Conversations with Spirits Page 8

  “Good morning, Mr. Davidson,” called the doorman to a cool-eyed bald-headed man, dressed in a charcoal suit, with a tape-measure swathed about his shoulders. “This gentleman requires some new clothes. As you can see, he’s had a bit of an accident.”

  It was an unhappy introduction. From the look on the tailor’s face, it was clear he thought that I had soiled myself.

  “I’m afraid I was celebrating last night and slipped on some seaweed and fell into the sea. This gentleman…” I said, indicating Billy, “was forced to come in after me.”

  “I see,” muttered the tailor, not obviously convinced by the story. “You’ll be requiring new clothes then?”

  “Haven’t got time for all that,” I replied. “I’m only here for the weekend—I’ll have to get these mended.”

  “Mended?” repeated the tailor, looking appalled at the suggestion. “Think we might be past that stage, sir. How about something off the rack?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, we have all the sizes. A busy man like you might find it more convenient?”

  My creased brow obviously conveyed my lack of comprehension, for Davidson instantly turned on his heel and sauntered over to a metal rail lined with a number of (what seemed to be) identical navy blue jackets. I watched him wade through them—apparently systematically—before selecting a jacket. He turned and ran his eye over me again.

  “I’d say you’re about a forty?” he said. “That right?”

  “Possibly,” I shrugged.

  “Here, try this one.”

  Taking the jacket from its hanger, he held it in front of me, all the while looking down at my trousers.

  “Do you know your inside leg?”

  “As well as any man,” I snapped, and took the jacket from him.

  I had never purchased clothing in this way before. Whilst it seemed like a highly efficient way of doing it, the clothes—which were sold to me as high-fashion—looked rather garish and poorly-constructed.

  After Mr. Davidson had taken me and Billy through his entire wares, I plumped for a plain grey sack suit and coat, a new pair of black brogues and a dark Homburg. I also bought some new under-apparel and—at Davidson’s insistence—a new shirt and tie, a number of white handkerchiefs and a wooden-handled bumbershoot.

  Billy, being evidently more à la mode than I, appeared from the dressing room in a wing-collared shirt, wide neck-tie and glossy American-style suit. This was finished off with a pair of new boots (with white gaiters) and a straw boater—the effect of the hat being slightly reduced by being perched, halo-like, upon his raggedy tresses.

  Having paid, I collected up my old clothes and handed them across to Mr. Davidson, telling him they were his to do with as he wished. Stiffening, the tailor accepted the articles—not ungraciously, but without marked enthusiasm—and having bid us farewell, retreated to some back room, clutching the bundle at arm’s reach.

  Coming out of the department store, we continued through the streets of Ramsgate in good spirits, until we chanced upon a barber shop. Pausing outside, I explained to Billy that, if he wished his straw hat to fit him, he would have to have some of the knots cut out of his hair.

  Despite my encouragement, some sort of natural modesty saw him balk at the idea. When I shrugged and entered the shop, Billy elected to remain patrolling the pavement outside.

  Once inside, I alerted one of the barbers to the plight of my friend, who was desperately in need of a haircut but also painfully shy. With a nod, the man set aside his newspaper and hurried out of the shop to gently coax Billy in.

  Under the duress of a professional, Billy’s resolve quickly broke. Within a minute, the door swung open and the barber led Billy to a vacant chair. With a face like a condemned man, Billy slumped uneasily into the seat and—with a linen thrown across his new clothes—nervously permitted a haircut.

  Staring into my mirror, as my barber mumbled an inane commentary of the war from beneath a cloud of tobacco smoke, I watched—with helpless fascination—as a team of men in white coats set upon Billy’s beard, applying a good number of unguents and creams to untangle it. At one point, one of them removed something—which upon being held to the lamp was discovered to be a crab’s leg—and was quickly disposed of.

  I paid the master barber and strolled back outside, to wait in the morning sunlight. Billy appeared from the shop, grinning, some minutes later—and I was a little disappointed that the transformation was not of the Prince and the Pauper type. Sadly, despite having had his hair and beard trimmed back and a number of hot towels applied to his chops, Billy still managed to retain his weathered dirt-in-the-grain look. In fact, he continued to look very much like a vagrant—albeit one who had stolen some articles of clothing from the washing line of a large house.

  As we continued our trek across the seafront, it struck me, that, to the casual observer, we would have looked like little more than two old friends out for a mid-morning stroll. With decent clothing and the sun warming the Royall Lyme on our newly-shaven faces, it was hard for us to look down at the sparkling water below and not feel in some way invigorated.

  “This is the Western Esplanade!” announced Billy, coming to a standstill before a wrought iron bridge.

  “Right?” I replied, turning back to him. “What’s that then?”

  “This is Broadstairs!”

  Veering from the path, I walked over to the edge of the gravelled promontory and looked out. The tide was out on Broadstairs beach and white waves lapped at an exposed mass of black crag rocks upon the shore. Surveying the town beyond, it appeared to be built in a crescent shape; its irregular aspect due to the majority of the town’s structures maintaining the natural shape of the cliff-face. Just ahead of us, a large square was situated, from which the domed roof of a bandstand protruded. Beyond that, a great number of faded villas huddled together to form an irregular line that dropped down towards the seafront, where an ancient pier of dark wood stretched out to the sea.

  We pushed on into Broadstairs with Billy leading the way. Passing the abandoned bandstand, we travelled through a set of ornamental gardens filled with evergreens, shivering in the morning air. With effort, we ascended a poorly-gravelled road with a sharp incline and struggled past a melange of small tea shops, supper rooms and modern grills. Turning another corner, we crossed through a wide passageway, emerging in the centre of town and amidst a number of fashionable boutiques.

  Billy came to a halt once again and gestured to a large white building situated on the corner of the road ahead of us. Clearly Georgian in design, it had a good number of more modern additions, including a sign reading ‘Ballard’s Hotel’ in florid Victorian script.

  Having transferred my belongings from my old suit to the pocket of my new coat, I rummaged about for some minutes trying to locate the crumpled piece of paper that Horrocks had given me back in London. When I had done, I unfolded it and reviewed its contents:

  Ballard’s Hotel, Broadstairs, Kent.

  Check in. Mr. Jules Unthank.

  As we approached the main entrance of the hotel, I told Billy to wait outside. Since I was already a day late for my reservation, I figured it would only complicate matters if there were then two of us upon arrival.

  My plan was to blame my late appearance on some natural disaster or other, which would explain the situation, whilst generating a sympathetic atmosphere into which I could introduce Billy. However, it did not work out quite like that…

  Swinging open the front door, I observed a man leaning upon a mahogany counter in the reception area suddenly straighten. He was a shaky-looking greybeard with watery blue eyes and an oily smile.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Morning,” I replied. “May I speak with Mr. Jules Unthank, please?”

  The man paused and blinked back at me.r />
  “Whom did you say?”

  I pulled the piece of paper back out of my pocket and read the name off it. “Jules Unthank.”

  “Is he a guest?”

  “I rather assumed he worked here,” I replied wearily. “My secretary booked me into this hotel last night. I’m afraid I’m a day late.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t know the gentleman, sir.”

  I looked about the room in dismay.

  “This is Ballard’s Hotel, is it not?”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “Then, I don’t understand this…” I said, rubbing my forehead. “Is there a telephone?”

  “Sir?”

  “Let me contact my club,” I explained, “I’ll put this straight yet.”

  “Your club, sir?”

  “The Hyperborea Club.”

  Upon hearing the name, the receptionist gave a respectful nod and slapped the bell on the desk before him.

  A porter arrived almost instantly—a slightly-built, but sturdy, youth, with a fresh complexion and a crown bustling with cherry-blonde curls.

  “Parkes, could you please direct this gentleman to the telephone?” said the receptionist.

  Without a word, the porter sidled up to me and gestured for me to give up the carpet-bag. Handing over the heavy, water-logged bag, he turned and I followed, striding purposefully across the small foyer.

  The porter led me through the back rooms of the hotel, through a congeries of corridors and little ante-rooms. Finally, we entered a lounge room, whereupon he pressed down on a light-switch outside a wooden-panelled booth and stepped back. Opening the door, I looked inside and saw the telephone attached to the back wall.

  As the door closed behind me, I picked up the telephone receiver and realised that I had never seen one like it before. Pushing the door back open with my foot, I called back to the porter:

  “I say, what’s going on here? Where’s the crank on this thing?”

  “It doesn’t have one, sir,” the porter responded. “You just lift it and speak.”

  As the door closed, I picked the receiver up again and held it to my ear. There was a slight whirring noise before a female voice suddenly sounded:

  “Operator.”

  “Can you put me through to the Hyperborea Club. London. Pall Mall.”

  “Do you have the district and number, sir?”

  “Pall Mall is the district.”

  “The telephone district, sir.”

  “Well, I don’t know that,” I replied. “Can’t you look the number up?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t, sir. If you knew the telephone district, I might be able to look up the number for you.”

  “Well, how am I supposed to know what it—–”

  I stopped suddenly, and rifled the pockets of my sack coat. “Hold on…” I said, pulling out the piece of paper that Horrocks had given me. As I unfolded it on the telephone’s shelf, I was pleased to see that it was written on club stationery—and, as such, had all the club’s correspondence details printed upon it.

  “Westminster 1212!” I returned in triumph.

  The telephone rang for some time, and I was forced to address several people before a confused-sounding Horrocks finally arrived on the other end of the wire.

  “Good afternoon?”

  “Good afternoon, Horrocks.”

  “Mr. Hart?”

  “That’s right. Now, look here, Horrocks, I thought you’d booked me into this blasted hotel?”

  “That’s correct, sir? Ballard’s Hotel, Broadstairs?”

  “Well, I’ve got here just now—–”

  “—–Just now, sir?”

  “Yes, just now. And they’ve never heard of this Unthank character you made the arrangements with!”

  “However do you mean, sir?”

  “I’ve just asked for the man and they’ve never heard of him.”

  Horrocks cleared his throat with a neat sort of cough. “Sir!”

  “Yes?”

  “If you recall, sir, when I booked the hotel room for you, you told me to do it under an assumed name.”

  “Did I?” I murmured, unable to recall such a conversation.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, I suppose that makes sense. So it’s me then, is it? This Unthank?”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “Well, that does complicate matters.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Out of interest, why that name?”

  “It was the name of my old chemistry master, sir.”

  “I see…” I replied. “Good sort, was he?”

  There was another tactful sort of cough.

  “Well, actually, sir—come to think of it—I believe he was removed from the school system after there was some…unpleasantness, sir.”

  “Well, that’s excellent, Horrocks,” I responded tightly. “Let us hope that his legend has not made it as far as the south coast.”

  Arriving back in the foyer a minute later, the receptionist turned and looked hopefully up at me.

  “Hello again, sir,” said he. “Did you manage to get the matter cleared up?”

  “Yes, I did,” I replied awkwardly, “you should have a reservation for yesterday for Mr. Jules Unthank. Is that right?”

  The man looked pensively at me for a moment, before opening up a ledger and dipping over it. I watched his finger drift down a line of names and pause.

  “That’s right, sir?” he said, looking up at me. “I thought the name sounded familiar when you first mentioned it. Mr. Unthank has not checked in as yet, sir. But if you would like to leave him a message should he arrive later…?”

  “No,” I said abruptly, “you see, he’s me. I’m Unthank. I’ll check in now.”

  “You’re him, sir?” returned the receptionist.

  “Yes. Sorry about before.”

  “Before, sir?”

  “All that ‘I’d like to speak to Jules Unthank’ rot. It was…just larks.”

  “Larks…?” the man repeated, an element of choirboy falsetto beginning to register in his voice.

  “That’s it,” I said quickly. “So, how about letting me check in then?”

  Leaning on the reception desk a minute later, I pushed my hands into my pockets and groped around, hoping that I might subdue the receptionist by producing a decent-sized banknote for him to think about. He had the look of the kind of fellow who would happily permit any sort of nonsense as long as it was decently financed. However, it appeared that the trip to Ramsgate had, in fact, left me rather short.

  “Oh,” I said, scrawling ‘Unthank’ into a ledger, “I need to book a room for a friend too.”

  “I see,” queried the receptionist, his bottom lip thrust out. “And will your friend be checking into the hotel to-day, Mr. Unthank?”

  “Yes, actually,” I said, gesturing to the window. “He’s just outside.”

  Glancing out the window, I watched the receptionist’s eyes suddenly widen in alarm.

  “Would that be your friend, sir?”

  Turning, I saw Billy—dressed in his brand-new suit and straw boater—bent over a drain, busily examining a number of old cigarette butts.

  “Yes,” I said brightly, “that’s him.”

  When the receptionist finally handed over my room key, I put it into my coat pocket and went outside to collect Billy from the roadside. As I led him into the hotel foyer, I explained that he needed to write his name and address in the register. Billy shot me a nervous glance, which I took to be a result of his unfamiliarity with hotel procedures. It was only when he was actually leaning over the book that it occurred to me that he might not be able to write. But to my surprise (and evidently the receptionis
t’s too), Billy filled in his details with an elegant copperplate hand, citing an address in Canterbury as his home.

  When Billy had set the pen aside, the receptionist turned the ledger about and scrutinised his work. Apparently unable to find fault with it, he crossed back to a set of wooden pigeon holes and collected a key. Sliding it across the counter to Billy, he then slammed his flattened palm down on the bell once again and instructed the waiting porter to take us to our rooms.

  Reaching the third floor, myself and Billy lurched breathlessly down the corridor after the sprightly porter, until he stopped and drew back in front of one of the doors in the passage. Realising that I had the corresponding key, I took it from my pocket and opened the door.

  Entering the room, I was instantly struck by a strong musty odour that seemed to be rising from the floorboards. It was a small, dark chamber with stained wallpaper and ancient mouldings, containing nothing more than a desk, a stool and an iron-framed bed. A single thin window looked out across a number of tenement roofs.

  The porter, who had been hovering in the doorway still clutching my carpet-bag, entered the room and settled the bag down at the foot of the bed. He then returned to the doorway and continued to hover there until I proffered a coin. With our business concluded, the porter then withdrew and continued down the corridor with a bemused-looking Billy trailing at his heels.

  Crossing back into the hallway, I shouted to the porter that the gratuity was from us both, and, to Billy, that I would meet him downstairs as soon as he was settled.

  The air in the hotel’s bar was superheated and scented strongly with ale and the odour of broken food.

  A young, somewhat theatrical, waiter was standing behind the bar, busily polishing the taps. When we entered and took a table, he smiled warmly at us and rushed across.

  “Good afternoon. Can I get you gentlemen any food or drink?”

  “No food for me—I’ve got a stomach like a walnut,” I told him. “But we’ll have two large glasses of cherry brandy.”