Chapter Eight
Sidney left his phone switched on. His text came through for me late that night, as I was curled up in my bed in the attic room, a bag already packed to switch to the cottage for a few nights. I heard the pip and closed my notebook.”Changed trains in London. The next one will be France.”
”How far?”I texted back.
”I don”t know yet. I thought I would ride until I feel I”m far enough away.”
”Send me a postcard?”I texted a smiley face afterwards, although this wasn”t a chat about a pleasant holiday.
”Always.”A second one followed.”I miss you.”
”I miss you, too.”I laid my phone on the blanket, watching as the screen turned dark again. With a sigh, I rolled over and curled up on my side, trying not to worry. My stomach tightened ever so slightly as I imagined him on a red eye train, rolling to another station in another town. Maybe another country.
He stopped in a village in France, outside of Paris, then another further south, which I recognized from a vineyard label in the hotel”s wine racks. He was sleeping on station benches, hitchhiking to the next train platform on a passing farm truck. From here, the texts lapsed, and the last phone call became broken by static. We were losing signal.
With Tamara off, I was still doing light tidying in the foyer, wiping down the wood reception desk during a lull in activity. Despite rules, I was keeping my phone switched on, in case Sidney came back into satellite range.
What the rules allowed for was checking it on my break. When there were still no messages, only the last one that told me he was pushing on.
”Do we have to move this stuff?” said Katy, as she scooted the heavy fern planter onto the hand truck. ”What”s wrong with the lobby as it is?”
”Ask the concierge,” said Gomez. ”It”s his decree. He thinks a subtle rearrangement will speak to guests.”
”That sounds like the sort of rubbish he natters with these days,” Katy grumbled. ”Who does he think he is? He was trucking baggage upstairs two weeks ago.”
”With great promotion comes great responsibility,” said Gomez. ”More to the point, he likes the feeling of power.” He leaned the hand cart back, leveraging the pot off the foyer”s tiles.
”Putting a stick in Brigette”s eye?” countered Katy, knowingly.
Gomez put on his mysterious smile. ”Perhaps that is the magic part,” he suggested, echoing my suspicions. ”You know what they say about Mars and Venus.”
Katy made a face. ”Like I want to think about the two of them in that way,” she said. ”If I need to be sick, I”ll drink curdled milk instead, thanks.”
Riley reappeared with a box of fliers for an upcoming festival in Mousehole. ”What”s happening?” he asked, with a frown.
They exchanged glances. ”Nothing,” they answered.
He frowned a little deeper, as if suspicious this wasn”t the case, then let it dissipate. ”All right. Move the fern pot a bit more, will you, mate? Can”t have it brushing against the tourists reading the attractions literature.”
”Yes, Herr Concierge,” said Katy, suppressing a giggle. ”Want the floor re-polished, too?”
Riley looked annoyed. ”Is that the proper behavior for the public foyer, I ask you?” he said. ”We have guests coming in and out — show them a bit of class.”
”What doyoucare?” said Katy, her parting shot as Riley moved on. Gomez looked amused, but hid it by pretending to collect some stray fern fronds snapped off by the move.
”This is the new Riley Bloom speaking to us,” surmised Gomez. ”The one who has reformed.”
The former porter had set down his box and straightened the panels of his waistcoat. ”I”m merely a man of serious mind and business principle,” he answered. ”Just check my commendation for least tardy slips for the past month, if you please.”
Sam leaned around the corner. ”Hey, did I tell you that old pickup line of yours worked on Sheila?” he said. ”The joke where the lorry driver says, ”I like my women the way I like my lanes — lots of curves with easy strips in between”?”
This tweaked a grin of humor on Riley”s lips, before he caught himself and put back his serious face. ”Keep that sort of humor to yourself when on the job,” he said. ”Can”t you see I”m trying to work? This is no place to chat about idle parties and random hens you”ve met up with by chance.”
”So now youdon”tlike birds with heavy mascara and a love of bottomless pints?” said Sam, amused.
”A decent lad prefers a bit of brain underneath, you know.” But Riley had blushed, which was a dead giveaway of a particular reason.
I stood by with a broom and dustpan to sweep up after the dirt trails left by Riley”s new vision, listening to the ongoing debate. My phone buzzed, and I dug for it hastily — and discreetly, in case Brigette was somewhere around.
