Chapter 20
20
My pilgrimage is not off to a promising start, as Margate station couldn’t be further from the romantic vision in my dream if it tried. The weather isn’t helping, to be fair. After weeks of warm Mallorcan sunshine, the UK has decided to welcome me home in typical style, with grey skies, drizzle and a surprisingly chilly breeze coming off the sea. The station is largely deserted; a couple of mangy-looking seagulls are fighting over the remains of a packet of crisps that someone has left on a bench and, further up the platform, a teenage boy in a hoodie is trying to impress his female companion by performing stunts on his skateboard. If the bored expression on the girl’s face is anything to go by, it’s not working.
As I follow the directions on my phone, my case bumping along behind me on the uneven pavement, my impressions of Margate don’t really improve. It feels shabby in that way that only a British seaside resort can manage, and I’m starting to agree with James’s dismissive assessment that it’s a dump as I follow the instructions to release the key to my lodgings from the key box on the wall of a dilapidated-looking terraced townhouse. Thankfully, things improve dramatically once I get inside my flat, which is airy and nicely decorated. The owners have evidently decided on a nautical theme, as there are seaside trinkets dotted around the place, but it’s just the right side of tacky. The rooms are generously proportioned, with high ceilings adding to the feeling of space. Part of the living room has been partitioned off to make the small galley kitchen, but it’s still big enough to comfortably house a big squishy leather sofa, coffee table and wall-mounted TV, plus a small dining table with two chairs. The bedroom is dominated by a king-size bed, but I’m pleased to see there’s also a wardrobe and chest of drawers. The bathroom is a little dark and poky as there’s no window in there, but it’s perfectly adequate for my needs.
Having unpacked and made a shopping list, I decide to take another look at the town that’s going to be my home for the next week or two. It’s a strange mix. It doesn’t take me long to find the main beach, and I’m amused to see a few hardy souls swimming in the sea, despite the weather. The beach itself is wide and sandy, with a road separating it from the amusement arcades, fish and chip restaurants and souvenir shops that are practically compulsory in this type of place. At the eastern end of the beach sits the Turner art gallery, but what I find more interesting is the range of shops and restaurants I encounter as I continue past it and walk further into the town. There’s a definite bohemian feel as I explore; at one point, I stare in bewilderment at a tiny restaurant. The menu is inviting and I’m tempted to book a table until I notice that it only opens one day a week, in the evening. How anyone can make a successful business with a model like that is beyond my comprehension, but it’s evidently possible in Margate. In London, and everywhere else I’ve been in the UK, the rents are so high that businesses will open seven days a week for as many hours as they’re permitted to make the most of every drop of potential revenue but, as I walk the streets of Margate, I discover that they’re much more casual about things like that here. Some of the shops that should be open have signs on them saying things like Back at 4.30 or even, in one case, Back on Wednesday .
I’ve decided to delay my visit to Abby’s hotel until tomorrow, when the weather forecast is for sunshine so, after stocking up on food and essentials, I head back to the flat to unpack it all and spend the rest of the day exploring. The more I unearth, the more fascinated I am. Down one street, I find an unassuming entrance to something called the Shell Grotto. Curious to find out more, I buy a ticket and go down the stairs, only to find myself in the most incredible set of rooms and passageways, all covered from floor to ceiling with seashells. The guidebook informs me that there are over four million of them in here, but nobody knows who built it or what for. After a happy half hour exploring the subterranean chambers, it’s disconcerting to climb the staircase again and find myself back on the same very ordinary street.
By the time I’ve had a wander around the Turner Contemporary, Margate’s charms are definitely starting to make an impression on me and I’m in good spirits as I head back to the flat. My phone pings with a message, and I’m very surprised to see that it’s from my mother.
What is the plan now the show has finished? Are you still in Mallorca/coming home/doing something else?
I type out a swift reply while I’m cooking my evening meal:
I’m currently in Margate.
Her response is immediate.
What’s in Margate?
