Another world, p.13
Another World, page 13
In the next room her brother was sat in his chair, facing the wide open window, the blackness within as one with the blackness without. And he heard nothing save the distant murmur of the sea.
8
Garthmeilo opened its eyes to another day. The wind had died down. Even the rain had ceased, though watchful eyes scanned the sky, the still scudding clouds. This was the ritual of the morning. Jones was up promptly at half past six, remembering nothing of the night before. Mrs Gandell rose heavily at half past seven. And at half past eight Miss Vaughan came down to breakfast. Under the dim dining-room light she heard the terribly used words of yesterday circling the room, their echoes following. And Mrs Gandell put on the smile that seemed to survive the voyage from one empty day to another. Had Miss Vaughan slept well? Yes, Miss Vaughan had slept very well. Good. Splendid. The exchanges shot over Jones’s head as he served her in utter silence. Perhaps Jones had not slept well, and once or twice he caught Miss Vaughan staring at him. Later, out of a corner of her eye she watched them eat in silence. They, in turn, watched her at her breakfast, and having finished it, attend to the morning ritual, spectacle cleaning, powdering her nose, examining herself in the tiny mirror, after which she got up and left the room in which only the sound of eating could now be heard. They heard the outer door close. Miss Vaughan had gone off into the world again. Sometimes Garthmeilo watched, and sometimes waited. Curtains moved, and once or twice a shopkeeper took an unusual interest in his own window. They watched her go by, her short sharp steps ringing out on the pavement, her bag tight under her arm, the other swinging vigorously as she drew nearer and nearer to the round of her new day, her head in the air, her purpose resolute and unchanging.
‘Here she comes.’
‘There she is.’
‘They say Thomas’s sister has left him.’
‘Well indeed No? Did she really then?’
‘Terrible row they had, they say she’s off to Glan Ceirw where they used to live.’
‘Think of that.’
‘I saw him yesterday. Ill he looked. Poor man.’
And back at the hotel Mrs Gandell was precise, and as sure as Jones himself was uncertain.
‘The basin in number one is cracked, Jones. Have you noticed it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And those sheets in number two are quite worn, and must be replaced. I think you’d better go into the town and get new ones from Davies.’
‘Yes,’ Jones said, slowly coming clear, being aware, and quite suddenly attentive. ‘The same kind of sheet, Mrs Gandell?’
‘Of course,’ she snapped.
‘Right.’
‘And clear these things away, Jones,’ she said, and went away to her office.
‘Certainly, Mrs Gandell,’ and Jones piled the tray and went off to the kitchen. He hoped the day would go well, he hoped she wasn’t going to have another mood, wasn’t going to preach at him about being so late, coming back empty-handed. Mrs Gandell was far too occupied even to remember the night before, her morning had turned out to be as sharp as a razor blade, the unexpected having turned up, right out of the blue. Sat in her office, mountainous over her ledger, she could hear Jones busy in the kitchen. The pages of the ledger she turned ceaselessly to and fro, as she read, as she remembered. The Decent Hotel had actually had its good days. Her eye would suddenly light on a name, a date, and it buoyed her up. Backwards and forwards she went, always perusing, remembering, sometimes smiling. Yes, there had been some good times at the hotel. All was not yet lost. Day dreaming. It helped to rid her mind of a quite leaden moment, when, coming downstairs she had found the letter under the door, and was still glad that Jones had not got there first. This letter, unopened, she had hastily thrust into the ledger, where it still lay hidden between the last two pages. She was mindful of this, it must not accidentally fall out, with Jones in sight. She had not expected it. She had not wanted it. The name of the sender was in bold black on the flap, and it sent a slither of ice down the Gandell spine. Midland Bank. Why open it? Why read? She had had them before. There was a neat little pile upstairs, safe in the locked draw of her bureau. She knew the message inside it, it seared her mind. And again she breathed a sigh of relief that Jones had not seen it.
‘I suppose I shall have to go and see him.’
She heard Jones open the front door, got up and followed him out.
‘All the windows, Jones,’ she said, as she watched him prop up the ladder, and begin to ascend with his bucket. ‘But be careful.’