”In Italy. Pushing east with the next train from Turino. I”ll ring you tonight if I can find a signal for my phone.”
”Be safe.”I texted back.”How”s the weather?”I added a funny face emoji, not that he would take my question seriously.
”Italian.”The funny face emoji appeared again after his reply.”I”m still writing. Maybe not my best, but it”s still coming. I just want you to know. Maybe when I find a place to settle and wait it out, it will go better.”
”It will.”I clicked the keys.
I slipped my phone in my pocket again. I did not ask the question I wanted to ask, which was”how much further until you stop?”He had no way of knowing when he would land in a place he felt he could stay for a time, unnoticed and untraceable, at least until he ran out of funds.
I couldn”t let it affect me that it had to be like this. Journalists still rang the hotel frequently, trying to find him. I couldn”t answer the door of the cottage without checking first to be sure it was a neighbor or a delivery person and not one of them trying to score a comment from the elusive author on his P-R saga”s latest development.
”Where is Alistair Davies Now?” ”Public Clamors for Details, Author Remains Silent.” ”Enigma Not Finished — Author Davies Leaves Questions Unanswered.”
The next messages came when I was in the dining room, serving afternoon coffee. I put on a smile for my customer, keeping my hand steady as I poured. It couldn”t follow instinct and dive into my apron pocket this time.
”Catching train tonight. Don”t worry, everything is ok.”
”Good. I unplugged cottage phone for good. Journalists still hounding the hotel.”
”They rang the vicarage, too. I sent Myra an apology. My fault it”s dragged them in.”
I imagined what he must have said in those lines was heartfelt and deeply ashamed for getting them involved by proxy.”Call me tonight?”
”I will. Promise.”
”Waitress, could I trouble you for a plate of chocolate biscuits?” That was the question that sucked me back to the present tense from these words.
My phone rang at ten o” clock, as I was finishing some notes on the story I had been gradually fashioning from the genomes of inspiration and creative elements, about love letters and transcendent words on paper. ”Hello?” I dropped my tablet among the ephemera from my memento box.
”Maisie. I know it”s late ...” the phone call cut out, then scratched back in. ” ... looking for a place, but I haven”t ...”
”Sidney?” I sat up more fully. ”Where are you?”
” ... outside Lake Cuomo. I think ....” The call disappeared again, leaving me unsure if those punctuation points were the correct ones in his speech. ”... I wanted to .... How are you? Is everything ...”
”I”m fine.” I raised my voice, in case it somehow made me easier to hear. ”Everything”s good. I”m trying to work on my idea, but you know how it is. Things are fine at the hotel.”
”... wish I were reading it right now,” he said, which came rising through clearly. ”You could send it to me as soon ...” The voice disappeared again.
”I will,” I answered, although I didn”t know what I was promising. ”Hello?”
The call had been dropped. I checked my screen, and let out a quiet sigh. ”Goodnight, Sidney,” I said.
”Caught my train. Sorry about the call. I have a lead on a spot where I can stay, and I”ll send you the address as soon as I know.”
”I”ll send you a box of books as soon as I have it.”I added an emoji, trying to keep the humor alive.
”From your vast inheritance?”The reply joke was trying also, but was burdened by sadness also. The separation gap yawned, the separate spheres of thought pulling like an unraveled rope”s halves.
”From your tatty library.”My retort without a smiley face of reply.”Keep me posted.”
”I promise to do so. Literally.”
”He”s coming back, you know,” I said to Kip, who moped over his kibble. ”He has to spend some time away until people leave him alone again.” As if to illustrate, I heard a knock on the front door. ”Mr. Davison? Anyone home.”
Kip whimpered. All the others were chowing down, except for Bugsy, who was trying to bed down in the mop cupboard, mostly because the kitten Yo-Yo had developed a recent fear of dusters which put her off sneak attacks in that zone.
Crouching down, I scratched the terrier”s ears. ”I miss him, too,” I said, softly. ”Just when I thought we had him back for good.” It was the worst part of it. I could not help thinking it, here in the cottage, where reminders of him were all around me. From the wagging tails of the mangy dog pack, which Dean moaned about letting into his home, to the scent of his aftershave on the towel beside the bath, when I gathered up the laundry with thoughts of doing a load whilst I kept the dogs company for awhile.
