‘Where’s the hotel got to?’ rejoined Gerald.
‘Poor Gerald! Let me help.’ She laid her hand beside his on the handle of the suitcase nearest to her, but as she was about fifteen inches shorter than he, she could be of little assistance. They must already have gone more than a quarter of a mile. ‘Do you think we’re in the right street?’
‘Most unlikely, I should say. But there’s no one to ask.’
‘Must be early closing day.’
The single deep notes of the bell were now coming more frequently.
‘Why are they ringing that bell? Is it a funeral?’
‘Bit late for a funeral.’
She looked at him a little anxiously.
‘Anyway it’s not cold.’
‘Considering we’re on the east coast it’s quite astonishingly warm.’
‘Not that I care.’
‘I hope that bell isn’t going to ring all night.’
She pulled on the suitcase. His arms were in any case almost parting from his body. ‘Look! We’ve passed it.’
They stopped, and he looked back. ‘How could we have done that?’
‘Well, we have.’
She was right. He could see a big ornamental bell hanging from a bracket attached to a house about a hundred yards behind them.
They retraced their steps and entered the hotel. A woman dressed in a navy blue coat and skirt, with a good figure but dyed red hair and a face ridged with make-up, advanced upon them.
‘Mr and Mrs Banstead? I’m Hilda Pascoe. Don, my husband, isn’t very well.’
Gerald felt full of doubts. His arrangements were not going as they should. Never rely on guide book recommendations. The trouble lay partly in Phrynne’s insistence that they go somewhere he did not know. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said.
‘You know what men are like when they’re ill?’ Mrs Pascoe spoke understandingly to Phrynne.
‘Impossible,’ said Phrynne. ‘Or very difficult.’
‘Talk about Woman in our hours of ease.’
‘Yes,’ said Phrynne. ‘What’s the trouble?’
‘It’s always the same trouble with Don,’ said Mrs Pascoe, then checked herself. ‘It’s his stomach,’ she said. ‘Ever since he was a kid, Don’s had trouble with the lining of his stomach.’
Gerald interrupted. ‘I wonder if we could see our room?’
‘So sorry,’ said Mrs Pascoe. ‘Will you register first?’ She produced a battered volume bound in peeling imitation leather. ‘Just the name and address.’ She spoke as if Gerald might contribute a résumé of his life.
It was the first time he and Phrynne had ever registered in a hotel; but his confidence in the place was not increased by the long period which had passed since the registration above.
‘We’re always quiet in October,’ remarked Mrs Pascoe, her eyes upon him. Gerald noticed that her eyes were slightly bloodshot. ‘Except sometimes for the bars, of course.’
‘We wanted to come out of the season,’ said Phrynne soothingly.
‘Quite,’ said Mrs Pascoe.
‘Are we alone in the house?’ inquired Gerald. After all the woman was probably doing her best.
‘Except for Commandant Shotcroft. You won’t mind him, will you? He’s a regular.’
‘I’m sure we shan’t,’ said Phrynne.
‘People say the house wouldn’t be the same without Commandant Shotcroft.’
‘I see.’
‘What’s that bell?’ asked Gerald. Apart from anything else, it really was much too near.
Mrs Pascoe looked away. He thought she looked shifty under her entrenched make-up. But she only said, ‘Practice.’
‘Do you mean there will be more of them later?’
She nodded. ‘But never mind,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Let me show you to your room. Sorry there’s no porter.’
Before they had reached the bedroom, the whole peal had commenced.
‘Is this the quietest room you have?’ inquired Gerald. ‘What about the other side of the house?’
‘This is the other side of the house. Saint Guthlac’s is over there.’ She pointed out through the bedroom door.
‘Darling,’ said Phrynne, her hand on Gerald’s arm, ‘they’ll soon stop. They’re only practising.’
Mrs Pascoe said nothing. Her expression indicated that she was one of those people whose friendliness has a precise and seldom exceeded limit.
‘If you don’t mind,’ said Gerald to Phrynne, hesitating.
‘They have ways of their own in Holihaven,’ said Mrs Pascoe. Her undertone of militancy implied, among other things, that if Gerald and Phrynne chose to leave, they were at liberty to do so. Gerald did not care for that either: her attitude would have been different, he felt, had there been anywhere else for them to go. The bells were making him touchy and irritable.
‘It’s a very pretty room,’ said Phrynne. ‘I adore four-posters.’
‘Thank you,’ said Gerald to Mrs Pascoe. ‘What time’s dinner?’
‘Seven-thirty. You’ve time for a drink in the Bar first.’
She went.
‘We certainly have,’ said Gerald when the door was shut. ‘It’s only just six.’
‘Actually,’ said Phrynne, who was standing by the window looking down into the street, ‘I like church bells.’
‘All very well,’ said Gerald, ‘but on one’s honeymoon they distract the attention.’
‘Not mine,’ said Phrynne simply. Then she added, ‘There’s still no one about.’
‘I expect they’re all in the Bar.’
‘I don’t want a drink. I want to explore the town.’
‘As you wish. But hadn’t you better unpack?’
‘I ought to, but I’m not going to. Not until after I’ve seen the sea.’ Such small shows of independence in her enchanted Gerald.
Mrs Pascoe was not about when they passed through the Lounge, nor was there any sound of activity in the establishment.
Outside, the bells seemed to be booming and bounding immediately over their heads.
‘It’s like warriors fighting in the sky,’ shouted Phrynne. ‘Do you think the sea’s down there?’ She indicated the direction from which they had previously retraced their steps.
‘I imagine so. The street seems to end in nothing. That would be the sea.’
‘Come on. Let’s run.’ She was off, before he could even think about it. Then there was nothing to do but run after her. He hoped there were not eyes behind blinds.
She stopped, and held her arms to catch him. The top of her head hardly came up to his chin. He knew she was silently indicating that his failure to keep up with her was not a matter for self-consciousness.
‘Isn’t it beautiful?’
‘The sea?’ There was no moon; and little was discernible beyond the end of the
