A woman fleeing from a crisis finds echoes that she must tackle
The Hill of the Douglas, an adventure by George Platt; McIntyre & Strang's Flora Celtica; some unattributed Chronicles of Galloway; and R.A. Bimson's Gazetteer of the Solway Coast; all small, slim volumes, bound in the brown hides of extinct creatures. These comprised the first four entries in a small, eclectic library which was a bonus for Melissa as she installed her portable personal items in the guest house.
Her room was three creaky flights up then along a narrow corridor with a queasily distorted perspective. The room's ceiling sloped on both sides, and the dormer window gave a dizzying view of a long coastline. The short bookshelf was suspended in the apex above the bed's headboard. She felt she was in the very midst of all those descriptions: perched on a hillside, surrounded by wild coastal plants, and on the brink of remarkable adventure. Recent events had not cured her fanciful nature.
The proprietor, cook, and general housekeeper, Mrs McBain, was genial and apologetic about her hotel's current under-occupation. She promised it would liven up by the weekend. Melissa was unfazed. She had come deliberately to be alone, to wallow, and to redeem herself. She was even relieved when the only other guests, an older couple, completely ignored her in the dining room, and sat at the other end. The menu was traditional bordering on uninspired, and her choice was under-seasoned bordering on bland. As it happened, she felt this was appropriate, since her life, as well as her digestion, was in need of a palate cleanser.
Melissa was thirty-eight and disillusioned. Her job had ended horribly, her relationship had ended unpleasantly, and her landlord had just given notice that he was selling the flat. But these were mere side issues; she had been shamefully foolish. She needed to re-focus, to change the course of her life, and definitely not to enter the cliché of lurching between wine bottles.
After the underwhelming evening meal, Melissa retired early to a welcome vacuum of distractions. In fact, the only distraction was that small shelf of small books. She selected Bimson's Gazetteer, hoping for guidance for exploring tomorrow. It did not disappoint. Perhaps she over-inhaled from the ancient, mould-infused vellum, but the next morning she woke from a lurid dream which mapped out wild extents of coast and populated it with more than the conventional flora and fauna.
The next morning, after an unimpressive breakfast of stale cereal, Melissa set forth into the elements with the Gazetteer in her pocket. On Bimson's advice, she headed into the wind, so that it would be at her back when she returned. Her foray being more than a hundred years since that author's efforts, the path had wandered somewhat, but, reassuringly, the described features were easy to locate. She trudged through much native verdure, resolving to bring McIntyre & Strang's Flora as soon as she felt confident of the route. The views were especially exhilarating for being achieved through exertion.
Bimson recommended the return walk at sea level, so Melissa obliged. She felt more than gratified, having ticked off every headland, hill, burn, and squelchy heathery area, like I Spy Landmarks. To get sand and pebbles too, and all before lunch, seemed too good to be true. However, Bimson had not been totally open about beaches being much harder work on the feet.
As Melissa grew warm, and her legs complained fiercely, she looked out for a place to rest. At the base of the cliff, one particular hummock of sand looked inviting. As she approached, she noticed the piling of sand obscured a curious indentation in the rock behind. She sat heavily, and, while her legs recovered, idly scooped sand away from the rock. The indentation was revealed first as a substantial recess, then as a person-sized hole.
Reassuring herself that rocks move only very slowly, Melissa intrepidly crept in. A little light entered with her, but mostly it was delightfully dark and thankfully dry. She explored the small cavern with her hands. It seemed roughly spherical and about two metres in diameter. Although it lacked the view, the air was still and didn't smell. Bimson had carelessly omitted this attraction. She resolved to return the following day.
In order to locate the small cave again, Melissa tried shaping the sand into some sort of marker, but quickly realised this would be unreliable, what with wind and tides, not to mention other beach-users – large and small. Instead she paid special attention to the surroundings, and marked where the cave should have been inserted in Bimson with a piece of bladderwrack that nicely matched the book's cover. As she walked on, she kept glancing back, memorising the surrounding features from increasing distance.
After mindlessly consuming a large, tasteless lunch, Melissa began her afternoon with an important question: was Bimson male or female? She was aware that, historically, female writers had often adopted initials to disguise their gender in an attempt to level the playing field. However, Bimson's economical volume had not wasted space on ephemera such as an author biography. She browsed the rest of the small shelf above her bed, but there were no other Bimson gems. She considered taking her mobile off Airplane Mode, but the inevitable rapacious syncing would deluge her in volumes of unsolicited ephemera relating unwanted author biographies via several social media channels.
She decided instead to try Mrs McBain. Her host was most accommodating, having peeled enough tatties to last a week as a displacement activity to avoid the accounts. While she did not possess a complete set of indexed author bibliographies, her office had an old PC, with its own access to the internet. Within thirty seconds, Wikipedia had supplied the desired information: Bimson was Randolph Arthur, male, of this parish c.1890, the golden age of literary amateur enthusiasts.
