The Last Train to Scarborough (13 page)

'Shall
I help you with your coat?' the landlady enquired. She seemed very keen to do
it, and I thought: Is she sweet on me?

'No
thanks,' I said, 'I'll manage.'

But
I made heavy weather of the operation as she looked on.

'I
like your badge,' she said, when the lapel of my suit-coat was revealed, and
she leant forward and nearly touched it.

'Oh,'
I said, with face bright red, 'that's the North Eastern company crest. Really
it's three other railway company crests in a circle.'

'Why?'
she said.

I
tried to peer down at it. I must have looked daft in the attempt.

'It's
the companies that were amalgamated to make up the North Eastern,' I said. 'The
top one is the York and North Midland Railway. That has the city of York crest
on it. The bottom left hand one is the Leeds Northern Railway and that has the
Leeds crest and a sheep to show the woollen industry, together with ears of
corn to show
that
side of the business, and a ship to show... well, shipping
...'

As
I rambled on it struck me that there was a good deal more to this badge than
I'd ever thought, so I said, 'Do you really want to hear about the third
crest?'

She
was looking at me with an expression of wonderment.

'Would
you like a cup of tea?' she said, seeming to come out of a trance. 'Or would
you rather see the room first?'

At
the back of the hallway, to the right of the stairs, I could see the man who'd
answered the door. He now wore some species of dressing gown over his suit. It
was perhaps a smoking jacket - not that he was smoking, as far as I could make
out, but just generally taking it easy. He too held a cup of tea. He nodded as
I looked at him.

My
coat was over my arm. A coat tree stood in the hallway, beside a small bamboo
table on which stood an ornamental tea pot, a dusty circle of sea shells, some
framed views of Scarborough, and a black album of some sort, closed. I reached
out towards it, thinking it might be a visitors' book, that Blackburn's name
might be in it, but something in Miss Rickerby's look checked me. However,
after eyeing me for a moment, she said, 'Open it.'

I
did so. It held more views of Scarborough.

'The
sea from Scarborough,' observed Miss Rickerby of the first one I turned up.
'Scarborough from the sea,' she said of the second.

'I
thought it might be a visitors' book,' I said, closing it again. 'I thought I
might have to sign it.'

'We
do have a visitors' book, but it's in the kitchen. I'm going through it just
now.'

I
nodded, not really understanding.

'You
see,' she explained, 'I write to the visitors asking if they'd like to come
back - the ones I
want
back, that is.'

I
should've thought they'd all want to come back, looking at her.

I
glanced up, and the man had gone from the side of the stairs.

'It's
hardly worth keeping it out this time of year,' the landlady said.

'You've
not been busy then?'

She
smiled, eyeing me strangely.

'We
had a Mr Ellis last week.'

'An
engine man, was he?' I enquired, and it seemed my investigation had begun
sooner than I'd bargained for.

She
shook her head.

'He
travelled in galoshes, if you see what I mean. Now... tea or room?'

'I'd
rather see the room, I think,' I said.

'Quite
right,' she said, 'because you might just hate it. What did I put down about it
on the notice at the station?' she asked, turning towards the staircase.

'You
said all the rooms were excellent,' I said, and she made a noise like 'Ha!'

I
thought of the wife, who'd been a landlady when I first met her -
my
landlady in fact. She had a good sense of humour, but it would
not have done to rib her about the rooms she let out. Being so keen to get on,
she never saw the funny side of anything touching business or money.

Miss
Rickerby carefully moved her teacup aside with the toe of her boot, and began
climbing the stairs. Without looking back, she said, 'Follow me.'

I
did so, with my coat over my arm, and of course it was a
pleasure
to do it, at least as far as the view of Miss Rickerby's swinging hips went.
But the stair gas burnt low. The paint smell increased; the stair carpet seemed
to deteriorate with every new step, and the green stripe wallpaper became
faded, like a sucked humbug. We came to the first landing: black floorboards
with a blue runner, none too clean. It led to closed doors.

'The
sitting room is on this floor,' Miss Rickerby said, indicating the nearest
closed door.

The
staircase narrowed still further as we approached the second landing: a dark
corridor where one bare gas jet showed tins of white-wash and rolls of
wallpaper leaning against the wall.

'These
are all the rooms you can't have,' said Miss Rickerby - and this was evidently
why Tommy Nugent had been turned away.

'Decorating,'
I said.

'You're
very quick on the uptake, Mr Stringer.'

I
followed her up another, still narrower staircase, and we came to a short
corridor, running away ten feet before ending in the slope of the house roof. A
gas bracket - unlit - stuck out of the wall to my left. A little further along,
also on the left, was a small white-painted door with a sloping top to accommodate
the roof - evidently a cupboard or store room. Immediately to my right was a
somewhat bigger white-painted door, with a low, reddish light coming out from
underneath. The landing being so small, I was rather close to Miss Rickerby
who smelt of talcum, perhaps, but also something out-of-the-way. She made just
as good an impression close to, anyhow.

She
said, 'You haven't asked the price.'

I
said, 'No, that's because ...'

'...
You're stupendously rich.'

She
took a small match box from her sleeve, turned the gas tap on the bracket, and
lit the mantle, allowing me to see that the wallpaper was a faded green stripe
alternating with an even more faded green stripe.

'It's
because in your notice,' I said, breathing in Miss Rickerby, 'you put down
"economical rates for railway men".'

'And
because the North Eastern company will refund you,' said Miss Rickerby... which
was what I should have said.

'Two
shillings,' she said, and she reached for the handle of the bigger door, pushed
it open and retreated.

