The Cave (3 page)

Freddie glanced behind him. Again, there was no one there.

‘Pull yourself together,’ he said to himself.

Freddie took off his hat, straightened his
jacket, then rang the bell. At once, he heard footsteps behind the door. Moments later, it was opened by an old man in a flat-collared shirt, a waistcoat and heavy brown country trousers. His face was weather-beaten, lined by the years. White hair framed his face. Freddie guessed he must be Mr Galy, the owner.

‘Yes?’

In halting French, Freddie asked if there was a room available for the night and tried to explain about the accident. Mr Galy at first said nothing, then shouted down the corridor. A stout, middle-aged woman dressed in black from head to toe appeared. Her heels clicked on the tiled floor as she came towards them.

Mrs Galy spoke some English, at least enough for Freddie to be able to explain how his car was stranded in the mountains above the village. She nodded. Then after a rattling conversation with her husband, too fast for Freddie to follow, said there was a local mechanic who could help.

‘Tomorrow,’ she said.

‘Not this afternoon?’

Mrs Galy shook her head. ‘It’s too late. It will be dark soon. Tomorrow.’

Freddie shivered, suddenly aware of how cold
he was. The cut on his forehead had started to ache. He felt very tired, bone-weary.

‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow will be fine.’

Freddie followed Mrs Galy down the long and narrow corridor.

Candles set in black iron holders on the walls flickered as they passed. The movement sent strange shadows dancing up to the ceiling. It was very quiet for a boarding house. There was no sound of conversation, not even any sound of the servants going about their duties.

‘Are there other guests?’ he asked.

Mrs Galy appeared not to hear him.

She stopped in front of a high wooden desk at the foot of the stairs. Freddie could smell the beeswax polish. The wood gleamed in the light from an oil lamp that sat on the counter top. She took a large, brass key from the row of hooks on the wall.

‘This way,’ she said.

Freddie followed her up the tiled staircase to a room on the second floor. Mrs Galy turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door and stood back for Freddie to walk in first.

He glanced around. It was plain, but pleasant
and clean. Two tall windows, floor to ceiling, filled one side of the room. An old-fashioned bed with a brass bedstead stood against the left-hand wall. Beside it was a wooden bedside table. On the opposite side of the room, a gilt-framed mirror hung on the wall above a heavy chest of drawers. On the top sat a large white china bowl and matching jug.

‘I could do with a bath,’ he said, ‘if that’s not too much trouble. To warm up.’

Mrs Galy nodded. ‘At the end of the landing,’ she said. ‘I will send up the maid with hot water and something for your head, yes?’

‘My head?’

‘You are hurt,’ she said, pointing to the mirror. ‘See?’

Freddie peered into the looking-glass and saw the trickles of dry blood and the patchwork of tiny cuts. He had not realised quite what a sight he looked.

‘I hit my head when the car crashed,’ he said.

Mrs Galy made to leave.

‘Actually, there is one more thing,’ Freddie added. ‘I need to send word to my friends. They are in Quillan. I was due to meet them tonight. Is there a telegraph office? Or do you have a telephone, perhaps?’

‘In the next town, yes. Not here.’

Freddie’s heart sank.

‘But if you care to write a message,’ she said, pointing at the desk in the corner of the room, ‘I will send a boy in the morning.’

‘Thank you.’

Mrs Galy nodded. ‘If you leave your clothes outside the door, I will see they are washed and dried for the morning. I will find something of my husband’s for you to wear.’

Freddie smiled his thanks. ‘That is most kind.’

Mrs Galy placed the key on the table. ‘The dining room is at the foot of the stairs to the right. Dinner is served at six o’clock.’

Freddie stood still, listening to the sound of her shoes getting fainter and fainter in the corridor. Then he crossed to the desk. He wrote a brief message for his friends, put the note in an envelope, wrote the address of the boarding house where they were staying and sealed it.

That done, Freddie stripped off to his undergarments. He took the clean towel from the end of the bed and went in search of the bath.