‘Will be careful, Mrs Gandell,’ Jones said, and reached the top.
‘How long?’ she asked.
He looked down at her and replied, ‘Three hours, I’d say, since you want them all cleaned.’
She called up, ‘The whole place must be cleaned out, Jones. We’ll do it after lunch.’
‘Very well,’ and then she went back to the office, and the ledger. She thought of the bank, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Only the fact that two guests were arriving in a few days’ time, lightened the moment. She took out the letter, opened it, and read: ‘Dear Mrs Gandell, Going through your account yesterday, it occurred to me that it might be a good opportunity for us to meet again, and perhaps to our mutual advantage. I would suggest Friday morning about ten o’clock. Please write and confirm, or telephone, if you must. Yours faithfully, Cledwyn Griffith.’
‘If you must.’ The three words sounded like threats. She crushed the letter into a tiny ball, and thrust it deep into the pocket of her overall. ‘I haven’t seen Griffith in a whole year.’ But her ambassador extraordinary, Jones, had done his duty there some six months previous. It made her remember so clearly that she could already see Mr Griffith’s very comfortable office, with its big mahogany desk, and the thick red carpet. She even saw the cigar box, though he only filled his office with their splendid aroma, for very special clients. She closed the ledger, went to the kitchen, and there dropped the letter into the stove, after which she went upstairs, opened the top drawer of the bureau, and took out four letters from the bank, marked Private. They were still unopened. On Friday she would remember them all the way to the bank, lead to her feet. She couldn’t ask Jones again, daren’t.
‘God Almighty! Why did it have to come today, of all days. I can’t be in the red again, I simply can’t.’ She picked up the calendar on the bureau, studied it, exclaimed, ‘Thank God.’ Forty-eight hours would kill February, and the sun must be somewhere around, and it was. She could see it now, shining on hillside and mountain, hear the singing water in the streams, hear the march of feet from England. She went to the cupboard and helped herself to a glass of gin, lit a cigarette, sat back in her chair, and made an imaginary voyage into the days that were warm, and the light bright. Even the sound of those distant voices was sudden music to her. Sometimes she had despaired, sometimes decided to go, to give it all up, but now, no, not now. The thoughts were already lessening the distance to the bank, even bringing a faint smile from Mr Griffith’s thin face, she could actually see him smiling. And she smiled herself, puffed vigorously at her cigarette, enjoyed her slow sipping of the gin. When the clock struck half past eleven she got up and went downstairs to inspect the results of Jones’s industrious endeavour. He was still at the top of the ladder, busy on the corner windows when she went out.
‘Nearly finished, Jones?’
Jones was very definite. ‘Quite finished, Mrs Gandell,’ and came slowly down the ladder, put down the bucket and drew back to pavement edge, and looked up. He even offered her a smile.
‘Shining like eyes, Mrs Gandell. Lovely.’
‘I’ll be in the dining-room,’ she said.
‘Yes, Mrs Gandell,’ and Jones departed dutifully with ladder and bucket and cloths.
‘I thought he’d never get done. Haven’t been done for months.’ She reminded him of this when he came in.
‘And the bloody rain hammering them night and day for the past month, Mrs Gandell. What a waste of energy.’
‘You can have a drink, Jones,’ she said, and he followed her upstairs.
‘Ah!’ he exclaimed, ‘Ah! Totally unexpected, makes the morning change colour.’
She flung him a cigarette. ‘First of March Friday,’ she said.
Jones clapped hands, cried, ‘Hurrah!’ then wished her good health.
‘And think of it. Mr Prothero and friend coming at the weekend.’
Jones hurrahed again, it was like fireworks, gay lights, all the days before kicked into the sea and forgotten.
‘You’ve been so patient, Mrs Gandell,’ he said. ‘So patient.’
‘I want to talk to you about some idea I have, Jones,’ she said, and he sat forward at once.
‘Yes, Mrs Gandell?’
She finished her drink, got up, and said, ‘Come along now,’ and Jones did his duty and came along, and they went from one room to the other. ‘I’d like to have new wallpaper in both those rooms, Jones.’