On Melissa's second day, the hotel was braced for arrivals. Mrs McBain was hedgehogging about, unsettling everything, so Melissa happily scuttled out the way. She hardly needed Bimson, although she took him along for reassurance. She enjoyed recognising the way and paying more attention to the flora. She rediscovered the mini cave and sat there listening to the quiet. She was feeling calmer already.
She had been right not to attach her phone to the internet. People—well-meaning people as well as scratchy people—would be checking up on her.
She realised another way in which Bimson had cannily limited the extent of his Gazetteer: he had described only the northern Solway shore. All very efficient, really, to produce a pocket-sized guide for readers who had no intention of taking to the actual Solway. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the book, then barked a laugh at herself for expecting to see any of it in darkness.
That evening, Melissa gazed fixedly out the dining room window in order to avoid catching the eye of any other guests. There were suddenly more of them. She began eating mindlessly, but her refreshed palate was arrested by startling flavours. When Mrs McBain came to remove her empty plate, Melissa stuttered, "This is… delicious!" She cringed at her unoriginal wording.
Mrs McBain grinned. "Wasnae me!" She passed on, mysteriously.
On day three, the weekend had arrived and with it the promised lively folk. Some of them were haranguing Mrs McBain in the foyer. Melissa was glad to escape to what had already become her habitual sanctuary. She bravely left Bimson in favour of another small volume. She cherished a hope that soon her mind would calm enough to begin planning the rest of her life. However, all the way along, she heard snatches of voices raised in excited gabble and childish shrieking. She strode the headland, quickening her pace until she was stumbling. Eventually she found a sheltered spot further along the beach than usual and opened George Platt's much anticipated novel.
The first treat was that this book had an owner: the flyleaf was inscribed in a neat, cursive, blue ink, "Gregor Markham." The writing style seemed old-fashioned: it had that calligraphic style indicative of tyrannical childhood instruction. She wondered whether this Gregor had been the original inhabitant of that bedroom, carefully accumulating his miniature library, inscribing each item with a fountain pen. The novel was somewhat florid, and hard work to believe, so her mind kept returning to its owner. She embroidered her own florid, whimsical fantasies based on only a name and the ownership of a book. Eventually she grounded herself with her picnic lunch.
Thus fortified, she resumed battle with Platt's hillside adventures; if Gregor had thought so much of it as to apply his name, it must be worth persevering with. She extracted her notebook and tore out a page. However tedious the text, she could not bring herself to actually deface it, especially when it was not hers. Nevertheless, she felt compelled to insert a sheet of ridicule beside particularly trying passages. Flimsy. Risible. Rigor gluteus.
In the late afternoon, when she was quite sure she could no longer hear voices, she approached the cave. She nonchalantly peered all about to ensure nobody could see her. She was keen to protect the cave's secret, or at least her own privacy. She scooted in and sat in its darkness for a very long time, absorbing its wonderful stillness and quietness.
When she finally emerged, she scampered across the sand, lest she might be overlooked and the cave located. Once back at the hotel, and safely through the gauntlet of the thronged public areas, she plumped down on her bed with a sigh. She emptied her pockets and was horrified to find only her notebook and pencil. Platt the Preposterous had not made it safely home. In a rush of remorse, she leapt up and retraced her steps along the corridor, downstairs, past the lounge and out the front door. She reached the gate without finding the book, and instead finding the sun setting. For a moment she swithered: compelled to locate the book, but constrained by the avoidance of foolishness. She acquiesced.
Guilt interfered with her sleep. The next morning, she was waiting in the dining room before the food arrived. She bolted her breakfast, oblivious to the noisy chatter of her fellow guests, and catapulted out through the gate. She scoured the path all the way to the beach without success. She would have to replace the book, but how do you replace an antique, and one with a personal inscription? She zigzagged across the sand, pouncing in vain on several pieces of bladderwrack, and emitting small wails of anguish.
She retreated to the cave, and moaned and groaned. She slumped back, appreciating the comfort of the solid, worn rock. She mindlessly felt her pocket, but it remained unmagically empty. Her hand caressed the sand-sprinkled rock, learning more detail of its contours. Then she met a different texture: a leather-bound texture. She scrabbled at it, convinced herself it really was a book, and squealed with delight: it must have fallen out her pocket! She wriggled out into the light.
But the book was not Platt, although of a similar vintage; it was Philip Enderby's Collected Poems, unclaimed according to its flyleaf. Melissa flicked through, idly wondering if books could spontaneously change into other books at will. A torn sheet of more recent paper fluttered onto the sand. She snatched it and read:
"I enjoyed your commentary on Platt. How do you like mine on Enderby's 'Purslane'?"
...continues at part 2/4 tomorrow
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