At each end of the patio and in its centre, standing there like stiff, lonely sentinels, a trio of large, folded-down sunshade parasols continued to watch over places once occupied by hotel guests at alfresco tables. In the case of the parasol on the far right, however, “standing” is probably misleading; for in fact it had toppled and now leaned over the parapet in that corner, where its canvas burden tended to sag a little. At the far left its opposite number remained upright but it, too, had suffered an indignity: its canopy had not been fully collapsed, resulting in bare ribs and a badly torn canvas that flapped in an evening breeze off the sea like a tattered pennant.
Only the central parasol appeared in good functional condition: its stem entirely perpendicular and its folded-down canvas canopy secured at the frill three-quarters of the way down its length. I knew that under that frill eight hardwood spokes would be clasped about the stem in a circle, like the arms of some deep-sea octopus. I understood the design of these things by virtue of the fact that my landlady in Exeter had just such a parasol in her garden, beneath which I would often sit reading a book.
As for this forlorn trio:
Since in their day these sunshades would have been attractive and expensive heavy-duty items of outdoor furniture, I was at first surprised that they had been left behind—especially the pair that appeared to be in good order. That was what I had found a little strange. On reflection, however, I reasoned that just like the parasol with the torn canvas, the other two might also be damaged, their defects hidden or disguised by distance, but sufficient to make salvaging them unprofitable.
Then, as the shadows deepened and my balcony cooled, I went inside, fell asleep on my bed, and woke from disturbing but unremembered dreams barely in time for dinner…
At dinner I discovered that the Czech girls—Hannah’s “common room-maids”—had duties other than cleaning, tidying and changing the linen: they also served meals. They were pretty girls, too, very much down to earth, unlike the rather haughty Hannah.
“Haughty Hannah”…from Hamburg, or maybe Hannover? I had to smile at the alliterative “sound” of it: even though it only sounded in my mind, it served to bring back to mind the title of that novelty song, Hard-Hearted Hannah, about a lady who “pours water on a drowning man.” Also, it told me that for some reason I couldn’t quite put my finger on I had taken a dislike to the German woman. Perhaps it was because she had “poured water” on my questions about Mrs. Anderson.
Anyway, the Czech girls served dinner to me and a room full of amateur fishermen and women, and the chef—decked out in a white hat and apron—came out of the kitchen to inquire about his culinary offerings: were they up to expectations? And actually they had been; indeed the food had been exceptional.
I told him so in the bar later, where I was drinking Coca-Cola with a slice of lemon, and lusting after his Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7 on the rocks. A burly, pigtailed Scotsman—“It keeps mah hair oot o’ the grub!”—he appreciated my compliments, and he fully understood why I refrained from joining him in a glass of the hard stuff.
“Oh aye,” Gavin McCann quietly announced, nodding and lifting a confidential forefinger to tap the side of his nose. “Mah old man—mah father—he found it somethin’ o’ a problem, too. He liked his wee dram. Truth is, he liked every wee dram in the whole damn bottle! And he paid for it, the old lad: he saw more than his fair share o’ pink elephants, that yin. Until the time came when they stampeded all over him, especially on his liver! Aye, and they made a right mess o’ that, too.”
Pink elephants? Well, I hadn’t come across any of them. But other stuff? Oh yes, I had seen other stuff.
“How about you?” I asked him—and quickly added. “But hey, ignore me if that’s a bit too personal! It’s just that—”
“Am I an alcoholic, d’ye mean?” He shook his head. “No, not yet. So don’t be affeard o’ buyin’ me a drink or two! Mind you, I’ve seen enough o’ drinkin’ in this place—and in the town—not tae mention the Andersons’ old place down in Polperro. Aye, and ye’d think it would put a body off; but a man gets a taste, and…well, let’s face it: there’s no too much else tae enjoy any more, now is there?” With which he tossed back the drink he was working on, stared expectantly at me, and speculatively at his empty glass.
This was rather more than a subtle hint, but with a little luck I may finally have found a means of discovering something more about the Seaview’s—or Mrs. Anderson’s—mystery, assuming there was such a thing.
And so when McCann was sipping on his next drink, a double I had bought him, and which I wished was mine: “Chef,” I asked him, “Gavin, what do you make of Mrs. Anderson, the Seaview’s boss lady?”
“Eh?” he answered sharply, narrowing his eyes and lowering his glass. “What’s that, ye say? Janet Anderson? Ye’ve noticed somethin’ about that poor lass? Well let me tell ye: she’s one very unfortunate lady, aye! But not so unlucky as some I could mention. Hmm! Maybe ye’d care tae hear about it?”
I said I would, of course. And as the drink went in so the story came out and the mystery began to unravel; by which time we had moved to a corner table well away from the other guests, where McCann could tell his story in relative privacy…
“Unlucky, aye, Janet and Kevin both,” McCann reiterated, with a customary nod and confidential finger tapping his nose. “But as tae who was unluckiest…well, at least Janet’s still here!”
“Kevin?” I raised a querying eyebrow.
“He was her husband,” McCann answered. “And he had the self-same problem as mah old man and yeresel’—er, no offence! But ye’ll ken mah meanin’.”
“No offence taken,” I answered. “And I’m not convinced that I was ever a full-fledged alcoholic anyway. You see, it affects me very quickly and so badly that I’ve never been able to drink that much in the first place! But whether or no, I’m off it and glad to be.” Which was at least half true: I was off it.
“Enough said,” said he, and again his nod of understanding.
“So?” I shrugged, as if only casually interested. “This, er, Kevin is Mrs. Anderson’s husband? And he what? Ran off and left her or something?”
He gave me an odd look. “Aye, or somethin’…” But then:
“Ye ken,” said McCann, “I’ve always believed there’s only one right and proper way tae tell a story, and that’s frae the beginnin’. And for that I’ll need tae take ye back tae Polperro all of seven long years ago. That’s where they met and wed, and began their first business venture together: a small hotel that was on the slide when they bought it and kept right on slidin’. The Andersons, aye—a verra odd couple from the start! Janet, so straight-laced and, well, just straight!—but naturally so, ye ken? I mean: never holier-than-thou, no, not at all. Just a steady, level-headed lass. As for Kevin, her junior by some seven or eight years: he was a wee bit immature, somethin’ o’ a Jack-the-lad, if ye get mah meanin’. Like chalk and cheese, the pair o’ them, but they do say opposites attract. And anyway, who was I tae judge or make observations? Nobody.
“As to who I really was:
“I was the top chef on a cruise liner until I lost mah job tae a poncy French cook who was havin’ it off with the captain! Anyway, that’s a whole other story. The thing is, I was discharged frae mah duties in Plymouth in the summer, and so took time off to rethink mah life. A bit o’ tourin’ found me in Polperro, and that’s where I met up with Kevin in a pub one night. He had a few personal problems, too, for which reason he was sinkin’ a dram or two…or perhaps three or four. This was before Janet knew just how dependant he was becomin’—on booze, ye ken.