovered from your accident in the church,” he said.

“Yes, I’m good,” she said, thinking, cracked he may be, but he doesn’t miss much!

His eyes had strayed down to the open book on the table.

“You are interested in antiquities?” he said.

“In a way,” she said. “I was reading about the Wolf-Head Cross.”

“Ah yes. The Wolf-Head. Our claim to historical significance. But if you want to find out something of the true nature of Illthwaite, you should read about our other Wolf-Head Cross. Try the chapter on Myth and Legend. But never forget you are in a part of the world where they hold an annual competition for telling lies.”

He moved away to what seemed to be his accustomed seat almost out of sight behind the angle of the fireplace.

Her curiosity pricked, she riffled through the pages till she came to a section headed Folklore, Myth, Legend which she began reading at her usual breakneck speed.

After an introduction in which the three topics were defined and carefully differentiated, the writer conceded:

Yet so frequently do these areas overlap and merge, with invented and historical figures becoming confused, and events which properly belong to the timeless world of the fairies receiving the imprimatur of particular dates and locations, that it is almost as dangerous to dismiss any story as wild fancy as it would be to accept all that is related round the crackling fire of the Stranger House on a winter’s night as gospel truth. What more likely than that a pious farmer riding home after a night of wassail and ghost stories should mistake a swirl of snowflakes round the churchyard for the restless spirit of some recently deceased villager? When it comes to sharing real and personal concerns with strangers, Cumbrians are a close and secret people, but in launching flights of fancy dressed as fact they have few equals, as those who had the pleasure of meeting the late Mr. Ritson of Wasdale Head can well testify.

As described supra, in the designs on our great Viking cross can be found a fascinating use of ancient fables to underline and illustrate the awful and sacred truths of Christianity. Had Dr Johnson paused on his journey to the Caledonian wildernesses to view our Wolf-Head Cross, he might have modified his strictures on Lycidas.

Yet the great doctor was right in asserting that truth and myth may be combined in a manner both impious and dangerous. So in the story of that other cross, which some in their superstitious folly also called “Wolf-Head,” we find fact and fiction close tangled in a knot it would take the mind of Aristotle or the sword of Alexander to dismantle.

Here is that story as it is still recounted in the parish, with slight variation and embellishment, according to the nature of the narrator and the perceived susceptibility of the auditor. Be advised, it is not a tale for the faint-hearted…

Then her view of the book was interrupted by a large plate and Mrs. Appledore’s voice said, “There we go, dear. Tuck in.”

Sam smiled her thanks at the woman, then lowered her eyes to the plate and felt the full force of the Reverend’s warning. Here was something else definitely not for the faint-hearted. Reminding her of the Wolf-Head Cross carving of Jormungand, the fabled Midgard serpent coiled around the world, on her plate a single monstrous sausage, uninterrupted by twist or crimp, curled around a mountain of chips topped by a fried egg. There had to be enough cholesterol here to give a god or a hero a heart attack. She took a long pull at her beer while she contemplated how to get to grips with it.

Another pint glass was set before her. She looked up to see the old Viking again.

“Thanks, but I’ve got plenty.”

“Perhaps. But I think you’ll need a lot more to wash that down,” he said. “As we say round here, best way is to pick an end and press on till tha meets tha own behind.”

This seemed an impossible journey but she was very hungry and after the first visual shock, she found it smelled quite delicious, so she sawed half an inch off the sausage’s tail and put it into her mouth. Fifteen minutes later she was wiping up the last of the egg yolk with the last of the chips. She’d even essayed the merest fork-point of flavoring from a jar of the mordant mustard and found it not displeasing.

She was also nearly at the bottom of her third pint. It really was good beer. It was also beer she hadn’t paid for and by the strict rules of the society she’d grown up in, girls who didn’t stand their round were signifying their willingness to make some other form of payment. She looked toward the shady corner but there was no sign of Mr. Melton. Winander was still there between the duplicated gravediggers.

She emptied her glass, stood up and went to the bar.

“Ready for pudding?” said Mrs. Appledore.

Shuddering to think how big her puddings might be, Sam said, “No. I’m a bit knackered after all that driving so I think I’ll hit the hay. Mr. Melton’s gone, has he?”

“Only to the Gents. Why?”

“I just wanted to buy him a drink, that’s all. And Mr. Winander too. Put one in the till for them both, will you? And stick it on my bill.”

“Of course, dear,” said the landlady approvingly. “Us girls need to stand our corner these days.”

“We surely do. Talking of which, don’t us girls come out to drink round here?”

“Sometimes, but tonight they’ll be sitting with Lorna – that’s the mam of young Billy Knipp that we buried today. The men leave ’em to it. Sorry if it bothered you, dear.”

“Men don’t bother me, Mrs. Appledore,” said Sam.

“That’s all right then,” said the landlady. “I never asked you, did you find anything out at the church? About your family, I mean?”

Was this a good moment to ask about the inscription? No, Sam decided. But it might be a good moment to give everyone here the chance to volunteer information.

She said, “No, nothing. Look, as a final fling, would it be all right if I spoke to this lot in the bar, asked them if anyone recalled a family called Flood in these parts?”

Mrs. Appledore glanced assessingly at the assembled drinkers then said, “Why not? It’ll make a change from the price of sheep.”

She reached up and rang the bell dangling over the end of the bar.

