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Authors: Iain Crichton Smith
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hurry. His work in the summer was looking after lavatories.
It was Mrs Floss who told him about the old man, Mr Butcher, of whose existence Trevor had been entirely unaware. But apparently Julia used to visit him and help him as best she could.
âI donât know where he stays but itâs somewhere on the street,â said Mrs Floss, who had come back from a world cruise paid for with her dead husbandâs money. âShe used to tell me about him. We had a coffee together now and again. Your wife was a wise, kind woman. I used to tell her about Stewart when he was on drugs and she would give me good advice. She was never too busy to pass you by.â Mrs Floss thought that about Trevor, however. She felt that he was snooty, superior, but then on the other hand, it might just be that he was shy. Still, his wife was worth ten of him any day. She was human, warm, she even tried to help Mrs Miller, that selfish old bag upstairs. But Trevor never helped anyone. He would pass her on the stair muttering under his breath as if he were thinking furiously. And yet he had only been a teacher. He hadnât seen as much of the world as she had and yet he had this absurd sense of superiority. She could tell him a thing or two. And he hardly ever remembered about the light, no matter how often she reminded him. And why didnât that stair-woman use pipe clay: Julia used to make beautiful patterns on the stair: she was very artistic. Always patient too, and long suffering. She didnât know where Mr Butcher stayed. Trevor could ask the postman.
One day when Julia and Trevor were in Ilfracombe in Devon they made a mistake and instead of turning up a road which would take them back to the town, they turned up another one instead. They came to a farmhouse which had bright rough tables in front of it, and had in fact been converted into a restaurant. They sipped their iced drinks and then Trevor picked up from the table a brochure which told them the history of the farmhouse. It was called the Haunted House. Many years before, when the coast had been notorious for wreckers, a man used to light fires to bring ships on to the rocks. Then he would plunder them for their cargo. His daughter had left and gone to America to make her fortune. One night he saw a ship and set his illusory lights. The ship had gone on the rocks. He searched the cabins for jewellery and other plunder and found in one of them a woman who was dead and in fact his daughter. He took her body home with him and walled it up in his farmhouse.
Many years later the wife of the farmer who then owned the house said she was going to market. Her husband sat on a bench outside in the sun reading his paper. After a while his attention wandered and he idly studied the house and saw the outline of a window where as far as he knew there was no room. Calculating that there had been a room there in the past, he got hold of some of his workmen and they broke down the wall. And there behind the wall was a room and on an ancient bed the skeleton of a woman. There was also some jewellery. It was some of the money from selling it that had been used to build the restaurant. The owner told the two of them that an American woman, who said that she had spiritual powers sensitive to auras, had been in the roomânow open to visitorsâand she had seen a woman in white, with seaweed in her hair, walking about; there was jewellery around her neck. Her face was green.
As they walked away from the Haunted House in the bright sunlight, Julia ahead, Trevor imagined that he could see her very bones, so transparent she was in her light dress. She looked vulnerable, thin. He had shivered then in that bright sunshine, haunted by the past, its greed and selfishness.
The postman was able to tell him where Mr Butcher lived.
âVery tragic about Mrs Porter,â said Mr Butcher. âShe used to come here of a Thursday afternoon and sometimes of a Tuesday afternoon as
It was Mrs Floss who told him about the old man, Mr Butcher, of whose existence Trevor had been entirely unaware. But apparently Julia used to visit him and help him as best she could.
âI donât know where he stays but itâs somewhere on the street,â said Mrs Floss, who had come back from a world cruise paid for with her dead husbandâs money. âShe used to tell me about him. We had a coffee together now and again. Your wife was a wise, kind woman. I used to tell her about Stewart when he was on drugs and she would give me good advice. She was never too busy to pass you by.â Mrs Floss thought that about Trevor, however. She felt that he was snooty, superior, but then on the other hand, it might just be that he was shy. Still, his wife was worth ten of him any day. She was human, warm, she even tried to help Mrs Miller, that selfish old bag upstairs. But Trevor never helped anyone. He would pass her on the stair muttering under his breath as if he were thinking furiously. And yet he had only been a teacher. He hadnât seen as much of the world as she had and yet he had this absurd sense of superiority. She could tell him a thing or two. And he hardly ever remembered about the light, no matter how often she reminded him. And why didnât that stair-woman use pipe clay: Julia used to make beautiful patterns on the stair: she was very artistic. Always patient too, and long suffering. She didnât know where Mr Butcher stayed. Trevor could ask the postman.
One day when Julia and Trevor were in Ilfracombe in Devon they made a mistake and instead of turning up a road which would take them back to the town, they turned up another one instead. They came to a farmhouse which had bright rough tables in front of it, and had in fact been converted into a restaurant. They sipped their iced drinks and then Trevor picked up from the table a brochure which told them the history of the farmhouse. It was called the Haunted House. Many years before, when the coast had been notorious for wreckers, a man used to light fires to bring ships on to the rocks. Then he would plunder them for their cargo. His daughter had left and gone to America to make her fortune. One night he saw a ship and set his illusory lights. The ship had gone on the rocks. He searched the cabins for jewellery and other plunder and found in one of them a woman who was dead and in fact his daughter. He took her body home with him and walled it up in his farmhouse.
Many years later the wife of the farmer who then owned the house said she was going to market. Her husband sat on a bench outside in the sun reading his paper. After a while his attention wandered and he idly studied the house and saw the outline of a window where as far as he knew there was no room. Calculating that there had been a room there in the past, he got hold of some of his workmen and they broke down the wall. And there behind the wall was a room and on an ancient bed the skeleton of a woman. There was also some jewellery. It was some of the money from selling it that had been used to build the restaurant. The owner told the two of them that an American woman, who said that she had spiritual powers sensitive to auras, had been in the roomânow open to visitorsâand she had seen a woman in white, with seaweed in her hair, walking about; there was jewellery around her neck. Her face was green.
As they walked away from the Haunted House in the bright sunlight, Julia ahead, Trevor imagined that he could see her very bones, so transparent she was in her light dress. She looked vulnerable, thin. He had shivered then in that bright sunshine, haunted by the past, its greed and selfishness.
The postman was able to tell him where Mr Butcher lived.
âVery tragic about Mrs Porter,â said Mr Butcher. âShe used to come here of a Thursday afternoon and sometimes of a Tuesday afternoon as
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