‘I know’ he said, dragging it, and wondered ‘when, how?’
They came to Miss Vaughan’s attic room. She opened the door, but did not step inside. Jones smiled, and stepped in.
‘Holy of Holies,’ he said. And then she followed him in.
There was a large book lying open on the bed, and she picked it up and studied it, idling through the pages, pausing to look at an illustration or two.
‘What is this?’
‘Welsh,’ he said.
‘But what is it?’
‘Mabinogion,’ Jones said, and took it from her, and glanced at the opened pages.
‘Oh.’
‘Fairy tales,’ he said, ‘and if you happen to like that sort of thing, very nice indeed. Very nice.’
‘Children?’ asked Mrs Gandell.
‘Grown-up children also, Mrs Gandell.’
‘Have you read it, Jones?’
‘Yes.’
She walked out, and Jones closed the door after him. And then back to their own room, the ugly furniture, the wallpaper and the sad faded birds and flowers; back to the tight, unchanging life of this room, in which both of them felt safe, secure, close, bound. They shared everything with each other. They shared the winter, the ritual of their ordinary days. Jones rose at the exact time each morning, and, after hasty ablutions rushed down to make the early morning tea, made the usual inspection of the dining-room, carefully examining the tables. There were no crumbs, and nobody had stolen anything. Whilst the kettle sang he went and collected the morning papers, and any mail that lay under the door. Mrs Gandell received little mail, and Jones always went carefully through it, just in case. But there was never any letter for him, and he was never disappointed. Christmas was the exception when Mrs Gandell would send him a card. He appreciated that. Having made the tea he went upstairs and served Mrs Gandell, and then himself. After which the curtains were drawn, a cursory glance at the morning sky, and then the morning paper, which neither of them ever read. Mrs Gandell lay back in bed whilst Jones opened the paper, rushed through all the headlines until he came to the page where the day’s fortunes were told. He would then read out her fortune for that day, and then his own. The paper was then folded up and added to the fire kindling pile. He then switched on the transistor and they listened to the weather forecast, and after that, the news. They never discussed the news. He took the transistor down and put it on the sideboard, where it remained for the convenience of any guest. Miss Vaughan had not, to date, made any request to listen to either the weather or the news. Miss Vaughan, living inside Miss Vaughan, liked it that way, and she was kept busy enough. Now, seated opposite each other, and looking relaxed and at ease, Mrs Gandell even smiled at Jones, and he was always prompt.
‘Yes, Mrs Gandell?’
‘Nothing, Jones. Just thinking.’
His voice oozed satisfaction, self-praise. ‘I think we’ve done a very good job this morning, Mrs Gandell. Don’t you.’
But already her thoughts were drawing her away from the room, nearer to the Midland Bank, and she said very quietly, ‘Yes, you did an excellent job.’
‘The hotel has a bright new face, Mrs Gandell.’
She nodded her approval, held on to the uncomfortable thoughts.
‘I think it might be a good thing, Jones, if you went in to Davies today. Get it done with. And you had better take in a sample sheet, since I want exactly the same kind.’
‘Very well,’ he said.
‘Then get off, Jones, get off.’
‘Yes, Mrs Gandell,’ and he hurried from the room.
Mr Griffith’s communication still seemed to her rather abrupt.
‘Surely, I can’t be in the red again?’
She heard Jones coming out of the other room. He popped his head in, saying, ‘I’m off now, Mrs Gandell. Anything else you want whilst I’m in town?’
She shook her head. No. She wanted nothing. She heard him down the stairs, and a few minutes later the front door banged. He had gone. Immediately she got up and went down to her office.
‘“Or phone, if you must”.’
She looked at the telephone so rarely used, picked it up and dialled the bank and asked for the manager.
‘Mr Griffith?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Oh,’ and a very long oh, and then, ‘Good morning,’ and then waiting.
‘Yes, Mrs Gandell?’
‘I hope you don’t mind, Mr Griffith, but this is the only morning I have free,’ and would have liked to add, ‘I’m so busy this week.’
