Holes for Faces Read online

The storeroom distracted him. Even if his stinging eyes had adjusted to the dimness, he couldn’t understand how he’d failed to see that the room was more than untidy. It was full of burned sticks and bits of stick, some of which were thin as twigs. One charred tangle that, to judge by the blackened lump at the nearer end, consisted partly of a mop or brush came close to blocking the door. When he lurched to shut away the sight the edge of the door caught the object, and he glimpsed it crumbling into restless fragments before the slam resounded through the passage. He limped to the office door and, having rapped on a scaly panel, shouted “Will you come and tell me to my face what’s happening?”

  As far as he could determine, silence was the answer. He could have fancied that the station and its surroundings were eager for his next outburst. “You’re meant to make yourself plain,” he yelled. “I couldn’t understand half of what you said.”

  If he was hoping to provoke a response, it didn’t work. Had he offended the man? “I need to know where I’m going,” he insisted. “I don’t think that’s unreasonable, do you?”

  Perhaps the fellow thought he could behave as he liked while he was in charge. Perhaps he felt too important to descend to meeting the public, an attitude that would explain his tone of voice. Or might he not be on the premises? If he was beyond the door, what could he expect to gain by lying low? Surely not even the worst employee would act that way—and then Marsden wondered if he’d strayed on the truth. Suppose it wasn’t a railway employee who was skulking in the office?

  The kind of person who’d tried to set fire to the station would certainly be amused by Marsden’s plight and think it even more of a joke to confuse him. Perhaps the indistinctness of the announcements was the result of suppressed mirth. Marsden shouldn’t waste any more time if the information was false. He hurried to the phone and glared at the dim wall, which didn’t bear a single notice.

  No doubt vandals had removed any advertisements for taxis. At least the phone wasn’t disabled. He fumbled the receiver off its hook and leaned almost close enough to kiss the blackened dial as he clawed at an enquiry number. He could have thought his hearing had improved when the bell began to ring; it sounded close as the next room. The voice it roused was keeping its distance, however. “Can you speak up?” Marsden urged.

  “Where are you calling, please?”

  This was sharp enough for a warning. Presumably the speaker was ensuring he was heard. “Peacehaven,” Marsden said. “Taxis.”

  “Where is that, please?”

  “Peacehaven,” Marsden pronounced loud enough for it to grow blurred against his ear before he realised that he wasn’t being asked to repeat the name. “Somewhere near Manchester.”

  In the pause that ensued he might have heard movement outside the passage. His hectic pulse obscured the noise, which must have been the tall grass scraping in a wind, even if he couldn’t feel it. He was relieved when the voice returned until he grasped its message. “Not listed,” it said.

  “Forgive me, I wasn’t asking for Peacehaven Taxis. Any cab firm here will do.”

  “There is no listing.”

  Was the fellow pleased to say so? He sounded as smug as the worst sort of priest. “The nearest one, then,” Marsden persisted. “I think that might be—”

  “There are no listings for Peacehaven.”

  “No, that can’t be right. I’m in it. I’m at the railway station. You must have a number for that at least.”

  “There is none.”

  Marsden was aware of the dark all around him and how many unheard lurkers it could hide. “Is there anything more I can do for you?” the voice said.

  It sounded so fulsome that Marsden was convinced he was being mocked. “You’ve done quite enough,” he blurted and slammed the receiver on its hook.

  He could try another enquiry number, or might he call the police? What could he say that would bring them to his aid yet avoid seeming as pathetic as he was determined not to feel? There was one voice he yearned to hear in the midst of all the darkness, but the chance of this at so late an hour seemed little better than infinitesimal. Nevertheless he was groping for change and for the receiver. He scrabbled at the slot with coins and dragged the indistinct holes around the dial. The bell measured the seconds and at last made way for a human voice. It was his own. “Ray and Marjorie Marsden must be engaged elsewhere…”

  “I am. I wish you weren’t,” he murmured and felt all the more helpless for failing to interrupt his mechanical self. Then his distant muffled voice fell silent, and Marjorie said “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, love.”

  “Is that Ray?” She sounded sleepy enough not to know. “I can hardly hear you,” she protested. “Where have you gone?”