As the clock struck six o’clock, Freddie locked his door, put the key in his pocket and went down to dinner. He felt much better. The cuts on his head were not as bad as he had feared and the borrowed clothes were a good fit.

Freddie left the letter for his friends on the counter top, then went to the dining room. He paused in the doorway for a moment and looked around. It was a good-sized room. A heavy oak sideboard filled one wall. Like his bedroom upstairs, there were two tall windows overlooking the square. The glass was covered by heavy velvet curtains that hung on gold rings. There were three sturdy square tables in the dining room, each laid for four. Each was set with white tablecloths, a knife, fork and spoon at each place, and a glass.

Several pairs of eyes turned to look at him. At one table sat two middle-aged women. They looked like one another and Freddie guessed they were sisters. They were talking in low voices and looking at a guidebook. Three men
were sitting at the table in the middle of the room. At the table in the far corner, a young couple were gazing at one another. The tips of their fingers were touching.

Freddie gave a general nod of greeting. He did not fancy playing gooseberry. Nor did he want to get into conversation with the sisters, who looked a little severe. He headed for the men’s table.

‘May I join you?’

They introduced themselves, speaking in English, although Freddie found it hard to place their accent.

The meal passed pleasantly in light conversation, advice about the best walks in the region and talk of the bad weather. The maid arrived with jugs of water for each table, local red wine and a basket of bread. The meal was plain, but good - hard-boiled eggs, a plate of cold meats, salt pork, white goat’s cheese and slices of chicken pie. For dessert, there was a bowl of a sugary white pudding rather like English custard.

After dinner was over, the sisters excused themselves. The young couple left shortly after, giggling and holding hands. Freddie and the three men remained for a while in the dining room, smoking. Mr Galy had no
whisky, so they all tried a strong local spirit rather like brandy while the maid cleared up around them.

When she began to carry in breakfast things for the morning, Freddie and his companions knew they had outstayed their welcome and got up to leave.

The others decided to go to bed. Freddie, however, was wide awake. He kept reliving his day in his mind. He knew he would not be able to go to sleep.

Freddie found Mr Galy and asked him to leave the bottle. He was getting rather a taste for the local brandy. By means of hand gestures, nods and winks, it was agreed he would pay in the morning.

With his round-bellied glass in one hand and the bottle in the other, Freddie crossed the hall and went towards the small parlour. The tall, long-case clock in the hall struck the hour. A little drunk, Freddie stopped and stared at the hands. The numbers on the clock face seemed to dance before his eyes. It was early still. Only nine o’clock.

Freddie raised his eyebrows. He supposed they kept early hours in the mountains. He would have a nightcap, perhaps smoke another cigarette. Then he would go up to bed.

The door to the parlour was closed. Freddie opened it gently, so as not to disturb anyone. The room was empty but a welcoming fire roared in the grate. There was a smell of resin, the scent of the forest, as the flames crackled and burned the logs.

There was a card table in the corner. He crossed the room, unsteady on his feet, and sat down heavily in a chair. Two decks of cards were stacked on the table. One pack had blue and white backs, the other red.

Freddie played several hands of patience. But even though the cards were good, his mind kept wandering.

Two armchairs were set on either side of the fireplace. They looked inviting. Freddie gave up his cards and took the chair furthest from the door. He put the bottle and glass down on the table a little too hard. The sound split the silence of the room.

‘Sssh,’ Freddie whispered to nobody.

He picked up a newspaper, but the French was too hard for him so he quickly gave up. He felt content, a little sleepy. He was quite happy to sit and do nothing - to think a little, perhaps, and turn over the events of the day in his mind.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck the quarter.

Freddie glanced at its white face and brass hands. He should go to bed. But he could not summon up the energy to move. The fire was crackling, and he was warm and well fed. He felt his eyelids shutting. Just a few minutes more and he would go up.

Freddie jolted awake. His neck was stiff, his shoulders were stiff. His mouth felt woolly with sleep and brandy. He ran his tongue over his teeth and realised he was thirsty.

