A Sinister Afternoon
The mist was rolling in from the sea. Only a few feet away was the cliffs' edge....invisible to us behind a wall of fog. It's sinister, said Sharon.
Since early afternoon a warm sun had been steadily burning through the morning's mist. Our drive from Deal was blessed with bright sunshine, and though I doubted we would be able to see clear to France due to the haze, it still seemed a lovely time for a walk. But our arrival at the top of the cliff heralded another season entirely, as clearly demarcated as the darkness in Egypt from the land of Goshen.
Nevertheless, we embarked on the path, trudging along determinedly. I believed we had missed the more direct route in the mist but felt sure of our eventual destination, promising Sharon that there was definitely a lighthouse (if only it were still fulfilling its’ original purpose!) with a tearoom to be found. As we soldiered on and the lighthouse failed to materialise I could see the doubts which she expressed in jest had more than a grain of truth. My gestures of “It should be just over there” were failing to reassure either of us and I just hoped that my sense of direction was still functioning despite the disorienting effect of the mist. I also hoped that the tea room, newly established since my last visit several years previously, would actually be open.....something one can never guarantee about tearooms. Often it seems, like post boxes, the chance of finding a tearoom decreases in inverse proportion to your desire for a cup of tea.
It feels like an Agatha Christie film, I joked. Poirot or Miss Marple will be in the tearooms. Ah, if only I had pre-arranged a murder mystery teaparty to surprise you with! Why didn't I think of that? Sharon observed that that if ever I wished to perform such a thing, she herself would likely be required for six parts at least to make up for a deficiency in my stock of friends simultaneously nerdy and dramatically adventurous, therefore the idea of me being able to bring any such plan to fruition for her benefit was completely unrealistic. Rather than dwell on this sad fact, (which I now think may be erroneous! though the events of the day have put me completely off the idea) I consoled myself by thinking on the starring role the dramatic weather shift had played in the mysterious atmosphere.....something I could have never have ordered. No doubt had I managed to flawlessly organise such a wonderful production, the laws of contrariness would have turned a day forecast for thick gloom into one of glorious sunshine and stunning views, ruining the murder mystery mood entirely.
As we marched further the total lack of visibility of anything but mist and grass made Sharon feel we had wandered onto a lonely moor. That's more like Sherlock Holmes, I declared....or Charlotte Bronte. We joked ourselves along – imagining the sound of horsebeats on the track behind us, a chilling scream, a large hound. Perhaps the horse will bring Mr Darcy said Sharon wistfully. No no, this is far too uncivilised a day for Miss Austen, I said firmly.
At that very moment we caught a glimpse of ghostly pale --- what I knew to be the whitewashed outbuildings belonging to the lighthouse. “Ye of little faith!” I exclaimed, pointing triumphantly, yet secretly relieved we hadn't been wandering aimlessly in the direction of a barn or other such uninteresting landmark......or interestingly but dangerously off the cliff’s edge. Now, would we arrive to find the tearoom had closed permanently last month due to lack of business--Or early today due to the weather--Or always on Fridays from noon-- Or, (as we neared close enough to see scaffold around the lighthouse itself) temporarily for renovation?
Wonder of wonders, the tearoom was open! Directed to the green gate, we walked through it and passed backward though time into another era.
The gramophone was belting out cheery tunes and a picture of the Queen (Queen Mother to anyone born, like us, since 1951) hung above the mantel. Having secured our cream tea from the warm and cosy kitchen, replete with mismatched china and pots of soup on the range cooker, we settled down contentedly to the little table by the apex of the large bow window in the quietest room.
The only other person present was a friendly gnome clearing away the cups from previous visitors. I made the mistake of accepting his offer to give us a one-minute “potted” history of the property, which carried on so long I began to fear our tea would be stewed before I'd had the chance to wash my hands.
It was when I finally managed to excuse myself to do so that I saw something which caused me to doubt my own grasp on reality – since it seemed I had worked right into the scene an image from an Agatha Christie film. Or had Sharon done exactly what I had thought of only too late and provided me with my own murder mystery entertainment?
It happened this way. As I was drying my hands, a chance glance through the open entrance door astonished me exceedingly, and I popped out, towel in hand, to get an unobstructed view. Through the mist I could just see, coming from the direction of the cliff, a couple somewhat past middle-age. They were carrying a cloth sack toward the open boot of a waiting vehicle, whose silver gleam I could perceive on the rough track which leads from the village to the lighthouse on a lonely wooded lane. When they reached it, there was some struggling and straining to hoist their heavy burden into the boot. Once they had done so, the man gently closed the lid with a soft, almost affectionate gesture. Immediately, almost before he took his hand from the noiseless close of the boot, the car started with a quiet purr and drove off down the track. The couple sharply turned and disappeared into the mist heading toward the cliff.
!!! my mind reeled. I could think of nothing that would fit that bagged shape so well as a body. The way it was folded in a v shape when they carrried it, but then bent further as they put it into the car...the conclusion was inescapable. I rushed to where the car had been.....but in the depth of the fog I could see nothing, not even lights. I didn't even remember seeing any lights on the car when it was receiving its morbid load. But now there was no sound....neither car engine, nor voices, nor....anything else. An intrepid detective of course would have prowled around until they found something....but being only an ordinary woman starting to think I was hallucinating due to a compound of lack of nourishment, too long wandering on the cliffs, and the gramophone, (not to mention the steady fiction diet of murder mysteries which my husband decries) I ducked back into the corridor and headed back to our table, trying to appear like a woman who has not seen …..well, not seen anything.
I settled down and was comforted to find that no harm had come to the tea at least – it was loose leaf and perfectly brewed. The scone was delicious and, ignoring the fact it should have been warm, I blanketed it in clotted cream and jam and thoroughly enjoyed every bite of it – real and reassuring.
Due to my earlier encouragement, the friendly gnome continued to pop in and out with various “interesting” details such as newspapers of key historical dates such as men landing on the moon and the assassination of JFK. This at least had the important function, not the one he intended, I imagine, of assuring me that even if the green gate was a portal, we were at least not as far back in time as our surroundings would indicate. He mentioned many facts about the lighthouse which I already knew from a prior visit, though he couldn't seem to believe me when I asserted I had visited the tower before the tearooms were opened. He referred several times to the cottage for rent on the property ...and something whirred in my mind which I tried to still.
As we finished our tea and prepared to go, my equilibrium was further disturbed. I was shocked to see the couple! They did not seem to be the least bit perturbed as they seated themselves. On our way out, they spoke to us out of the blue! When they asked whether we had arrived on foot and disclosed that they themselves were staying at the cottage on the property, I lost my rational bearings entirely and blabbered on about other local tearooms. Staying at the property....so they must have had a car up the track! They had disappeared into the mist....in the direction of the cottage! A mist of questions swirled through my mind. Whose was the body? Who the driver of the car? Why here? Why now? Why were they, so contrarily to the ordinary behaviour of English people, striking up a conversation where there was neither need nor apparent reason? Did they know I had seen them? Was that a wringing motion her hands were making under the tablecloth? Why did he want to know which way we were going now?
As we left the property I felt decidedly agitated. The lighthearted joking laughter of the outward walk could not be rekindled, as my concern was now fully genuine rather than mostly feigned in fun. I tried to conceal this as best I could but don’t know whether I succeeded. I took comfort in the ever increasing thickness of the mist, hoping it would conceal us until we reached the road. A large dung pile struck my fevered imagination as a particularly promising hiding place. I chattered inconsequently and made odd remarks on places to hide should we be pursued by someone with evil intent. Suddenly realizing the apparent strangeness of my remarks to someone not privy to what I had seen/not seen, I scrambled to try to give them a more generic construction. Fear of being attacked on a lonely path by a rapist or madman is something most women can ponder without having any specific grounds or having seen anything untoward, and I hoped that this was the anxiety I managed to convey. I had no desire at that point to spread my real fears to Sharon – and even if I had, I knew not how, since they were about as nebulous and difficult to clarify as the mist which swirled around us.
We got back to the car, with a sense of relief on my part at least. As we arrived back into the sunshine, only a mile away, the whole episode took on a sense of complete unreality. By the time we arrived at my cottage, I would have believed anyone who told me that I had imagined the entire afternoon. The eerie and incontrovertible fact that my phone adamantly refuses to display the photos I took of the interior of the tearoom is inexplicable to me. This has probably contributed to my suspicious feeling that if I try to find the tearoom again, I may not.
But when I remember the fake gas fire under the Queen Mother's portrait and the paper napkins and the newspapers, I am convinced that we experienced neither a fairy story nor an episode of Hercule Poirot but a real live sinister afternoon.
So I continue to read the missing persons section with foreboding. Nothing…. yet.
