Whitby Vampyrrhic (11 page)

Alec leaned towards Beth as if about to kiss her. ‘Check for yourself.'

‘Excuse me?'

‘Yesterday, you accurately detected the whiff of mother's ruin.'

‘It's not my job to dry you out.'

‘But I shouldn't be boozing at nine in the morning, even if it was medicinal.' He touched the eyepatch.

‘How is it?'

‘The eye? Want to look for yourself?'

‘Ugh!' Sally pulled a face. ‘Is it really bad?'

He raised his hand to the eyepatch, as if to flip it up.

Beth dabbed her mouth with a napkin. ‘I suspect Alec is showing us our place in his team. He wants us to know that he is our lord and master.' She stood up. ‘And he wants us to be afraid of him.'

Sally shuffled uncomfortably in the seat, knowing that the seeds of another argument had been planted. ‘Beth. We should be getting ready.' The sound of a door shutting gave her another reason to divert the confrontation. ‘That must be Eleanor. Alec will have time to check into his room before we leave.'

As Sally stood up, so did Alec to give a polite bow. ‘Ladies. Thank you for your company. And I'll see you get the sugar back.'

Sally laughed, relieved that the impending awkwardness had been avoided. ‘Oh, we're sweet enough.'

‘I'm sure you are.'

‘Come with me, I'll introduce you to Eleanor. You'll love her.'

‘Indeed?'

The pair left the room.

Sally laughed at everything Alec said, Beth realized. The same kind of giggle schoolgirls use when they have a crush on a teacher. She decided to wait for Sally so they could go up to their rooms together to collect their coats. For a while, she examined framed photographs on the walls. There were scenes of old-time Whitby: sailing ships in the harbour; a paddle-steamer being smashed to pieces on the rocks by enormous waves; lifeboat men wearing bulky cork lifebelts; women in long skirts, lugging baskets of freshly caught fish. Then there were pictures of the Leviathan Hotel as it was in years gone by. Beneath one, a date fixed it as having being taken on Christmas Day, 1921. Outside the front door, standing in a neat line, were four people. A middle-aged man and woman, and then probably the son and daughter. Beth studied the features of the young woman. Eleanor, it had to be – yet an Eleanor of twenty years ago. Those features were unmistakable. Her brother smiled broadly. He possessed a healthy robustness. In his hand, a fishing rod. No doubt a Christmas present that he'd insisted on displaying proudly.

Eleanor had told them that her brother suffered ill health. So, if this photograph of a strong, young buck full of vigour didn't lie, then his sickness must have struck him down later. After she'd glanced at the other photographs (all ships with masts), she gazed out of the window. From the reception area came the deep rumble of Alec's Scottish burr, mingled with Sally and Eleanor's voices. Sally's laugh would often rise above the others' conversational tones.

This window didn't open on to any grand vista, unlike her bedroom, which revealed the waterside hotel had perfect harbour views. All she could see from here was the small cobbled yard hemmed in by walls six feet high. Tucked in one corner, a little cottage in the same deep red-brick. Its frontage presented a door, two windows at ground level, then another pair of windows on the upper story. As her eyes alighted on the upstairs windows she noticed one had its curtain parted by just six inches or so. At that moment, a thin, weak-looking hand fumbled for the edge of the curtain.
He can't see it
, she told herself.
Eleanor's brother must be blind.
The poor man . . . and he looked so healthy in the photograph.
That prolonged fumbling at the fabric, the long, pale fingers searching desperately for a fold to grasp, saddened her so much that a lump formed in her throat. She wondered if she should warn Eleanor that her brother might need help. However, after a moment's scrabbling, he seized the fabric, then shut the curtain so quickly that she could almost feel his desperation to keep the world out of sight.

Sally appeared at the doorway. ‘Didn't you hear me?'

‘Sorry, I was just . . .'
Spying on Eleanor's brother?
‘I'll be right there.'

‘Get your scarf and gloves. It's freezing.' Sally clutched Beth's arm as they headed for the staircase. ‘Our first day in Whitby. Can't you just feel it in the air! Something really amazing is going to happen today. Just you wait and see.'

Two

At the reception desk, Eleanor handed Alec Reed a pen. ‘If you can sign the register, please, Mr Reed.'

‘Call me Alec, please.'

‘And I'm Eleanor. Ah, a left-hander, I see. An indication of artistic sensibility.'