I cleared away the last of the old paperwork that was nothing of legal interest to the lawyers, nor sentimental interest to the family, and dusted the hi-fi and the old desk, now cleared of most of its contents. The little chess board that Sidney taught me with was clicked closed on the bookshelf, next to the bookend holding the volumes on geography.
The chess board on the parlor table was in the middle of Sidney and Dean”s last game, left at Dean”s move. I touched the knight, forwarding him in opposition to the bishop. A move I remembered from the deflection strategy that Sidney had taught me.Maybe Sidney would notice when he came home.
My writing project was struggling against the current at present, so my notes were largely stalled at the concept of love letters and what written words do and do not say. My pencil did not have more to say on the subject today, fading out in the manner of the address on the love letter I still had tucked into my notebook. I put it away for the day, and made myself a cup of tea to give myself a distraction.
His promise came through in the form of a postcard, which arrived for me at the beginning of the second week. It was in the hotel”s mail, addressed to me, care of the hotel Penmarrow, with no message, only a return address. ”Greetings from Venice” across a gondola scene on the front side.
At least no one from the press would know his whereabouts this way. It occurred to me now that reporters like Mick Simmons probably looked for creative ways to track people, like reading their mail and that of their friends.
I tucked it into my pocket, from which I produced it later in a quiet moment in the upstairs alcove, when I studied its picture anew. I tried picturing him there, writing at a cafe where he blended in with the tourist crowd. Or, knowing him, a hostel where everyone thought he was the eccentric backpacker he used to be.
If only I could see him there. Just to know he was safe and more like himself than in the days leading up to this exile. Since Dean”s loss, the perspective of life had been tipped towards chaos, not ordinary circumstances. There had been no time for us to even breathe, with sorrow and duty pushing their way in forcefully, holding the door behind them for the old heartaches Alistair Davies had been concealing to intrude as well.
”A very lovely card in your hand, Miss Clark.” The voice came from the stair, which Mr. Trelawney had climbed without my notice, too lost in thought to hear the heavy tread and creak of wood under carpet. ”From a friend enjoying the Mediterranean as its summer cools, I trust?”
”They”re on a sort-of holiday,” I answered, trying to keep the chagrin from my voice.
”As could you be, if you wished,” he said. ”You have, I believe, a great many sick days which have not been taken. You are rather prone to good health, it would seem.”
I smiled. ”Good genes, maybe.” I knew I should tuck the card into my pocket again and go back to work, now that I had been caught by the manager himself. He didn”t look particularly peeved to find me sitting here, however. ”Anyway, I can”t see myself running off on an impulsive world tour now.”
”Because it would be irresponsible?” Here, he sounded slightly amused, with one of those impassive eyebrows lifting. ”It isn”t a matter of finance or accessibility, I suspect, so the reasons must lie elsewhere. Not with willpower, I hope.”
”Do you think we should follow those impulses?” I asked, almost with a laugh, as if it were funny to think of me running into the world with only my luggage and the adrenaline of the motive.
”Why not?” To my surprise, he sank down beside me on the window seat, its ledge creaking. ”Following my recent impulse was a highly-satisfying experience. I breathed the air of Tuscany. I escaped from a rather dull routine that was wearing me thin. In my zeal, I embraced the love of my life before she accepted seriously my claims that I could easily go through life content to merely think about her daily.” He smiled, as if making a point how unbelievable such a story would be to the woman he married. Another rare smile from the manager”s human side, unique from the polite business version.
”I think that was more than an impulse at work,” I said, smiling back. ”A love that lasts that long has a basis in something more than the knowledge you need to make a little change.”
”Perhaps that”s true,” he answered. ”We can hardly blame impulse for things which are inevitable — providing we don”t circumvent them outright in our attempts to be practical.”
”You were a tad too practical that time.” I thought this was the safe level of agreement, even if it didn”t express quite how big a mistake we both knew it had been to send away Lady Val. ”If you embrace someone and don”t want to let go, it”s probably a sign that you shouldn”t. You did the right thing by changing your mind.”
”More importantly, I embraced my life,” he said. ”I did not merely stand by and allow things to happen by chance or passivity. As a man who is accustomed to judging what can be managed and what can”t be, I came very close to a willful mistake I would have regretted.”
”You stopped yourself only just in time,” I said, pocketing the card.
”That”s not an accurate description of the circumstances. The advice of a good friend stopped me,” he corrected. The rare smile had returned, and in its softness, I comprehended the meaning of this statement, and felt myself almost blush. This was a different compliment that I had not anticipated from the formidable manager.
He rose. ”No rush to tidy the hall carpet,” he said. ”It looked perfectly fine to me this morning.” He continued on his way, without taking any more notice of the hoover parked near the stairs.
It was true that Brigette had been searching out busy work for staff lately, probably as much to assert her housekeeping authority as any other reason. That way, Riley couldn”t recruit any stray maids or porters to help with his new vision for concierge services. Another tactic in their personal war of the roses.
My phone rang again, at the cottage, when I was taking a break from crafting my vlog interview schedule according to the arrangements Arnold had made. Seeing Sidney”s number, I felt relief flood through my chest. ”Hello?”
”It”s me. Too late to ...” That part of his remark vanished between signals, lost to my comprehension.
”How are you?” I hoped I could hear the answer. ”How is Venice?”
”Good,” he said. ”The view is beautiful. But ...” The signal faded again.
”Beautiful views are as inspirational as it gets,” I said. I was thinking of the view from the window of the pretend Alistair Davies” suite at the Penmarrow. He must have seen it, I thought, at some point when he was there. That little glimpse of the shore, perhaps it spoke to the part of him which had already envisioned Cornwall in his writer”s imagination.
”I wish you ....” his voice faded out.
”Hello?” I said. ”Are you there?”
” ... until some time next week.” After the brief fade, the call became clear again, as if Sidney had found a sweet spot for his mobile. ”I don”t know how long I can stay or where I”ll go next.”
”Do you have to go anywhere?” I asked. ”Why not stay there in Mediterranean paradise for awhile? Drink cappuccinos and read books on a rooftop terrace?”
I heard him laugh. ”The money I brought is going to run out at some point, and I have to pay rent,” he answered. ”So, no, I can”t stay much longer. I don”t know what I”ll decide to do.”
”What do you wish it would be?” I asked.
”Too much imagination for tonight,” he answered, with another laugh. ”Tell me something else. Tell me how you are, because I miss you.”
”Do you?” I pretended to be surprised.
”Like crazy,” he said.
There was no static on the line that time. I could hear the sincerity beneath the humor. He would rather not talk about his writing all the time, and talking about mine was interesting to him. Missing me might be the bigger reason at present, but I didn”t care.
”Do you want to hear about my latest thoughts on my steampunk-ish inventor fantasy story?” I asked. I curled up on the sofa, scratching Kip”s ears as he hopped up beside me on the cushion — as if he could detect Sidney”s voice and was trying to listen in.
”Tell me,” he said. ”Just don”t let the call cut out at a pivotal part.”
”Alas, no promises,” I answered.
Hearing his voice made the ache inside me grow deeper, rather than filling up the hole. I could feel it all the next day as I hoovered the carpets upstairs, the longing for his presence, both emotionally and physically. The strength of the bond endured, but hurt when stretched this tightly; the tension held pain for all the sacrifices distance required of intimacy. So the scent of him in the cottage brought me to tears in a weak moment, and the sound of his voice speaking only a few words brought my hopes sky high again.
Sidney was bound away indefinitely at this point, and nothing could change it short of the world”s utter transformation. Circumstances were trying to suck him into the role he created unintentionally, as if it were a vacuum akin to the one now cleaning any stray crumbs or dust from the hall, and I was helpless to change the situation.
When he ran off before, he had been filled with resentment and anger. Now he was only trying to protect himself and the people he cared about. I felt regret for any of this ever being revealed, for Mick Simmons eavesdropping or spotting a secret memo, or however this tiny idea came to be planted in his brain that Sidney and Alistair Davies were the same person.
”But we”ve always keptthesebrochures displayed in alphabetical order,” Brigette was saying. ”That”s how our guests are accustomed to it.” She was pulling handfuls from slots — folded rectangles on pirate lore and fine dining along the coasts — and holding them up as examples.