  “You’d wonder.” He was straining to hear another sound besides her voice—a noise that might have been the shuffling of feet in rubble. “I’m stuck somewhere,” he said. “I’ll be late. I can’t say how late.”

  “Did you call before?”

  “That was me. Didn’t you get me?”

  “The tape must be stuck like you. I’ll need to get a new one.”

  “Not a new husband, I hope.” He wouldn’t have minded being rewarded with the laugh he’d lived with for the best part of fifty years, even though the joke felt as old as him, but perhaps she was wearied by the hour. “Anyway,” he said, “if you didn’t hear me last time I’ll sign off the same way, which as if you didn’t know—”

  “What was that?”

  For too many seconds he wasn’t sure. He’d been talking over it, and then she had. Surely it had said that a train was about to arrive; indeed, wasn’t the noise he’d mistaken for thin footsteps the distant clicking of wheels? “It’s here now,” he tried to tell her through a fit of coughing. By the time he would be able to speak clearer, the train might have pulled in. Dropping the receiver on the hook, he dashed for the platform. He hadn’t reached it when he heard a scraping behind him.

  The storeroom was open again, but that wasn’t enough in itself to delay him. His eyes had grown all too equal to the gloom in the passage, so that he was just able to discern marks on the floor, leading from outside the station to the room. Could someone not be bothered to pick up their dirty feet? The trails looked as if several objects had been dragged into the room. He didn’t believe they had just been left; that wasn’t why they made him uneasy. He had to squint to see that they were blurred by more than the dark. Whatever had left them—not anybody shuffling along, he hoped, since their feet would have been worse than thin—had crumbled in transit, scattering fragments along the route. He thought he could smell the charred evidence, and swallowed in order not to recommence coughing, suddenly fearful of being heard. What was he afraid of? Was he growing senile? Thank heaven Marjorie wasn’t there to see him. The only reason for haste was that he had a train to catch. He tramped out of the passage and might have maintained his defiant pace all the way to the bridge if a shape hadn’t reared up at the window of the storeroom.

  Was the object that surmounted it the misshapen head of a mop? He couldn’t distinguish much through the grimy pane, but the idea was almost reassuring until he acknowledged that somebody would still have had to lift up the scrawny excuse for a figure. It hadn’t simply risen or been raised, however. A process that the grime couldn’t entirely obscure was continuing to take place. The silhouette—the blackened form, rather—was taking on more substance, though it remained alarmingly emaciated. It was putting itself back together.

  The spectacle was so nightmarishly fascinating that Marsden might have been unable to stir except for the clatter of wheels along the tracks. He staggered around to see dim lights a few hundred yards short of the station. “Stop,” he coughed, terrified that the driver mightn’t notice him and speed straight through. Waving his arms wildly, he sprinted for the bridge.

  He’d panted up the stairs and was blundering along the middle of the wooden corridor when he thought he heard a noise besides the approach of the train. Was he
desperate to hear it or afraid to? He might have tried to persist in mistaking it for wind in the grass if it weren’t so close. He did his utmost to fix his shaky gaze on the far end of the corridor as he fled past shadow after crouching shadow. He almost plunged headlong down the further stairs, and only a grab at the slippery discoloured banister saved him. As he dashed onto the platform he saw that both doors in the passage out of the station were open. The sight brought him even closer to panic, and he began to wave his shivering arms once more as he tottered to the edge of the platform. “Don’t leave me here,” he cried.

  The squeal of brakes seemed to slice through the dark. The engine blotted out the view across the tracks, and then a carriage sped past him. Another followed, but the third was slower. Its last door halted almost in front of him. Though the train was by no means the newest he’d ridden that day, and far from the cleanest, it seemed the next thing to paradise. He clutched the rusty handle and heaved the door open and clambered aboard. “You can go now. Go,” he pleaded.

  Who was the driver waiting for? Did he think the noises on the bridge were promising more passengers? There was such a volume of eager shuffling and scraping that Marsden almost wished his ears would fail him. He hauled at the door, which some obstruction had wedged open. He was practically deaf with his frantic heartbeat by the time the door gave, slamming with such force that it seemed to be echoed in another carriage. At once the train jerked forward, flinging him onto the nearest musty seat. He was attempting to recover his breath when the announcer spoke.