“Listen in, you lot. Let’s have a bit of order. This young lady from Australia who’s staying with us tonight, she’d like to ask a question about her family. Miss Flood…”

Suddenly, looking at all those expectant faces, this didn’t seem such a good idea, but if you’re stupid enough to go surfing on a shark, you don’t let go.

“Hi. Sorry to disturb your drinking, but my name’s Sam Flood and it could be that my grandmother who was also called Sam, that’s Samantha, Flood came from Illthwaite. It would be back in the spring of 1960 she left. I just wondered if any of you who were around back then could recall anyone of that name round here.”

There. Cue for deluge of information. Long pause.

Then a voice, upstage, left. “Weren’t there a Larry Flood up Egremont way, used to win the gurning at the Crab Fair wi’out needing to pull a face?”

Second voice, upstage right. “Nay, tha’s thinkin’ of Harry Hood.”

Chorus. “Aye, Harry Hood. That were Harry Hood.”

Why was she thinking of this in terms of theater? Sam asked herself.

Because that’s how it felt. Like a performance.

“If any of you do recall owt, let me know to pass it on,” declared Mrs. Appledore.

The hubbub resumed as she turned to Sam and said, “Sorry, dear.”

“No problem,” said Sam. “What’s gurning?”

“It’s making ugly faces through a horse’s collar. There’s a competition for it at the Egremont Crab Fair. Thought everyone knew that.”

“I must have forgotten,” said Sam. “A prize for being ugly? Is that where they give prizes for telling lies too?”

“No,” said the landlady indignantly. “That’s not Egremont. That’s at Santon Bridge. Thought everyone knew that too.”

“My memory!” said Sam. “I’m off to bed now.”

“Hope you sleep well. Don’t worry about laying over. The way these boards creak, I’ll hear you when you’re up.”

“Great. By the way, Mrs. Appledore, I don’t think I’ll be wanting anything cooked in the morning. Way I feel now, a fox’s breakfast will do me fine.”

“A fox’s breakfast? And that ’ud be…?”

“A piss and a good look round. Thought everyone knew that.”

Be polite to the Poms. But don’t let the buggers get on top of you. Pa’s last words at the airport.

We’re keeping our end up so far, Pa, she thought as she headed out of the door.

Mr. Melton, presumably just returned from the Gents, was in the hallway.

“Goodnight,” she said. “Thanks for the beer. I’ve left you one in the till.”

“No need,” he said. “But kind. I understand you are seeking for some local connection with your family.”

“That’s right. I thought my gran might be from these parts, but I’m beginning to think I might have got it wrong.”

He said, “And when did she leave England?”

“March 1960. She was still a kid.”

“A kid? In 1960?” He looked at her doubtfully.

He might be dotty but he could still do arithmetic, she thought approvingly.

“Yeah, I know,” she said. “She got pregnant not long after she arrived in Oz. My dad was born in September 1961.”

“I see,” he said. “Interesting. But I’m keeping you from your bed, and this isn’t the place to talk. If you care to drop in on me tomorrow, Miss Flood, perhaps I can assist you with your inquiries.”

For some reason the phrase seemed to amuse him and he repeated it.

“Yes, assist you with your inquiries. I have… connections. I live at Candle Cottage, beyond the church. I’m at home most of the time. Goodnight to you now.”

He went back into the bar.

Funny folk! thought Sam as she climbed the stairs. Two invites in a night. Maybe that was the automatic next step if you survived being pushed off a ladder! Anything was possible in a place where Death had his own door, the sausages were six feet long, and they held competitions for telling lies and making faces through a horse’s collar…

She pushed open her bedroom door and all thought of funny folk fled from her mind.

Someone had been poking around her things. This wasn’t feeling but fact. Her eidetic memory didn’t only work with the printed page. A postcard home she’d been scribbling was a couple of inches to the left of where she’d set it down on the dressing table, one of the drawers which had protruded slightly was now completely flush, and her rucksack leaned against the wall at an altered angle. And it wasn’t just Mrs. Appledore tidying up. The intruder had clearly been inside the rucksack as well as out.

She thought of going downstairs to make a fuss. But there was nothing missing, and anyone in the bar could have come up, or someone who just came into the pub.

She brushed her teeth, got undressed, pulled on the old Melbourne University T-shirt she slept in, and climbed on to the high old-fashioned bed. Usually she launched herself into sleep on a sea of math. She’d started age seven with an old edition of a book called Pillow Problems which Gramma Ada had picked up in a secondhand shop. In it the guy who wrote the Alice books laid out a variety of calculations he occupied his mind with when he couldn’t sleep. By the time she was twelve she’d moved beyond Carroll’s problems, but the principle remained. Nowadays she usually played with things like Goldbach’s Conjecture which required her to hold huge numbers in her head.

Tonight, however, she turned to the measured nineteenth-century prose of Peter K. Swinebank in search of a soporific.

She found the page she’d reached in the bar and reread the last line:

Be advised, it is not a tale for the fainthearted.

Sam paused and consulted her heart. No sign of faintness there, though a little lower down there was an awareness that sometime in the not too distant future her consumption of all that excellent beer was going to require another trip to the bathroom.

“OK, Rev. Peter K. Swinebank,” she said. “I’m ready for you. Do your worst!”

And turned the page.