”Only because we haven”t livened matters up,” protested Riley. ”Look, this way the eye is drawn to the prominent attractions, then restaurants, then arts and shopping. It”s a thousand times better than that old system of cramming them into little slots by letter — here”s us hoping people might fancy alligator handbags and arcade games over St Michael”s Mount? That”s not how the psychology of the human mind works.”
”I completely disagree,” said Brigette. ”We owe guests a sense of familiarity with some aspects of their visit.”
”At coffee on Tuesday, I thought you fancied the idea. Or was it just me?” This last statement was almost innocently put, whilst being open to interpretation — or innuendo. Brigette”s cheeks went crimson again.
”I don”t know what you”re talking about,” she said. She cast a hasty glance around them, trying to see if anyone had heard this, then lowered her voice. ”I said ”we”ll see,” not ”do it straightaway before Mr. Trelawney knows.” Now stop being difficult and put these back in their proper order.”
”Not on your life,” said Riley. ”My desk, my territory, so I”ll thank you to let me do it the way I intend.”
”We”ll see what Mr. Trelawney has to say about that,” said Brigette.
The manager, summoned a short time later, played tiebreaker between his new team on the subject of promotional literature. His indulgent smile that was barely noticeable, as if he took seriously the debate on brochure organization.
I switched off the hoover and gazed out the window. The sea rippled in the sun, a ribbon with sequined edges against a handkerchief of green. Unchanging as I had seen it day after day, and would go on seeing it. The picture of scenery from a page in Sidney”s great novel, like the one from its cover. The one in my imagination that soothed me and inspired me in sweet turns. Earthbound and physical to myself and others, unlike the metaphorical cover from my most intimate story, which bound up the past to save a future I once thought — despaired, secretly — was beyond saving.
What of my own complacency? Of my own fate, being bound up in unchanging decisions that had no flexibility. No impulse. What sort of person — and writer — didn”t let themselves believe that some opportunities should never be turned aside?
In Mr. Trelawney”s office, I laid the form of intent on his desk. ”I”m giving this to you now, even though, technically, it”s late,” I said to him.
The blank for the final day”s date was filled in with today”s. A technical violation of employment rules to do it this way, even though I had filled the rest out weeks ago. If he wanted to reject it, he had the right to, but I didn”t kid myself into believing that anything would be rejected, only a mild raise of an eyebrow delivered for my faux pas.
The hotel manager picked it up and glanced at the information. The eyebrow lifted slightly when he reached that last blank. He glanced up at me.
”I”m sorry it”s so late,” I said, softly.
”Not at all.” He reached for a pen and signed it at the bottom. ”I believe it”s been submitted at the right time.” He filed it with the finished papers on his desk. ”I”ll inform Miss O” Brien of your decision straightaway, and she”ll remove you from the schedule.”
”Thank you,” I said. Now that it was done, I felt strangely unsure of myself, even a little sad. Strangely free. This combination was not what I anticipated, but it was sweeping through me like monsoon rains rushing down a mountain.
He held out his hand to me across the desk. ”Goodbye, Miss Clark,” he said, softly. ”And good luck to you.” He didn”t say safe travels, but I knew this was what he meant.
”Thank you.” My voice was softer when I repeated these words. I shook his hand, feeling how much less intimidating that grip had become for me. It was the grip of a friend, not my imposing boss.
”I hope to see you again soon,” he said. ”But not as part of my staff.” He gave me a firm look.
I nodded. ”I promise,” I answered.
My things from the hotel would have to be packed up and moved out of the little attic room upstairs, which I spent the rest of the day doing. My books in boxes, my posters and postcards taken down, and my clothes crammed into my two original suitcases. The little green typewriter, the keys of which I clicked with my fingers, thinking of the story it represented. The last of my souvenirs and Mr. Bubbles, the stuffed giraffe from the foot of my bed, popped in with the last of my decorative pillows.
”I hope you don”t mind temporary storage,” I said, as his stuffed head lolled over the box”s edge. ”It”s just until I come back and figure things out. Or ... until I settle somewhere new, at least.” That somewhere might be with Sidney in a faraway place, at least for an indefinite time.