  Was a window open in the carriage? The voice sounded close enough to be on the train, yet no more comprehensible. It was no longer simply unctuous; it could have been mocking a priest out of distaste for the vocation. Its only recognisable words were “train now departing”, except that the first one was more like Ray—perhaps not just on this occasion, Marsden thought he recalled. He craned towards the window and was able to glimpse that both doors in the exit corridor were shut. Before he had time to ponder any of this, if indeed he wanted to, the train veered off the main line.

  “Where are you taking me?” he blurted, but all too soon he knew. The train was heading for the property behind the station, a turn of events celebrated by a short announcement. There was no question that the speaker was on board, though the blurring of the words left Marsden unsure if they were “Ray is shortly alive.” The swerve of the train had thrown open the doors between the carriages, allowing him to hear a chorused hiss that might have signified resentment or have been an enthusiastic “Yes” or, possibly even worse, the collapse of many burned objects into the ash he could smell. As the train sped through a gateway in the railings, he read the name on the sign: not Peacehaven Motors at all, or anything to do with cars. Perhaps the route was only a diversion, he tried to think, or a short tour. Perhaps whoever was on the train just wanted somebody to visit the neglected memorials and the crematorium.

  Peep

  I’m labouring up the steepest section of the hill above the promenade when the twins run ahead. At least we’re past the main road by the railway station. “Don’t cross—” I shout or rather gasp. Perhaps each of them thinks or pretends to think I’m addressing the other, because they don’t slow down until they reach the first side street and dodge around the corner.

  “Stay there,” I pant. They’re already out of sight, having crouched below the garden wall. I wonder if they’re angry with me by association with their parents, since Geraldine wasn’t bought a kite to replace the one she trampled to bits when yesterday’s weather let her down. They did appear to relish watching teenage drivers speed along the promenade for at least a few minutes, which may mean they aren’t punishing me for their boredom. In any case I ought to join in the game. “Where are those children?” I wonder as loudly as my climb leaves breath for. “Where can they be?”

  I seem to glimpse an answering movement beyond a bush at the far end of the wall. No doubt a bird is hiding in the foliage, since the twins pop their heads up much closer. Their small plump eight-year-old faces are gleeful, but there’s no need for me to feel they’re sharing a joke only with each other. Then Geraldine cries “Peep.”

  Like a chick coming out of its shell, as Auntie Beryl used to say. I can do without remembering what else she said, but where has Geraldine learned this trick? Despite the August sunshine, a wind across the bay traces my backbone with a shiver. Before questioning Geraldine I should usher the children across the junction, and as I plod to the corner I wheeze “Hold my—”

  There’s no traffic up here. Nevertheless I’m dismayed that the twins dash across the side street and the next one to the road that begins on the summit, opposite the Catholic church with its green skullcap and giant hatpin of a cross. They stop outside my house, where they could be enjoying the view of the bay planted with turbines to farm the wind. Though I follow as fast as I’m able, Gerald is dealing the marble bellpush a series of pokes by the time I step onto the mossy path. Catching my breath makes me sound harsh as I ask “Geraldine, who taught you that game?”

  She giggles, and so does Gerald. “The old woman,” he says.

  I’m about to pursue this when Paula opens my front door. “Don’t say that,” she rebukes him.

  Her face reddens, emphasising how her cropped hair has done the reverse. It’s even paler by comparison with the twins’ mops, so that I wonder if they’re to blame. Before I can put my reluctant question, Gerald greets the aromas from the kitchen by demanding “What’s for dinner?”

  “We’ve made you lots of good things while you’ve been looking after grandpa.”

  The twins don’t think much of at least some of this, although I presume the reference to me was intended to make them feel grown-up. They push past their mother and race into the lounge, jangling all the ornaments. “Careful,” Paula calls less forcefully than I would prefer. “Share,” she adds as I follow her to the kitchen, where she murmurs “What game were you quizzing them about?”

  “You used to play it with babies. I’m not saying you. People did.” I have a sudden image of Beryl thrusting her white face over the side of my cot, though if that ever happened, surely I wouldn’t remember. “Peep,” I explain and demonstrate by covering my eyes before raising my face above my hand.