The
room was practically
all
bed. The head of it was just
alongside the door, while the end fitted neatly under the win- dowsill. The
window itself was about three feet with a wide ledge and red velvet curtains,
which had perhaps once been very good, but now showed bald patches, and were
parted, so that the whole window was like a tiny theatre stage. I went in,
shuffled along by the edge of the bed, and looked out and down. There was a
kind of staircase of dark house roofs to either side, but directly below was
the Prom (which was deserted), then the lights of the harbour, with its cluster
of cowardly boats, unable to face up to the wild black sea beyond.

'That's
a grandstand view all right,' I said.

But
Miss Rickerby had most unexpectedly - and disappointingly - gone, so I
continued my inspection of the room alone.

Well,
it was like a ship's cabin, or some sort of viewing booth: you'd sit on the bed
with your feet up, and marvel at the scene beyond your boots. I took off my
great-coat, set my kit bag down on the counterpane, and sat on the bed in the
manner just described. The room was tolerably well-kept, although I fancied it
wouldn't do to look too closely. On the hearth, I could see fire dust that a
brush had passed too lightly over.

At
my left elbow, as I sat on the bed, was the door, and there was a key in the
keyhole. To the left of my left leg was a wardrobe with, as I imagined, just
enough clearance between it and the bed to allow for the opening of the doors
and barely any between its top and the ceiling. Beyond my boot soles was the
window. To the right of my right boot was a small table covered with a tartan
cloth. On the table was a box of long matches, a red-shaded oil lamp, with the
wick burning low - as though in expectation of a tenant - and instructions for
the lighting of the lamp. There was also a black book.

To
the right of my right knee was a small fireplace, not laid for a fire but with
kindling and paper ready in one scuttle, and coal in another. At my right elbow
was a wash stand on a scrap of red and black tab rug, which ran partly under
the bed as any rug in that room would have to do. For the rest, the floor was
black-painted boards.

I
sat and watched the black, brooding sea and listened to the wind rising off it,
which periodically set the window clattering in its frame. I then leant
forward and picked up the book that lay by the side of the lamp. It was
Ocean Steamships
by F. E. Chadwick and several others, and the
owner had written his name on the inside page: 'H. D. R. Fielding'. Who's he
when he's at home? I thought, and I settled down on the bed with it. Turning to
the first page, I read: 'It is a wonderful fact in the swift expansion of
mechanical knowledge and appliances of the last hundred years that while for
unknown ages the wind was the only propelling force used for purposes of
navigation...'

At
that, I put the book back on the table and picked up the directions for the
lamp. 'Sunshine at Night,' I read. 'The "Famos" 120 Candle-Power
Incandescent Oil Lamp. The management of the lamp is simplicity itself.. .'
Tucked into the pages of the little booklet was a handwritten note evidently
meant for guests at Paradise and left over from the summer: 'Please note that
teas can by arrangement be served on the beach. Please place requests with Mr
Adam Rickerby.'

So
there was more than one Rickerby. I didn't quite like the thought.

I
replaced this and the lamp directions, and looked at the wallpaper, which was
of a mustardy colour, bubbling here and there, and showing the same small ship
- a black galleon - entangled dozens of times over in the same curly wave. I
was just thinking that it would have made a good pattern for a lad's room when
I heard a stirring to my left and there, looming in the doorway, was the
over-grown boy who might have spent his childhood years gazing at it.

'Does
it suit?' he enquired.

'Adam
Rickerby?' I said, and he nodded.

'Will
it do?' he said.

The
words fell out of his mouth anyhow, in a sort of breathless rush, and with a
quantity of flying spittle. He was a gormless lad of about eighteen and,
depending on how he grew, he might be all right or a permanent idiot. For the
time being, he was unfinished. He wore a shirt of rough white cloth, a thin
white necker tied anyhow, and a dirty green apron, so that he looked like some
monstrous sort of footman.

'It's
cosy enough, en't it?' I said.

He
made no answer.

'But
it suits me fine,' I said.

'It's
two shilling fer t'night,' he said, and he put his hand out.

'Who
sent you?'

'Our
lass,' he said, and so he was the brother of Miss Rickerby. I was glad he
wasn't her husband.

While
her
face was made pretty and friendly-seeming by being rather
wide, his was pumpkin-like; and while her mass of curls was fetching, his were
. . . well, you didn't often see a man who had too much hair but his allowance
was excessive, as though sprouting the stuff was about all he was good for.
While his sister was well-spoken (for Scarborough, anyhow) he spoke broad
Yorkshire, and his blue eyes were too light, indicating a kind of hollowness
inside.

I
paid over the coin, and he dropped it directly into the front pocket of his
apron.

'Winder
rattles,' he said.

'I
know,' I said, and he skirted around the bed until he came to the window. There
he crouched down and found a bit of paste-board, which he jammed into the
frame, afterwards remaining motionless and gazing out to sea for a good few seconds.
Rising to his feet again he indicated the paste-board, saying, 'You've to keep
that
in,'
as though it was my fault it had fallen out. I could clearly
read the words on the card: 'American Wintergreen Tooth Powder: Unequalled
for...' and then came the fold. At any rate, it worked, and the best the wind
could do now was to create a small trembling in the frame.

'Seen
t'toilet?' enquired the youth, who was standing in the doorway once more.

I
gave a quick shake of my head.

'It's
on t'floor below... Yer've not seen it?' he repeated.

'Is
there something special about it?' I said.

The
lad kept silence for a moment, before blurting: