Furnace (11 page)

That’s right.

It’s just you and a coach party of Japanese arriving today, she said, as if to explain her certainty. Maybe one more late tonight, but only if they make it cross-country, she added
doubtfully. She spoke with a firm Yorkshire accent. It sounded much stronger in person than it had over the phone, Hamilton thought. She seemed to study his face for a moment, then looked out of a
side window onto the drive. With a tiny, brisk dip of the head she acknowledged his solitary parked car, dark and heavy on the shingle drive. You’re with your daughter, it says in my book.
Just you and your daughter?

Just the two of us.

Well, she said, and passed him a form to sign. I’ll take you to your rooms myself. The girls are off for the afternoon. She turned to take two keys from brass hooks on the wall behind her,
and Hamilton looked around him and peered up the broad hall towards the shadowy staircase as if noting the girls’ absence, whoever they were.

Their rooms were part of a long, low converted stable running at right angles to the main building. At their back was a small courtyard unbounded on its other two sides. A dead
fountain, crusted with lichen, was its only feature and just beyond the yard’s boundary, where the cobbles gave onto a rough, uncultivated field, stood three small caravans. They were
axle-deep in grass and thistles but obviously inhabited: a full washing line was strung up close by them and a shadow of movement flickered behind one of the windows. The rain had cleared from the
air now and a cool breeze had sprung up. The blouses and underclothes on the line swung out in the gusts.

Here we are, the manager said, and Hamilton halted behind her while she unlocked a door and led them both inside. Your own door is the next one along, she said, turning to Marian and handing her
a key, but we can go through to it from here – the rooms are connected. She moved to the narrow connecting door and opened it to show them. It bolts from both sides, she said and slid a small
bolt back and forth. There’s a mini-bar in this room but not in yours, I’m afraid, she said to Marian again, smiling briefly. She went through to the adjoining room and Marian followed
after her with her case. Hamilton yawned and sat heavily on the nearest of his twin beds. Through the net skirt covering the glass panel in his door he could make out the white of the caravans. The
room’s main window was in the opposite wall, looking out onto the drive. It was small and set deep into the bulky, crude stone blocks of the old building. From where Hamilton sat on the bed
all that could be seen through it was the solid grey of the sky. He stretched forward and with the tips of his fingers eased open the door of the mini-bar.

We count them up at the end of your stay and add what you’ve used to the bill, the manager said, surprising him. They were both back through in his room now, behind him. If you need it
re-stocked just let me know.

Right, he said, faintly embarrassed. He flicked it shut.

I’ll leave you to settle in, then. Unless there’s anything else?

Are you hungry? Hamilton asked Marian.

She shook her head.

No? he said, disbelieving.

Chef’s not coming up from the village until four, the manager broke in, but I can get you crisps or peanuts from the bar. Or you could try one of the cafés on the High Street.

We’ll maybe do that, he said, concealing his irritation. A walk’s probably what we need after that drive.

I’m fine, Marian said. I’ll just stay here.

The manager looked from Hamilton to Marian, then back at Hamilton again. Well, let me know if you need me, she said, and beamed at them before leaving.

Only one café was open in the village and the best Hamilton could get in the way of hot food was a rubbery bacon roll. He bolted it, swilling down the last stale
mouthful with the dregs of his coffee, then hurried back up the road to the hotel. A vague feeling of unease had followed him ever since he had left his room and he felt oppressed by the thick
clouds cloaking the village. The last of the climb was steep and his skin felt clammy under his clothes when he arrived finally at his door. He glanced across the courtyard while he fumbled for his
keys. There seemed to be no movement in the caravans opposite now, and no light in any of their windows. The washing on their line hung perfectly still though the smell of damp grass seemed to
carry somehow from the overgrown field to him, filling his nostrils. Quietly, he let himself in.

Marian was sleeping, curled tightly under the coverlet. Hamilton had half-expected the connecting door to be bolted, and when it had opened, its bottom edge sighing over the carpet and giving
onto the private gloom of her curtained room, he felt strangely moved and comforted. For a while he watched her, then went through to his own bed and set his alarm to wake him for dinner.

