She shrugged, stepped closer to the open balcony doors, and looked out. “Out there, and…and up there.”
I followed her gaze—out across the ribbon of the road and up a hillside clad in ivy and old man’s beard—craning my neck to take in the gaunt aspect of another, rather dilapidated-looking hotel perched up there on that higher level. And:
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “Up there,”
“But you also mentioned this room,” I pressed her.
“Yes,” Hannah said, moving toward the door. “Mrs. Anderson does not like this room. This is the first time she has let it in the eleven months I have worked here. But we had a very poor winter, with only a few guests, and while things are now improving, I know she still needs the money. That is why…” But here she paused.
“Why you argued on my behalf? At the desk, I mean?”
Now she smiled and said, “Aha! But you too are very astute! Also persistent! Myself, I am not a superstitious person. There is nothing wrong with this room Mr. Smith, and I hope you enjoy your stay here.”
“But—”
“Now I have work,” she said. “You will excuse me?”
While I would like to have known more, what else could I do but let her go?
As she left, Hannah closed the door quietly behind her…
Moving my luggage, a single small suitcase, from my car to room number seven, I stopped at the desk to order dinner and pay for four nights in advance. Hannah was obviously busy elsewhere for when I rang the bell it was Mrs. Anderson who came from a small office at the end of the desk to attend to me. She looked a lot more settled than the last time I had seen her, and while dealing with the business in hand she was able to talk to me.
“You’re from London, Mr. Smith?”
“Ah, my accent!” I said, nodding. “No mistaking London, eh? Well yes, I’m London born and bred, but not just recently. Newcastle, but I wasn’t there long enough to pick up the accent—thank goodness!”
She smiled. “I hear lots of accents. I’ve become expert in recognising them.”
“And how about you?” I answered. “I’m no expert myself but I’d guess you’re local—or West-Country at least?—or then again, maybe not. It’s like I said: I’m no expert!”
“From Cornwall originally,” she said. “We owned a hotel in Polperro; that is, my husband and I. But business was very bad three years in a row, so we sold up, moved here six years ago, fell in love with this place and…and bought it.”
As she paused her smile gradually faded, then for a moment or two she began that rapid blinking again. She must have seen my reaction however—my startled expression—and as quickly took hold of herself. Then:
“I’m sorry,” she began to apologise, “but my nerves aren’t up to much these days. I’m sure you’ve noticed, and…”
I held up a hand to stop her. “There’s really no need.”
But with her voice trembling ever so slightly, she quickly continued: “…And I think that you deserve an explanation. For it might have appeared I was being unnecessarily rude to you.”
“Mrs. Anderson,” I began, “whatever the problem is, I don’t need you to explain. I’m only a little worried that my presence here might be aggravating things…my presence in room number seven, that is.”
Despite my apparent concern and words of sympathy, however, my mentioning the room was quite deliberate. Hannah had told me something about that room—she had even made it sound as if it was haunted or something—and I wanted to know more; it was as simple as that. Looking back on it, maybe I should have remembered what people say about cats and curiosity.
Mrs. Anderson seemed to have gone three shades paler. “Room number seven,” she finally said. Not a question; nothing emphasized; she had simply repeated me coldly and parrot-fashion…as if my words had triggered some response in her brain causing it to switch off, or at the very least to switch channels. Then the blinking started up again and her hands began fluttering on the desk’s mahogany top.
Whatever this recurring condition of hers was, it was obvious that my words had brought on this latest attack. And now my concern was very real.
On impulse I reached across the desk and trapped her hands, pinning them there. She at once relaxed and in that moment, but only for the moment, I almost felt uplifted: some kind of faith healer!…But no, I didn’t have the touch; it was little more than concerned, caring human contact.
Sensing the calm come over her, as quickly as I had reacted to her problem I now released her and took a pace back from the desk. And: “I’m…so sorry!” I said, not knowing what else to say.
“There’s really no need,” she answered, no longer blinking and apparently in control once again, but avoiding further eye-to-eye contact by gazing at her slender white hands. “It’s not your fault, Mr. Smith. It’s a matter of association: that room, and the memories. You see, I loved my husband very much, and—”
She paused, and before she was able to continue—assuming she intended to—the hotel’s frosted-glass outer doors beyond the small lobby swung open, and a rising babble reached us as a large party of noisy, chattering people began entering from the pavement in front of the place. Out there, a coach was just now pulling away.
Now Mrs. Anderson looked up, away from me and toward these others as they claimed her attention, smiling and trading small talk with her where they passed us by. And some colour returned to her face when a pair of men carrying a wicker basket between them stopped and nodded, beamed their satisfaction and indicated their burden.
“For tonight,” one of the two said with a laugh, “that’s if chef will oblige?”
“Oh, I’m sure he will!” Mrs. Anderson answered him. “That’s if you’ll pay something for his time, Mr. Carson, and if you’ll also cover my losses?”
“But of course we’ll look after the chef!” Carson answered. “And your takings won’t suffer any. These—” he tapped a finger on the basket, “—are only for those who caught ’em, who took a chance and held back from ordering an evening meal. And there’s maybe a couple of pounds extra left over for your freezer.”
Now she was smiling, albeit a little wanly. “You had a good day, then? You made a good catch?”
“Some nice ling,” the other replied. “Wreck-fish, you know? And a few beautiful red mullet! Do you want to see?” He made as if to lift the basket’s lid.
“Goodness no!” She turned her face away. “Better get off to the kitchen before you stink the whole place out!”
And laughing, the two made off after the rest of the group.
“A fishing party,” I said, unnecessarily; many of them had been carrying their fishing tackle, and they’d certainly seemed overdressed for a warm summer day! Anyway, I now understood why the place had seemed so empty.
“Two coach loads of them,” Mrs. Anderson answered. “They’ve been here for a week, fishing from some boats they’ve hired out of Brixham. The other coach should be arriving any time now. In a few more days they’ll be gone; the place will be mostly empty again and I’ll miss their custom. They’re no trouble and during the day they’re mostly out, but they do use the bar quite a lot in the evenings.”
Smiling, I replied, “Where they down a few drinks and start telling tall tales of the ones that got away, right?”
“Myself, I don’t really approve of drink,” she said, frowning for no apparent reason. “Though I must confess that the bar keeps the place ticking over. Which reminds me: I have stock to take care of. Please excuse me…”
She went off about her business, and as Hannah appeared and began making entries in books behind the desk, once again I was obliged to rein in my curiosity. Then again—as I grudgingly told myself—whatever the mystery was here it wasn’t my business anyway. And some ten minutes later, finished with unpacking my few belongings, I was out on my balcony in time to watch the second coach unloading its passengers with their rods and gear. Quieter than the first batch, it appeared that their day hadn’t quite matched up to expectations…