Screwtop Thompson

4. Hark the Herald

The narrow stairway had a wooden banister on each side, and was carpeted in red. I came down five steps, turned at a small landing, and stopped to examine a barometer on the wall. There were five more steps below me. He was waiting at the bottom.

“Morning, sir,” he said. “Did you manage to get a good night’s sleep?”

“Oh, morning,” I replied. “Er…not quite, actually.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, sir. Any particular reason?”

“Well, it’s just that the merrymaking seemed to go on for a bit too long.”

“Merrymaking, sir?”

“Yes.”

“What sort of merrymaking?”

“I could hear all this laughing and singing. It kept me awake.”

“That’s very odd, sir,” he said. “None of the other guests have mentioned it.”

“Oh…haven’t they?”

“No, they haven’t. There’s been no one complaining about any ‘merrymaking’.”

“Oh no, I’m not complaining,” I said quickly. “It’s just that I thought it went on a bit too long, that’s all.”

His name was Mr Sedgefield. I’d met him late the previous evening when I first arrived, and he had put me in their ‘best single room’. Now he gave me a long, thoughtful look before speaking again.

“Well we don’t want your Christmas spoilt, sir, so we’ll have to look into the matter.”

“Thanks.”

He remained at the foot of the stairs gazing up at me, and for the first time I noticed he was wearing a kitchen apron emblazoned with a smiling pink pig. I felt unable to continue my descent until he’d moved out of the way, but he showed no inclination to do this so I turned my attention once again to the barometer.

“I see the pressure’s fallen overnight.”

“Yes,” he said. “Should make for some very interesting seas during the next day or two.”

“That’s what I was thinking. Might be nice to have a stroll along the clifftops later.”

“If only we’d known your plans earlier, sir. You could have gone with the others. A whole party of them left not half an hour ago.”

“What, without breakfast?”

“Oh no, we made sure they all had breakfast first.”

“Does that mean I’m too late?”

“Of course not,” he said, stepping back at last and indicating the dining room. “You might have missed the bacon and eggs, but we can always rustle up some porridge.”

I heard myself thanking him once again, and then continued my way downstairs. A large upright clock in the hall showed that it was five past nine. This didn’t strike me as an unduly late time to be coming down for breakfast in a guest house, but it was obvious that everyone else had already been and gone. All the tables in the dining room were bare apart from a small one in the corner by the window. This had cup, saucer and cutlery set for one.

Mr Sedgefield ushered me towards it and I sat down just as another man appeared in the doorway and said, “Sugar, honey or treacle?”

“Pardon?” I asked.

“In your porridge.”

“Oh, sorry. Er…treacle, please, if you’ve got it.”

This second man also wore a kitchen apron, but his depicted a laughing cow rather than a smiling pig.

“Righto,” he said, and next moment was gone again.

“Years since I’ve had porridge with treacle in it,” I remarked to Mr Sedgefield.

“Yes,” he replied. “We have things here you can’t often get in other parts of the country.”

“Actually, I didn’t mean…” I began, but now he too had left the dining room.

In the last few moments he’d discreetly placed a small coffee pot on the table, so I poured myself a cup and took the opportunity to glance at my surroundings. The walls were arrayed with paintings and framed photographs of maritime scenes, past and present. In one picture an ocean liner with red funnels departed from some great international port. In the next, a fishing smack unloaded at the quay. There were yachts in black-and-white ‘going to windward off Portland Bill’, and others in colour with their spinnakers billowing. Meanwhile, ancient triremes prepared for battle in the Aegean. The nautical decor had been made festive with berries and seasonal greenery, but it was overdone somewhat, so that the Victory at Trafalgar now lay partially obscured by sprigs of holly. I’d seen the same sort of thing in the hallway when I arrived. Every attempt had been made to give the place a ‘yuletide’ feel, but behind the mistletoe and the tinsel there were always icebergs and distant lightships. It was the coastal setting that did it. This was a seaside guest house that catered mainly for summer visitors, and it was decked out according to their expectations.

Yet the place had its attractions in mid-winter too, which was why I’d decided to spend Christmas here. Through the window I could see a silver gleam where the sky and the sea reflected one another. A perfect place for getting the New Year off to an optimistic start.