They were handed menus by a young girl, scarred from a harelip, who intercepted them as they made their way down the hall in search of the dining area. She wore a simple
uniform – white blouse and straight black skirt – and spoke broken English with an eastern European accent. Please, she said, smiling shyly, and directed them into a conservatory
sitting area which gave onto the dining room proper. Would you like to drink? While you choose? she asked, still smiling, once they had taken the menus from her and settled on the wicker couch.

What would you like? Hamilton asked Marian.

Just water, please.

Just water? You sure?

Just water, she repeated. Please.

A bottle of water? the waitress asked.

Just tap water, Marian said. She was blushing now.

The waitress seemed confused. She looked at Hamilton.

Just a glass – from the tap, Hamilton said, making a turning motion with his hand.

Ah, she said, and laughed a little. Yes, she said.

Gin and tonic for me, he added.

Yes, she said. Gin and tonic. She left, smiling.

Hamilton watched her go. Her dark, glossy hair was tied severely in a bun but let loose would fall down thick and ringletted, he decided. She walked with a quick, light motion, on delicate legs,
almost skipping through to the bar.

She’s pretty, Marian said, then leaned forward and picked up a stuffed photograph album from the coffee table in front of them. Hamilton sat back and surveyed the garden outside the
conservatory. A long, closely mown lawn, broken only by a court of croquet hoops, stretched to a far wall, low and tumbledown. Beyond that was a field of rape, dull gold under the heavy evening
clouds. Dark firs, cypresses and a few Scots pines bordered the entire length of the lawn. A single rabbit, feeding at the edge of a nearby flower border, lifted its head and paused, suddenly wary.
Look at the rabbit, he said to Marian, but she was absorbed in the album.

The door to the bar swung open and the waitress approached with a tray. She bent gracefully to settle it on the low coffee table, then handed them their glasses. Were they ready to order? she
wanted to know.

We’ll relax a little while here first, if that’s alright, Hamilton said.

Oh, of course, she said, eagerly.

It’s very peaceful, isn’t it? And a lovely view. He smiled, meeting her eyes, until she turned away and gathered up the tray.

Marian waited for her to leave and then fished with her fingertips for the slice of lime in her water. Pinching the rind, she shook off most of the wet and then leaned forward for the heavy
brass ashtray on the table.

If you don’t want that, drop it in mine, honey, Hamilton intervened. He held out his glass and she plopped it in. He swirled the gin, making the ice faintly chime, and winked at her.
What’s in the album?

The family, I think. I recognise the woman, but she’s got a husband and two boys in the photos. It shows how they changed the building into a hotel.

That’s interesting, said Hamilton. The rabbit was feeding again, head bowed, and others had appeared in the open too, now. They crouched, dotted about the lawn, static, as if distilled out
of the grey atmosphere. There was something unpleasant about them, about their being there so suddenly, unmoving on the big, evening lawn. He could hardly take his eyes off them, though he knew
Marian was watching him, wanting his attention.

What’s a manse?

A manse? he said, and forced himself to turn from the garden. It’s a house for ministers. Church ministers.

This used to be a manse. It says on the front page of the menu.

He opened his own menu and read the brief history of the building. Well, what would you like to eat? he said after finishing, turning the page. She was still staring at the story of the
building.

Chicken, if it’s there, she murmured.

You don’t want steak? They do great steak. It’s Aberdeen Angus. Or lamb?

She shuddered. No lamb, she said. Just chicken.

Okay, he said. It’s got garlic in it – that alright?

She nodded, still reading.

A different waitress, a plump, limp-haired blonde with a Scottish accent, took their order and led them to their table. To Hamilton’s relief, Marian ate well and quickly though between
each course she slipped away to wash her hands and was gone for several minutes at a time. At the table, whenever either of the waitresses came in to the room she followed their movements with
obvious fascination.

The manager herself came to the table with the desserts menu. How have the girls been? she wanted to know. The blond girl’s from the village, she said. That’s Helen. But
Beata’s Slovakian. She’s the darker girl. We’re getting more and more of them over for summer jobs now. They work hard, she went on, lowering her voice as Beata entered from the
bar, carrying a coffee-pot to another table, but I have to train them myself and their English isn’t the best. She rolled her eyes.

She’s been fine, said Hamilton. Hasn’t she, Marian?

Marian nodded.

Slovakia, he said. That’s a long way to come for a summer job.