I borrowed Dean”s box room for storing my things, since the cottage”s lease still had a month to go. No one would be kicking me out until after that point, when the rest of Dean”s things would have to be out as well.
Don”t be afraid.Fear was mixed with a feeling of adventure, that adrenaline that comes with a wild impulse followed. This was what Mr. Trelawney”s advice was talking about, coursing through my veins. It had been a long time since I had been homeless, taking off with some suitcases and only the beginnings of a destination and a plan. Whether it would lead me back here was too early to say — that was my only regret for making this decision. The only curse of an impulse was the uncertain outcome, even when it was the right reason.
I repacked my little rolling suitcase with essentials for travel — a mix of clothes, my notes and tablet computer, the box with my jewelry and a bag of toiletries. A couple of books, after some intense debate, tucked underneath my dress and my light traveling coat, my favorite hat, and Mr. Bubbles, whom I popped in last.
”Never mind what I said before, because you can come along,” I said. ”You might as well see what happens next, since you were a witness last time.” I made this joke before I closed the case”s lid and latched it, then sat on the bed beside it.
My clothes for tomorrow were laid across the chair in Sidney”s room, my shoulder bag at the top of the pile. I had asked Callum already to come by and feed the dogs and the cat, just to keep them and the cottage looked after for a short time. Permanent arrangements could be made later, after I figured out this first stage.
My heart was still pounding a little. This new chapter was beginning with a rush, and I needed to catch my breath before I went on.
Taking the late train meant catching the last bus of the day. I pulled my suitcase outside and locked the cottage door behind me. In the window, Kip was visible, having hopped up on the little table that stood just beneath it. He wagged his tail, as if saying goodbye to me, his one good eye almost human as he gazed at me, with a canine intelligence that seemed to guess why I was leaving. I gave him a little wave of farewell; in return he swiped his face with one paw, scratching an itch on his nose.
I turned to go, and found the vicarage housekeeper standing in the front garden, holding a biscuit tin.
”Mrs. Graves?” I was surprised.
She clutched the tin. ”Tilda heard from her neighbor”s nephew at the hotel that you quit today,” she said. ”I supposed that you were going after Sidney, now that he”s left.”
I exhaled, slowly. ”I am.” I put the keys in my pocket. ”I decided just today.””I thought I would come and ... and offer to look after things for you,” she said. ”And for him. The vicar says he doesn”t mind feeding the dogs, and seeing to it that no one bothers that poor young man”s house so long as Sidney”s still in charge of it.” She lifted her chin. ”If you will give me the keys, I”ll see to it that one of us comes by daily.”
”That”s very kind of you,” I said. ”Callum — Dean”s former nurse — he said he”d come by a few times a week to see to things. I shouldn”t be gone very long, but I don”t know yet.”
Nothing was clear to me except the leaving part, which would turn bittersweet when Cornwall began slipping behind me on the train. I knew I couldn”t stay without him, not right now.
I took the keys from my pocket and handed them to the housekeeper. ”Can I tell Sidney hello for you?” I asked, softly. ”He”d like that.” I only wished that she knew how much it would mean to him.
”I hope he isn”t in any trouble,” she said. But not as stiffly as before. ”And that he”s minding himself, wherever he is. I know he doesn”t always use a great deal of sense when it comes to looking after himself.”
”He”s doing his best,” I said. ”But he misses being here, with everyone he knows.” I hesitated. ”He”s so sorry for all of this. The last thing he ever wanted was to hurt people he cared about.”
Mrs. Graves”s eyes moistened.
”These are for him,” she said, although her voice was still withdrawn. ”Some of my shortbread biscuits. Those are his favorite.”
Sand-covered bath plugs, as Dean used to call them. Softhearted Sidney would crumble them up and feed them to the birds, who miraculously survived eating them.
”He”d love them, I”m sure.” The thought behind them, that is. ”I”ll give it to him when I see him.” I reached out and accepted the tin from her hands.
She turned to go, then paused. ”You tell him —” she hesitated, then her voice grew stout. ”Tell him to look after himself. And if he needs anything, he knows where his friends are.” She walked on towards the village.
I will. I clutched the tin against me, feeling a little bit better.