The house stood on the clifftops above a cove. It had been built to withstand the extremities of weather, and although there were two storeys it was very squat and low. Hence the staircase with only ten steps. The rooms were small, and staying here somehow reminded me of being on board a ship. I’d arrived late the night before, when the place was in darkness. Mr Sedgefield had let me in and attended to everything, but I had been aware of someone else’s presence in the kitchen at the end of the hall. Presumably this was the man who’d asked me about my porridge. We’d had a bit of a chat about the weather, during which I’d learnt that we were ‘too far west’ to get any snow in ‘normal years’. Then I was given a mince pie and a glass of sherry before going up to bed.

I had hoped to be lulled straight to sleep by the sound of waves gently breaking on the seashore. Instead, I’d been kept awake for some time by all this laughing and singing. I couldn’t tell what part of the house it was coming from, but it seemed to continue until the early hours. There were glasses tinkling as well.

Now I had no objection to people enjoying themselves. After all, it was Christmas, the season of goodwill, and they were only having a little harmless fun. I just thought it went on for a bit too long really, so I resolved to mention it to Mr Sedgefield when I saw him in the morning. Finally, the merrymaking ceased and I slept at last, but I was so exhausted that I failed to wake until almost nine o’clock, and there was only porridge left for breakfast.

♦

The treacle had been poured over the top, but I was allowed to stir it in myself. Meanwhile, Mr Sedgefield hovered around the dining room and ensured that my coffee cup was replenished frequently. I had to admit that the service was excellent, although he did tend to fuss a little.

After a while he said, “Don’t mind me asking, sir, but did you have any plans for this evening?”

“Not really,” I answered.

“Well, if you’re interested, some of the other guests are having a bit of a Christmas get-together later on.”

“Oh right.”

“There’ll be games like snakes-and-ladders, charades and blind man’s buff, as well as mince pies for everyone.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Yes, indeed,” he said. “And I’m sure they’d love you to join them.”

“Well, yes,” I replied. “I’d be very glad to.”

“After supper then, in the reception room?”

“Right, I’ll be there.”

“Good.” A moment passed, and then he asked, “Porridge, alright, was it?”

“Delicious, thanks,” I said.

“It’s a shame you had to miss the full breakfast, but of course you will be entitled to a packed lunch.”

“When?”

“When you go out.”

“Oh…er, OK, thanks.”

“You will be going out, won’t you, sir?”

“Well, I hadn’t definitely decided, but, yes, I expect I most probably will.”

“There are some fine walks to be had on the cliffs,” he announced. “And if you’re feeling particularly robust, I can strongly recommend the view at Temple Point.”

I wasn’t feeling ‘particularly robust’ after my sleepless night, but it was clear that my host wanted me out for the day. Presumably this was so preparations could be made for the coming evening, and therefore I obliged him by agreeing that I would indeed be going for a walk later. Next thing he’d produced a map, which he opened and spread before me on the table.

“With a bit of luck you’ll meet the other guests somewhere en route,” he said. “I gather they’re heading in the same direction.”

Temple Point turned out to be a spit of land protruding into the sea about four miles away to the west. Obviously Mr Sedgefield had more in mind for me than a casual seaside stroll, but by the time he’d indicated the waymarked paths and other suggested viewpoints I’d come fully to accept the idea. Besides, I thought, it would give me a good appetite for supper.

An hour later I was in the hallway putting on my boots when he emerged from the kitchen.

“We’re just doing your sandwiches now, sir. Cheese be all right, will it?”

“Yes, fine, thanks.”

“Like an apple as well?”

“Please.”

“Right you are.”

He disappeared again, and for the next few moments I heard lowered voices speaking in the kitchen. Not wanting to eavesdrop on their conversation I stepped out into the porch, closing the front door behind me. In the corner stood a large Christmas tree. It was decorated with fairy lights, and as I waited I noticed them flicker a couple of times. Thinking there must be a loose bulb somewhere I began working round the tree, testing each one. I’d got about halfway when the door opened and Mr Sedgefield came out.

“Something wrong, sir?” he asked.

“Well,” I replied. “There seems to be a fault somewhere. I was just looking for it.”

“Now don’t you go worrying about that,” he said. “You’re supposed to be on holiday so just let me deal with any problems.”

“Oh…OK then.”

“Here you are.” He handed me a neat package in a greaseproof-paper bag. The clock in the hallway struck eleven. It was time for me to go.