The manager shrugged. It’s the way Europe’s going, isn’t it? Everywhere’s the same now. She’s here with her twin sister, Marta. They’re identical except for
the scar. She stroked her upper lip, surreptitiously. Nice girls, she concluded decisively. And the food?

Excellent, Hamilton said.

Good. I’ll tell chef.

They live in the caravans? The girls?

That’s right, she said, and opened a pad to take down their orders. I’ll send one of the girls through for your plates, she finished cheerfully, tapping out a full stop and snapping
the notepad shut.

One of the older girls at school has a scar like that, Marian said once the manager was out of earshot.

A harelip?

Is that an insulting name to call it?

No, he said, surprised. He thought for a moment. No, I don’t think so.

I think it makes you look unusual but not ugly.

No, it’s not ugly, is it?

It makes her shy, though. You can tell by the way she smiles.

The girl at school or the waitress?

I meant the waitress. But both of them, in fact, she said.

An elderly Japanese couple appeared in the dining room doorway and half nodded, half bowed in their direction, smiling broadly. They retreated again, silently, and from the direction of the
entrance hall Hamilton heard the muffled sounds of voices and fire doors banging shut.

He turned to the window. In the deepening dark only the looming structures of the firs and pines could be made out, all their colour and detail lost. A faint, low mist was lying over the garden
and the lawn was empty of life now. The nearer croquet hoops glimmered, just visible in the last of the light.

Can we play croquet tomorrow? she asked, and he realised she was following his gaze.

Why not? he said. If the weather’s good.

When the desserts arrived, brought by Beata, Marian again watched the older girl intently until she left the dining room. They ate silently for a while.

Where do you think the rest of the family are? Marian asked suddenly.

Whose family, honey? He glanced up at her.

The woman’s family. The ones in the album.

He shook his head. I don’t know. They’re maybe here and we haven’t seen them yet. Maybe the husband does the cooking.

No. She calls him chef.

Well, maybe he does all the odd-jobs around the place, or just does some other job in the village like a bank manager or something while she runs the hotel.

No, she said, with an odd, reluctant finality, and lifted her spoon. Her long, bony hands were red from all the washing.

In bed that night Hamilton opened one of the chilled wines from the mini-bar and read a spy thriller until late, noticing the crack of light under the connecting door only
after switching off his bedside lamp and rolling onto his side. Soon, he heard Marian get out of bed to use the bathroom and for some time afterwards she stayed awake, the beam under the door
wavering as she moved mysteriously about the room. Finally, he heard the bed creak under her weight again and with a soft click the room went dark. Until sleep came, he thought about the Slovakian
girl and the small white caravans in the long grass of the field.

* * *

The next day continued cool and overcast. Just before seven Hamilton watched through the glazed door as one of the twins gathered in the washing from the line, her hair turbaned
in a white towel. Soon afterwards she emerged again from the middle caravan and headed for the village on some errand, Hamilton supposed, a small rucksack high on her shoulders. Her rippled hair,
hanging long and loose now, was still damp.

After an early breakfast where they were waited on by the manager, he drove Marian a few miles to the outdoor pursuits centre. He had booked her in for two days’ pony-trekking, though she
could change her mind for either of the days, he insisted to her on the way, if there was anything else she’d rather do. The middle day of their stay he had kept free for them to do something
together. How did that sound?

It was fine.

You won’t mind a day off from riding?

No, she said, though without much conviction, Hamilton felt.

Back at the hotel his bed had already been made and he felt a brief pang of disappointment. Which of the twins? he wondered, and as he showered and then dried himself he
lingered on the thought of them moving quietly about his room. Afterwards, he lay back on the bed, naked and warm-skinned, considering what to do with himself. A gnawing nervous energy had been
with him since waking, but he was tempted despite it to spend the day lazily at the hotel; to sit in the conservatory, maybe, and be waited on by the shy, smiling Beata or her sister. Or even to
just sit there unattended, hardly noticed, and watch their comings and goings, their pleasant, crisply uniformed routines. Male voices, Japanese, drew closer from the courtyard outside and then
passed by his door. Instinctively he covered himself. No, he decided. He would walk into the village and wear out some of his restlessness. Suddenly, he pictured Marian riding, straight-backed and
bored on a placid, roly-poly pony, and without warning a feeling of alarm, of panic almost, swept through him. Why? he thought, but could make no sense of it. Frowning, he levered himself from the
bed and dressed.