Alec wrote his name in the book. ‘Your last guest before Beth and Sally signed in was two years ago.'

‘The war stopped people holidaying at the coast. They were afraid that Hitler's Storm Troopers might come ashore here. So I decided to simply keep the front door locked until hostilities ended. I'll get your cases.'

‘No bellboy?'

‘He's on a minesweeper out in the Atlantic. And our chef is making his wonderful beef and ale stew for the garrison down in Portsmouth. Young men are hard to find in Whitby these days, Alec.'

He returned her pen. ‘So you'll be wondering what a six-foot Scot, of thirty years of age, is doing in your nice safe hotel. The man should be marching with a rifle in his hand, isn't that so, Eleanor?'

‘We all have our reasons for what we do, whether they be public knowledge or utterly secret.'

He held up his right hand. ‘This has all the dexterity of a crab's claw. The bus I was travelling in, when I was ten years old, rolled off the road. It did such a good job of busting the ligaments that my right hand, though it's strong, acts like a pincer – nothing more. Hence, the military rejected me and my crab-claw hand.'

‘You must be frustrated that you can't join the fight.'

‘So you'd think, but when I received the letter telling me that I'd spend the war as a civilian I celebrated for twenty-four hours straight.'

‘Oh.'

‘Can I be confessional, Eleanor?'

‘If that's what you wish.'

‘Well, I confess this fact: I've never done a useful thing in my adult life. I lived for pleasure. Let everyone else do the dull chores. If you work for a living you're a fool.'

‘Is that what you think?' Eleanor put the register back on its shelf.

‘It was my mantra. I told everyone I was a writer. In truth, I wrote very little. All my creativity went into finding routes to pleasure.'

‘Alec Reed,
Soho Square and Beyond
.'

‘You've read my one and only novel? You belong to a tiny elite, Eleanor.'

‘And it is an extraordinary book. You are a very talented writer.'

‘You're too kind.'

‘Not at all. I'm not one to flatter for no valid reason.'

He picked up his suitcase. ‘A production company hired me to write a script for a patriotic film. One that shows neutral nations how life is lived under siege here in Britain.'

‘Then it's a laudable film to make.'

‘I wrote the script. And I hated it. Hated it with a passion. And I resented being forced to work the nine to five. Then I happened to be discussing its production with my colleagues in a café that, as bad luck would have it, took a direct hit from a bomb. Everyone was killed but me. It's where I got the . . .' He touched the eyepatch. ‘But I'm told it will heal.' He shrugged. ‘As there is a shortage of directors I've now been given the job of directing the film I scripted.'

‘Fate is a contrary mistress, Alec.'

‘Indeed.'

Eleanor regarded the tall man with that black eyepatch, which seemed to concentrate the force of his other eye – as if it peered into her soul. He continued staring at her.

‘Is there a problem?' she asked.

‘I just wanted to add that I'm happy to be here. And that I'm going to try my utmost to make this a good film. Maybe even a great film. If
This Midnight Realm
can encourage neutral nations to stop supplying the Nazi war machine it may shorten the war. And if my film helps shorten it by even one hour then I will have succeeded.'

‘And all your past sins will be wiped from your soul?'

‘You may think I'm ridiculous, Eleanor, but until a few days ago I was an idler. A heart stealer. Overfond of the bottle. And in other people's eyes, an infuriating wretch.'

‘Then this is your opportunity to prove yourself. Genuinely, I do admire your change of heart.' She plucked a key from the wall cabinet. ‘Follow me.' Eleanor climbed the stairs. ‘Welcome to the Leviathan. Breakfast is served between seven thirty and eight. Dinner is seven prompt. If you hear the air-raid siren take shelter in the cellar. The entrance is next to the reception desk. And I do understand that this film is important to you. If I can help, in any shape or form, then my door will always be open to you.'

Eleanor continued to the next floor. Alec followed. He'd confessed to her; would there be a time when she confessed her secrets to him? And she wondered if he watched the shape of her figure with interest as she led him to his room.

Three

Beth, Sally and Eleanor climbed the stone steps that clung to the almost vertical hillside.

‘Great exercise for the calf muscles.' Eleanor breathed hard. ‘And what man doesn't like a firm calf muscle in a woman?'

Sally panted. ‘Phew, there must be a hundred steps at least.'

‘To be precise, one hundred and ninety-nine.'