Slowly, Freddie became aware of the musty smell of the room. He could no longer hear the flames in the grate. There was a smell of ash, too, as if the fire had burned low.

He opened his eyes, wondering what the time was. Still groggy from sleep, he turned his head to look at the clock. For some reason, he could not see the hands. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw something else.

Someone else.

There was a young woman. She was sitting upright and very still, opposite him, looking into the fire. Her skin was as white as china.

Freddie sat up in his chair. The movement caught her attention. She turned her head towards him. Two brown eyes framed by long, black lashes stared straight at him. Freddie felt his heart lurch in his chest. Then, without
speaking, she turned away and went back to looking into the flames in the grate.

Awkward, Freddie felt he should apologise for disturbing her.

‘I’m so sorry. I must have fallen asleep. So rude of me.’

The girl gave no sign she had heard him.

‘If you would prefer to be alone, then of course . . .’

She gave a tiny shake of her head.

‘Well, if you are sure you don’t mind . . .’ He tailed off.

Freddie picked up the newspaper again. From behind it, he glanced at the girl from time to time. She was young, maybe eighteen or nineteen years old, and very slight. Her hair was loose and hung in brown curls down her back, not cut short in the modern style. In fact, there was something old-fashioned about her. She looked like a heroine in a Victorian poem. Her clothes were out of date. She wore a heavy red cloak over narrow shoulders, despite the heat of the room. Beneath the cloak, she seemed to be wearing a long dress. Fancy dress? He could see the green material beneath the hem of the cloak.

Freddie realised he was hot. He loosened the collar of his borrowed shirt. He could do with a glass of water. But he didn’t want to leave
the room to fetch one for fear the girl would vanish.

Who was she?

He took another gulp of brandy. Was she a guest? If she was, why had she not been at dinner? Or perhaps she was a daughter of the house? Miss Galy? He dismissed that idea too. If that were the case, she would be in the family room not sitting in the front parlour.

Freddie folded the newspaper. He felt fuddled and a little sick. The silence, the drink, falling asleep in the chair, all added up to a nagging headache.

The logs in the fire were spitting again. The clock was still ticking. The sounds were like the heartbeat of the room itself.

Since the girl was clearly not in the mood to talk, he knew he might as well go to bed. There was no point sitting here, in silence, just in case. He wondered why his nerves were sloshing around in his stomach. For some reason, he felt as if he was waiting for something to happen.

‘Are you an honest man?’

Freddie was so deep in thought, the question made him jump.

‘You have the look of an honest man.’

She spoke in English but in an accent Freddie
had never heard before. Not quite French, not quite Spanish, but something between the two. Her voice was deeper, less childlike than he expected.

‘I . . . I suppose I am,’ he managed to reply. ‘Yes, I would say so.’

‘And a man of courage?’

Her gaze was fierce, intense.

‘Well, I would like to think so,’ he said. ‘If need be, then yes.’

Freddie felt like a butterfly pinned on a board.

‘And a man who can tell true from false?’

‘Certainly.’

She seemed to be weighing him up, judging him. Freddie realised he was holding his breath. Then she held out her hand, palm up. Freddie pulled his chair closer, so close their knees were almost touching.

‘May I confide in you? Tell you a story?’

‘Yes,’ he said, too quickly. ‘Yes, of course.’

Freddie realised he would have agreed to anything so long as she kept talking. ‘Is it a true story?’ he asked.

She tilted her head to one side. ‘That is for you to judge.’

Freddie remembered his manners. He half stood up and held out his hand.

‘I’m Frederick Smith. My friends call me Freddie.’

He waited for her to return the favour. She did not.

He hesitated again, awkward, then sat back down in his chair. All normal rules of behaviour seemed not to matter to her.

‘I’m listening,’ he said.

‘I was born on an afternoon in spring,’ she said. ‘The world was coming back to life after a hard winter. The snow had melted. The streams were flowing again. Tiny mountain flowers of blue and pink and yellow filled the fields of the upper valley. My father said that on the day I was born he heard the first cuckoo sing. It was a good omen, he said.