  Paula’s husband Bertie glances up from vigorously stirring vegetables in the wok he and Paula brought with them. “And what was your issue with that?”

  Surely I misunderstood Gerald, which can be cleared up later. “Your two were playing it,” I say. “A bit babyish at their age, do you think?”

  “Good Lord, they’re only children. Let them have their fun till they have to get serious like the rest of us,” he says and cocks his head towards a squabble over television channels. “Any chance you could restore some balance in there? Everything’s under control in here.”

  I’m perfectly capable of cooking a decent meal. I’ve had to be since Jo died. I feel as if I’m being told where to go and how to act in my own house. Still, I should help my remaining family, and so I bustle to the lounge, where the instant disappearance of a channel leaves the impression that a face dropped out of sight as I entered. Gerald has captured the remote control and is riffling through broadcasts. “Stop that now,” I urge. “Settle on something.”

  They haven’t even on the furniture. They’re bouncing from chair to chair by way of the equally venerable sofa in their fight over the control. “I think someone older had better take charge,” I say and hold out my hand until Gerald flings the control beside me on the sofa. The disagreement appears to be over two indistinguishably similar programmes in which vaguely Oriental cartoon animals batter one another with multicoloured explosions and other garish displays of power. I propose watching real animals and offer a show set in a zoo for endangered species, but the response makes me feel like a member of one. My suggestion of alternating scenes from each chosen programme brings agreement, though only on dismissing the idea, and Geraldine capitulates to watching her brother’s
choice.

  The onscreen clamour gives me no chance to repeat my question. When I try to sneak the volume down, the objections are deafening. I don’t want Paula and her husband to conclude I’m useless—I mustn’t give them any excuse to visit even less often—and so I hold my peace, if there can be said to be any in the room. The cartoon is still going off when we’re summoned to dinner.

  I do my best to act as I feel expected to behave. I consume every grain and shoot and chunk of my meal, however much it reminds me of the cartoon. When my example falls short of the twins I’m compelled to encourage them aloud—“Have a bit more or you won’t get any bigger” and “That’s lovely, just try it” and in some desperation “Eat up, it’s good for you.” Perhaps they’re sick of hearing about healthy food at home. I feel clownishly false and even more observed than I did over the television. I’m quite relieved when the plates are scraped clean and consigned to the dishwasher.

  I’d hoped the twins might have grown up sufficiently since Christmas to be prepared to go to bed before the adults, but apparently holidays rule, and the table is cleared for one of the games Gerald has insisted on bringing. Players take turns to insert plastic sticks in the base of a casket, and the loser is the one whose stick releases the lid and the contents, a wagging head that I suppose is meant to be a clown’s, given its whiteness and shock of red hair and enlarged eyes and wide grin just as fixed. I almost knock the game to the floor when one of my shaky attempts to take care lets out the gleeful head, and then I have to feign amusement for the children’s sake. At first I’m glad when Gerald is prevailed upon to let his sister choose a game.

  It’s Monopoly. I think only its potential length daunts me until the children’s behaviour reminds me how my aunt would play. They sulk whenever a move goes against them and crow if one fails to benefit their twin, whereas Beryl would change any move she didn’t like and say “Oh, let me have it” or simply watch to see whether anyone noticed. “Peep,” she would say and lower her hand in front of her eyes if she caught us watching. My parents pretended that she didn’t cheat, and so I kept quiet, even though she was more than alert to anyone else’s mistakes. Eventually I try conceding tonight’s game in the hope the other adults will, but it seems Paula’s husband is too much of a stockbroker to relinquish even toy money. The late hour enlivens the twins or at any rate makes them more active, celebrating favourable moves by bouncing on the chairs. “Careful of my poor old furniture,” I say, though I’m more dismayed by the reflection of their antics in the mirror that backs the dresser, just the top of one tousled red head or the other springing up among the doubled plates. I’m tired enough to fancy that an unkempt scalp rendered dusty by the glass keeps straying into view even while the twins are still or at least seated. Its owner would be at my back, but since nobody else looks, I won’t. Somewhat earlier than midnight Bertie wins the game and sits back satisfied as the twins start sweeping hotels off the board in vexation. “I think someone’s ready for bed,” I remark.