A woman fleeing from a crisis finds echoes that she must tackle – starts at part 1/4
Melissa felt warm relief that Platt was safe – well, in other, possibly less careless, hands. She located Enderby's poem and its inserted addendum: "Vapid. Enervating. Emetic." She felt a fizz of excitement, and didn't care that she hadn't read the poem before the critique.
She scampered back to the hotel, now oblivious to the glories of her surroundings. She was entirely mentally occupied with composing and editing countless drafts of a reply. The choice of vehicle for this embryonic message was simple: it could be only Bimson's Gazetteer. In her room, breathless, she seized her pencil and committed to another notebook sheet:
"Thank you for reassuring me that Platt is safe and well. Also that, sadly, the same cannot be said for his plot. In contrast, this work is almost perfect, excepting one hole."
Too long? Too late. She didn't consider waiting until the next day, let alone the wisdom of exchanging books that weren't hers, but sped out to deposit the book.
That evening, after all her exertions, she was extra hungry and extra nourished by another delectable meal. She had seconds, and Mrs McBain smirked.
The following morning, she had bolted halfway down the hotel's drive before realising she had not given her correspondent adequate time to respond. She should not assume they were a creature of darkness. She returned for McIntyre & Strang's Flora Celtica and confined herself to the hotel's vicinity. The highlight of this venture was discovering that Enderby's dreadful poem, Purslane, was named for a wildflower, or more truthfully a naturalised flower. She could see the inspiration, but somehow felt Philip Enderby had not done it justice.
After a tasty but hasty lunch, she tore around Bimson's route, dived into the cave, and settled herself on the familiar, sand-cushioned rock. She felt around and immediately found a book.
"Delightful. Bimson's hole is that in which we exchange? Let me know what you make of these."
For several days, Melissa read rabidly, scribbled waspishly, and exercised relentlessly.
"We should welcome Purslane in the spirit of diversity."
"If these chronicles are fiction, it is unusual for students' work to be printed; if factual, they have only academic interest."
"They describe these plants like intimate anatomy – Victorian repression."
She barely noticed the intermittent shouts of exasperation from the guest house kitchen.
The responses tucked into books tucked into the cave were similarly witty and mordant:
"Now I'm looking for it, Bimson's at it too. Unconscious?"
"'Toll' seems to have lost an R."
"'Manrent'? 'Tiremaiden'? Were these terms in common usage or coined by Platt to plug gaps in his lexicon?"
Melissa added the two new numbers to the miniature library:
The Hill of the Douglas, an adventure by George Platt
McIntyre & Strang's Flora Celtica
Some unattributed Chronicles of Galloway
R.A. Bimson's Gazetteer of the Solway Coast
Philip Enderby's Collected Poems
The Bridge Toll by William Hargreaves
One day, when Melissa returned at noon, all floaty from her walk and fantasies, she found Mrs McBain hattered. There was some complicated combination of a staffing snafu and a failed delivery, so Mrs McBain had to personally collect a hundredweight of cabbages or some such. At the same time, she had to be present to receive three sets of imminent guests. Such constraints rather challenged Newtonian mechanics and tipped Mrs McBain into paralysing indecision. Melissa immediately offered to occupy reception, providing she could eat lunch there. Mrs McBain bubbled over with a profusion of gratitude and a large plate of hearty sandwiches.
Melissa received and installed the first two guest groups smoothly. The third arrival was less so. A messy man scuffed into the hall.
She greeted him professionally, "Good afternoon."
He responded, "Whae are yeu?"
She answered truthfully, "I'm Melissa. Are you Mr Holly—Holy—" She glanced at the crib Mrs McBain had left, suddenly unable to decipher the last name. "I'm sorry; I can't make out—"
"Wheer's Jen?"
She detected an uncharitable attitude. "Who's Jen?"
"Jennifer McBain, the owner."
"Oh! Mrs McBain! She… I'm covering for her."
"I'll jist check." He stepped out, flicking a mobile.
She decided he was supremely rude. She returned her gaze to Platt beneath the desk, determined to persevere. What with his persistent, invented flowery language, and the recent antagonistic exchange, her eyes travelled blindly over the text.
There was a scuffing. The messy man had returned. "OK, I owe yeu an apology."
"Just an introduction would be nice."
"I apologise. I'm Greg Markham. Thanks fur helping us—"
Melissa passed out.
She came around slumped on the floor behind the desk. The messy man was kneeling beside her, peering at her. She scrabbled for the book, then thrust the flyleaf at him.
He nodded. "My grandfaither."
She tried to sit up but reeled.
He peered more closely. "Yeu need tae eat."
She remembered Mrs McBain's generous helping and nodded. Hopefully that would get rid of him till she felt better.
Obligingly he vanished, muttering, "Bluidy weemen, keeling ower."