Beth paused where the steps had been punctuated by a short level section before the next flight started. Although the cold pierced her clothes, the sun had driven away the last of the mist. She jotted a sentence in her notebook. These amazing steps cried out for a dramatic scene in the film. Perhaps where the character played by Sally rushes to tell her family she is to be married.

Eleanor indicated the level section of stone slabs. ‘In days gone by, pall bearers would carry coffins up to the graveyard on the cliff top. These breaks in the steps allowed them to get their breath back. Ye Gods, they'd have needed it. That fragrant scent of burning wood you can smell comes from the sheds down there. That's where they cure herrings and turn them into kippers. Ready for the final push to the summit?'

Eleanor led them upwards. To Beth, it felt as if they were flying free over Whitby. The roofs below formed patches of different shades of red from the earthenware tiles that covered them. The narrow streets were swarming with people. She glimpsed a postman. Fishermen headed off to their boats. Women carried bundles, baskets, or pulled along children who were late for school. Mixed into the stew of men and women were soldiers in their characteristic pale-brown uniforms.

Mrs Brady appeared at the foot of the steps, the lady they'd encountered on the bridge with that silent sentinel of a daughter. She glared up at the three of them. Beth decided there must be an ongoing feud between Mrs Brady and Eleanor Charnwood. Then again, Beth had noticed the way people had moved out of Eleanor's way, even in the narrow confines of Church Street, as if she carried a nasty germ. In fact, not a single person had offered Eleanor a courteous ‘good morning'.
Outcast.
That's the word that had sprung immediately to Beth's mind.

‘All those seagulls,' Sally exclaimed. ‘There's thousands of them, and, gosh, aren't they raucous?'

‘They follow fishing boats into the estuary. They know that once the gutting starts they're in for a feast. Come on, nearly there.'

Eleanor ushered them up the remaining steps to the cliff top. The squat church dominated the immediate area, yet beyond it were the tall, mysterious ruins of Whitby Abbey, which cast an other-worldly spell over the place. The graveyard itself bristled with dark, weathered gravestones. Ocean gales had not only erased inscriptions on the older stones, but had worn away their once precise geometric shapes, leaving them with a weird, undulating appearance, as if a magic spell had solidified wraiths of smoke and left them here, standing in the grass.

Beth drank in the beautiful view. Whitby was truly extraordinary. Beneath her, the higgledy-piggledy cluster of cottages by the dozen. The doors were painted bright reds, greens and yellows. To her right, the vast expanse of the ocean. A pair of long harbour walls extended out to sea. Each one ended with a tall stone tower. Between the walls seawater flowed into the harbour to mingle with the fresh waters of the River Esk. The river itself cut the town into two distinct halves. Far away upstream, hills formed vast, smooth mounds against a bright blue sky.

‘This side is considered to be the old town,' Eleanor told them. ‘Over the river, the newer, more orderly part. See the big, posh buildings on the cliff top? They're the hotels for the smart set, though most are now occupied by soldiers stationed here to deal with any attacks from the sea.'

Beth jotted notes. ‘If we can get permission, it would be ideal to film up here, for establishing views of Whitby, and there're bound to be some great scenes that can be shot in the graveyard.'

Sally beamed. ‘Later in the film, my husband is killed rescuing me from a burning house. This would be an ideal spot to bury him.' She pretended to dab away a widow's tear. ‘Alec will shoot me in this huge, great close-up, so my face fills the screen, and you will be able to hear the gulls crying, and it will seem like they're crying for poor Nathan.'

Eleanor said, ‘I'll give you the telephone number of the verger. He looks after St Mary's Church. If possible try and get permission to film inside. Ships' carpenters produced the interior woodwork, so parts resemble a boat. Now, if you'll follow the cliff-top path, I'll show you the abbey ruin. The monks built the first phase almost fifteen hundred years ago, but it was burnt down by the Vikings in AD 867. Earlier, in 664, the Abbess Hilda held what is known as the Great Synod of Whitby. That's when she merged the Celtic Church and the Roman Catholic Church.' She smiled. ‘See, my dears, we women have played a bigger role in humanity than many think. The Abbess Hilda, in that building on the cliff top, changed the course of the Western world. If she hadn't united the two rival Churches, Europe couldn't have resisted invasions by pagan armies. Without Hilda, the Vikings might have destroyed Christianity. Instead of celebrating Christmas you'd have been offering sacrifices up to Odin and Thor.' She touched Sally's arm. ‘You, my dear, might have been that offering.'