“By the way,” I asked. “What time’s supper?”

“Whenever you like, sir,” he replied. “Just take as long as you wish.”

♦

The guest house was bounded on one side by a garden with ornamental trees and shrubs, including several rhododendrons. Behind it towards the sea lay open countryside, small fields with sparse hedges that gave out to tracts of bracken near the edge of the cliffs. I found the waymarked path and headed west.

The weather was mild but, because of the overnight drop in pressure, decidedly blustery. It also accounted for the ‘interesting seas’ that Mr Sedgefield had mentioned. The whole ocean seemed to be mounting a headlong charge against this stretch of the coast, with huge breakers crashing against the cliffs below. Not that I was complaining, of course. It was just this sort of wild bleakness that I’d come looking for. I walked with my head down into the wind, stopping from time to time to watch seabirds performing acrobatics above the waves. In one of the fields some cows stood huddled with their backs to the sea, nudging at a bale of hay that had been laid out for them. Here and there in the distance I could see occasional low buildings, some of which I took to be farmhouses, others I supposed were holiday homes to rent. What I didn’t see, though, were people. No one else had chosen to walk the coastal path today, and there was no sign of Mr Sedgefield’s other guests. Maybe they’d gone in the opposite direction.

It was mid-afternoon when I finally arrived at Temple Point. Here the cliffs had broken away to leave a great towering arch of rock, pounded on all sides by the white swirling waters and resembling some great piece of Gothic architecture. I clambered right to the end of the promontory, and then sat looking across at the arch. Every now and then a shower of spray would rise up from below, momentarily threatening to engulf me before subsiding again. Meanwhile the soaring columns of rock stood immobile and unmoved by the surging waves. It was a marvellous sight.

I spent quite a while gazing out and pondering what primeval forces had conspired together to create such a place. Than I ate my sandwiches.

♦

Darkness had fallen by the time I arrived back at the guest house, but surprisingly there was no sign of activity inside. This came as a bit of a disappointment. The walk home from Temple Point had seemed to take much longer than the outward journey, with the threat of rain coming in later, and I’d begun to look forward to a little Christmas cheer.

The get-together that Mr Sedgefield had spoken of now appeared most attractive. I could just imagine him and his partner fussing around in the reception room, lighting a log fire and preparing some fine mulled wine. Or perhaps roasting chestnuts. It would also be a chance at last to meet the other guests.

As it was, I came up the garden path to find the place silent and gloomy. Even the fairy lights in the porch had given up flickering and seemed finally to have gone out altogether. Before going inside I decided to complete my test on the bulbs. There were half a dozen left to do, and when I got to the last one I discovered it was loose.

I gave it the necessary twist and all the lights were restored.

Then I knocked on the door and waited.

A minute passed before Mr Sedgefield opened up.

“Ah,” he said. He was no longer wearing his apron.

“Ah,” I replied with a grin. “I’m back.”

“Yes.”

I was led inside and we stood for a few awkward moments in the hall.

“Not too late for supper, am I?” As I spoke I realised my appetite had returned with a vengeance. I felt quite hungry again.

“Well,” he said. “I suppose we could do you a cold plate at a push.”

“Is that what the others are having?”

“The others had theirs hours ago.”

“Oh…did they?”

“Indeed they did, and I’m sorry to say you’ve missed them again.”

“How?”

“They’ve gone carol-singing. Shame really, you could have gone with them.”

“But what about the get-together?”

“I’m afraid that’s postponed.”

He showed me into the reception room, and then went off to the kitchen. There were no logs burning in the grate, only an electric fire with one bar switched on. And there were no decorations. When Mr Sedgefield finally returned he brought a plate with some cold pork, a few slices of bread and butter, and some pickle.

“Bon appetit,” he said.

I watched as he went to the dresser and opened a sherry bottle, pouring out three glasses. He gave one to me, and then carried the other two out of the room. He didn’t come back.

The evening passed very slowly. I finished my supper and spent a while looking at some National Geographic magazines. There was enough sherry left in the bottle for another glass or two, but I was unwilling to help myself without asking. So at about half past ten I went up to my room.

I sat on the bed and listened. At any moment I hoped to hear the sound of merrymakers returning, followed soon afterwards by glasses tinkling and joyous voices calling me down to be with them.

Yet all I heard was the murmuring sea as it broke against the shore.