Melissa gently propped herself up and, since her head was not yet ready for revolving, felt around for the plate. The sandwiches were slabs of meat with cheese and some sort of pickle, which ordinarily would have appetised her, but now seemed rather dry and rich. She forced down two mouthfuls then gave up, as the half-chewed mass stuck to her palate, teeth and gullet. She rested her head back and closed her eyes to wait for equilibrium.
Moving shadows caused her eyes to open. The messy man was back.
"This first." He proffered a slender glass containing a deep orange goup with a straw.
She took it warily. He gestured impatient encouragement. She brought it to her face and a gorgeous, fruity scent brought back her appetite. She sipped, enjoyed, then gulped greedily.
She smiled at him. "That was lovely, thank you."
He raised an eyebrow. "Now this."
'This' was some sort of heavenly tart, halfway between a dessert and a quiche. Strangely lumps like yellow tomatoes burst in her mouth. She was already feeling much better.
He eyed the barely-touched sandwich plate. "I'd let the sugar get intae yeu afore tackling Auntie Jen's hoose-bricks."
She blinked while she swallowed the ambrosia. "'Auntie'?"
"Aye, Gregor Markham in yeur book there—" He nodded. "—wis her dad."
The sugar reached Melissa's brain. "You're the cook – since Thursday?"
"Jen said yeu noticed a... difference."
The slamming of car doors brought them back to the present. The messy man—Greg hauled Melissa up.
"I'll leave yeu tae it. I'm needing tae get on, if I'm tae serve them wi anything fur their tea."
Melissa felt flustered. "Yes, of course. Thank you for...."
He'd gone. She checked that she was not about to stand in any of the food, then smoothed her hair and wiped around her mouth, before fixing her welcome grin.
Subsequently Mrs McBain returned, a hundredweight of cabbages to the good, and detailed her nephew to safely stow them. Melissa reported three expected sets of guests safely stowed and two phone enquiries.
"I flicked forward in your diary and the dates are empty, so I've pencilled them in with the details, but I said I would check with you and call them back."
Mrs McBain's aura brightened. "Wonderful!" She glanced at the diary. "Absolutely fine. Do ye have time…?"
"Of course. Is there anything else I can do till you get sorted?"
Mrs McBain rummaged and produced a scrawled menu. "Jist typing these things oan the computer bamboozles me."
"This I can do blindfold with my hands tied behind my back. Well, maybe just one hand." She chuckled. "It's magical beachside book exchanges that put the wind up me."
Mrs McBain smirked mysteriously.
Over her second weekend, Melissa volunteered to help Mrs McBain further. She relished her walks and cave visits, but didn't want to spoil that enjoyment by overdoing it. Mrs McBain was delighted, instantly halving Melissa's accommodation charge.
"Ye dinnae create any cleaning!" This was a reference to Melissa's immaculate bedroom. "The girls fae the village jist dinnae want this sort ae wurk anymere."
Melissa could read from Gregor Markham's library just as comfortably at the reception desk as in the lounge. She kept a wary eye out for Greg, and after lunch detected the slamming of earthenware in the dining room. She poked her head through the doorway. He was aggressively rearranging ancient catering receptacles.
"Hi—"
Greg's Messy Man persona was in command and he didn't look up. "I've absolutely nae time fur any nonsense right noo!"
She withdrew, slightly hurt, but happy enough to take refuge in her book. Still jangling, she penned a more generous note.
"I have persevered with Platt. Behind the 'style' there's a decent plot."
She expected to be released from reception duties before the evening meal, but shortly after six, one of the girls who served at weekends called in sick. Melissa found Mrs McBain operating the bar, her hair radiating in wispy frazzles. Upon receipt of the new information, steam vents appeared behind her ears too. She poured four measures, passed two to a guest couple, and one to Melissa. She downed the fourth.
"Could ye possibly help us wi' the serving? That's baith girls—"
"Yes, of course. Could I grab a snack before we start?"
Mrs McBain reached under the bar and thrust a random selection of packets at Melissa. "Dinnae even think aboot entering the kitchen. Greg's up tae ninety." She frowned at Melissa's untouched measure.
Melissa shook her head. "Thank you but I'd better not."
Mrs McBain downed that too.
Sunday breakfast was an unusually subdued affair. The guests chattered away but Mrs McBain was understandably fragile. Melissa hadn't had time to select a new book, so, once quietly fed, for her much-deserved walk she took only her note. She thrust herself into the cave and slumped on her usual perch. Rather than the quietude she craved, she tensed; she could smell something... someone.
Fresh sweat and onion assailed her. She flapped her top to determine if it was coming from herself. Inconclusive. To reassure herself, she reached for her book pocket. Before she got there, she touched something else: fabric, warm fabric. She stopped breathing.
The sweaty onion monster rasped, "We meet at last."
Melissa fled. The husky whisper replayed in her head like repeatedly pasting and posting a message. She scuttled back to the hotel, moderately vasovagal and muttering imprecations at her persistent idiocy. Had she learned nothing? A cave and critical notes in the margin were so obviously another version of social media and instant messaging. It was gossip.
...continues at part 3/4 tomorrow
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