I consider how to answer that question for a while. I’m obviously not going to tell them that I’ve come on a bizarre quest to visit a derelict building that’s been haunting my dreams while also avoiding them. They’ll only convince themselves I’m having some kind of breakdown, not that I suspect they’d do very much even if I was. In the end, I type:
It’s a surprisingly interesting place, actually. Love to you both xx
No reply comes. Their interest in the world outside Ludlow has always been limited, so I’m not surprised. As I dish up my simple supper of pasta carbonara and salad, it occurs to me that this is the first meal I’ve had to cook for myself since before I started at Hotel Dufour. Rosa and Jock would probably find lots of things wrong with it, but I’m rather pleased with myself. I pour a glass of wine from the bottle of inexpensive Merlot that James wouldn’t approve of either and settle down in front of a quiz show on the TV. After I’ve had a look at the hotel tomorrow, I’ll update my CV and have a chat with the agency. Gus is certain that Casterbridge Media will be in touch very soon, but I can’t afford to wait around for them any more.
When I open the curtains the next morning, I’m pleased to see the weather is exactly as forecast. Although the ground is still wet and there are puddles galore, the sky is bright blue with only the occasional fluffy white cloud. However, there’s still a brisk breeze coming off the sea, so I wrap my coat around me before heading out in search of Abby’s hotel. This time, I’m heading west, away from the town centre, but I’ve only been walking for a quarter of an hour or so before I spot the unmistakeable profile of the building I’m looking for.
Although Abby’s pictures gave the impression that the hotel was well situated, the reality is even better. Directly in front of the hotel is a road that rather grandly calls itself the Royal Esplanade, but in front of that there is nothing but grass, then the beach and sea. It’s a stunning vista. Unfortunately, the building itself, when I get closer, is looking decidedly squalid. The ground-floor windows have been boarded up and the local graffiti artists have taken full advantage of this new canvas for their work. Weeds are poking up abundantly through the broken concrete at the front, and the gorgeous curved glass and magnificent front door are barely visible through the thick steel meshed security gates that have been bolted over them. Some of the upper windows, which haven’t been boarded up, are already broken, and tattered curtains are flapping in the breeze behind them. If water is getting inside, which it must be doing, it will only hasten the demise of the building, and, for a moment, I wonder whether the broken windows were Abby’s doing to help nature along. I don’t think she’s the type of person who would do that though. I hope not, anyway.
As I walk round to the side, there is another heavy steel mesh gate blocking access to what must be the car park. I press my face up against it but all I can see is more broken tarmac with weeds poking through, some abandoned plastic crates that would have had beer bottles in them once, and the remains of a sign with the logo of the budget hotel chain on it.
I retrace my steps to the front of the building and cross the road so I can get a better view of it as a whole. Despite the peeling white paint and graffiti, it’s still easy to see the beauty underneath.
‘Tragic, isn’t it?’ a voice says next to me, making me jump. I turn to find myself face to face with a man who must be ninety if he’s a day. ‘I spent some of the happiest years of my life here, and now look at it,’ he continues. ‘Are you from the development company?’
‘Umm, not exactly,’ I tell him. How to explain who I am without sounding like a lunatic? ‘A friend told me about it, and I’m into art deco, so I wanted to come and have a look.’
‘It used to be the most marvellous place.’ The man sighs. ‘But times change, don’t they? We’re in tune, The Mermaid and me. She was at her best when I was in my prime, and now we’re both old and worn out.’
‘The Mermaid?’
‘That’s what it was called. You can still see the name at the top if you look carefully. The last lot never bothered to remove the sign, just stuck the board with their logo over it.’
I look up, and he’s right. At the very top of the building is a large slab, into which the words Mermaid Hotel have been carved.
‘There was the most beautiful mosaic of a mermaid in the lobby,’ the man continues, lost in his thoughts. ‘We were trained never to walk across it, but always around the edge. Different days, eh?’
‘You worked here?’
‘Oh yes. I started as a pot washer when I left school and worked my way up to doorman. I even met my wife here; she was a housekeeper.’
‘I’m trying to picture what it must have looked like back then.’
‘Oh, she was beautiful.’
‘Are you talking about your wife or The Mermaid?’
‘Both,’ he says wistfully. ‘We had our wedding reception here. Happiest day of my life. Every time I walk past, I can see my Annie in her dress, even after all these years. Of course, we could never have afforded it normally, but it was hotel policy to offer employees a free reception if they wanted it.’
‘Wow.’ I’m trying to picture him as a young man with his bride but I’m struggling. ‘I don’t mean to sound pushy,’ I say after a moment, ‘and please feel free to say no, but I don’t suppose you have any photos from back then, do you?’
‘Lots.’ He laughs. ‘I’d be happy to show them to you if you have time. I’m Reginald, by the way.’
‘Beatrice.’