‘At the time stated?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Very well,’ followed by a loud ahem. ‘Half past ten it is, and I look forward to seeing you.’
Unlike Mr Griffith, Mrs Gandell at this moment, did not. She went to her room and changed, surveyed the Gandell countenance in the powder-misted mirror. ‘I’ll be glad when its over,’ she thought. She picked up her umbrella in the hall, took one look upstairs, and opened the front door. She was certain of one thing. Nobody would call during her absence, and nobody would ring. Until the end of a dreadful February nobody would have the slightest interest in Cartref. She gave a little sigh as she turned the corner, and hoped for the best.
Hers was an unwanted, unasked for journey. She smiled but the once, the name Prothero coming into her mind, popping up like a fugitive. She hoped nothing would go wrong.
At the bank, Mr Griffith sat and waited for her, from time to time glancing at his watch. He cared about time, and was as punctual and precise as the clock on the wall. Sitting back in his chair, reading The Times, he suddenly went to the back page, and once more went through the obituary column. This was a daily duty to do, and he ran his eye down the column. He had missed nothing. Mr Griffith often thought about an aged aunt, oceans away in Australia, whom he hadn’t seen for years, and whilst she lived, he hoped. He folded up the paper, thought about Mrs Gandell. Almost a year since he had seen her. He was both knowledgeable and calculating, and there was little concerning the human condition of his clients that did not seep through the stout doors of the bank. He had a certain admiration for Mrs Gandell, a woman that refused to be beaten by the odds against her. He also thought her a somewhat foolish woman, since he had advised her on more than one occasion that her hotel would not pay. But then, she was English, from Yorkshire, and as stubborn as granite. Still, he admired her, and often enough wondered why she had ever come to the town, a complete stranger. Cartref went cheaply enough. Perhaps that was the answer.
‘Its last two owners had never made it pay.’ He ought to know. He thought her rather naive, since she seemed at all times optimistic, even about uncertainties. It seemed to him a long way to come in order to go through an inevitable process. The Griffith eye and ear missed nothing. On impulse he decided to receive her in a room reeking of cigar, and at once lighted one, after which he pressed the bell on his desk.
‘Come in,’ and his faithful ledger clerk entered and placed the Gandell account on his desk.
‘Thank you, Jenkins,’ and the clerk went out. He called him back.
‘Yes sir?’
‘How healthy?’
‘Eighty-nine pounds seventeen shillings and eightpence, Mr Griffith.’
‘Right.’
He looked at his watch again, at the clock on the wall.
‘She’s late.’
He sat back, spread legs, enjoyed his cigar. He wondered if, the previous evening, Mrs Gandell’s ears had burned.
‘They ought to have done,’ he thought, and a thin smile came from thin lips. ‘Yes indeed.’
For only last evening he had dined at The Oak with Jack Blair. Over the succulent Welsh lamb they had quietly discussed the position of a property called The Palms, a very large house of twenty rooms that had long been empty, and which, during the war, had been turned into a guest house for elderly refugees. It stood at the opposite end of the bridge, bigger than Cartref, and more threatening. The moment Mr Griffith realised that The Palms had been empty too long, he rang up a solicitor friend about it, and in a flash it was a good idea to them both. Why on earth hadn’t they thought of it before. Mr Griffith’s head went right back, he sent up a cloud of smoke, and idly contemplated the ceiling. ‘Quick on his toes,’ Griffith thought.
‘Make a good hotel, Jack, get it cheap, I know the owner.’
‘There’s the small place at the other end of the bridge,’ Mr Blair said.
‘Had it in mind. The owner might sell. Having a very difficult time of it at the moment, hardly any visitors at all this winter, though the usual summer traffic. But it’s a struggle for her, and she might be glad to let it go.’
‘You want both?’ asked Blair.
‘Why not?’ and he gave a vigorous nod.
‘No harm in trying. Might refuse. Say she’s stubborn.’
‘She’s from Yorkshire,’ Mr Griffith said.
Mr Blair said he would certainly think about the idea.
‘Good.’