‘What a lovely name. Delighted to meet you, Beatrice. I live in the retirement home a little further up if you’re happy to follow me and don’t mind listening to the nostalgic ramblings of an old man.’
‘I’d love that. Thank you.’
When Reginald said ‘a little further up’, he really meant it. His retirement home is almost next door to The Mermaid so, despite his slow shuffle, supported heavily by his walking frame, it only takes us a couple of minutes to reach it.
‘If the warden asks, you’re my great-niece,’ he tells me conspiratorially as he holds his pass up to the holder next to the front door. ‘They mean well, but they can be a little over-protective.’
The heat when we get inside is almost stifling, but I follow him past the front desk and down a long corridor with doors on either side.
‘This is me,’ he says, holding his pass against a door lock on the left, which beeps and clicks open. I follow him in and find myself in a bright, airy room with a bed on one side and a sitting area on the other.
‘Take off your coat and make yourself comfortable,’ Reginald says, indicating an overstuffed sofa. ‘I never sit there any more. I can get in it, but then I have to get someone to help me out. I sit there, in my whizzy chair.’ He points to a very ordinary-looking armchair by the window. ‘Would you like a cup of tea or anything?’
‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’ Although he’s abandoned the frame now he’s indoors, he’s still terribly frail and I can see he has a tremor in his hands. Making tea would be a big effort for him.
‘It’s no trouble.’ He laughs. ‘I just phone the kitchen and someone brings it.’
‘In that case, tea would be lovely, thank you.’
He places the order, adding chocolate digestives for good measure, and then crosses to a glass display cabinet, which has various ornaments in the top half, and drawers underneath.
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ he says. ‘The albums are in the bottom drawer, but I can’t get down there. Would you mind?’
‘Not at all. Tell me what I’m looking for.’ I bend down, open the drawer and, after I’ve moved a few things out of the way, Reginald instructs me to bring out a large leatherbound book. It’s heavy and a little unwieldy, but I’ve soon freed it and laid it on the sofa. Reginald lowers himself carefully into his ‘whizzy’ chair and closes his eyes. For a moment, I’m worried he’s gone to sleep, but then he says, ‘Open it. I know every picture in there like the back of my hand.’
The first picture is of a young woman in a simple white dress, smiling shyly at the camera.
‘That’s my Annie,’ he says without opening his eyes. ‘January the fifteenth, 1953. I was twenty and she was seventeen. We were married for sixty blissful years before she passed away. Cancer.’
‘She’s beautiful,’ I tell him sincerely.
‘She was. Turn the page,’ he instructs.
By the time the tea and biscuits arrive, we’re about halfway through and I’m fizzing with excitement. I’m currently looking at a shot of Reginald and Annie getting out of the car at the front door of the hotel. The curved glass is sparkling, and the mosaic of the mermaid is clearly visible inside.
‘The next picture is the dining room, with our wedding cake set up at the end. Rationing hadn’t ended yet, so the whole family sacrificed their coupons so we had enough butter, sugar and eggs to make it.’
I turn the page and study the picture. Obviously, the dining room doesn’t match the one I saw in my dreams; that would just be weird and creepy. It is opulent, though; there are large multi-paned mirrors around the walls, typical of the art deco style, and even though the photos are small, faded and black-and-white, I can tell the table linen is thick and good quality.
A thought comes to me. ‘Reginald?’ I ask.
‘Yes?’
‘You don’t have to tell me, but I gather the current owners planned to turn The Mermaid into flats but were prevented because of local objections. Do you know anything about that?’
He laughs softly. ‘I wouldn’t read too much into that if I were you. I think people were happy enough as it’s a bit of an eyesore at the moment, but the rumour on the grapevine is that Dennis Mountford, a local councillor, wanted to buy it and develop it himself. When he was outbid, he countered by getting the planning application blocked, even though it was exactly what he’d planned to do. I think he’s hoping the developers will lose interest and sell the building to him for a knock-down price.’
By the time we get to the end of the book, Reginald is obviously tired, so I make my excuses and leave. He’s very kindly let me photograph some of the pictures on my phone, and I promise to call by and see him again soon. I’m relieved to get out of the oppressive heat into the fresh air but, as I walk past The Mermaid again, I stop and gaze up at its lifeless, blank windows. Now that I’ve seen what it used to be like, there’s no way I can let it just crumble.
‘I can’t promise I’ll succeed,’ I tell it suddenly. ‘But I’m going to try my very best to save you.’