Preface
As an author of historical fiction – and a successful one at that I am more than happy to say – I have never had cause to use my real-life experiences as anything other than as clues to enable my readers to understand the motivations and complexities of my characters. To help a contemporary reader relate to someone from a very different age, as I always put it when asked. Perhaps that is why I have never recounted, or even referred to, what I experienced one week a decade or so ago. Or perhaps it is more simply the case that I have tried too hard to forget it - in vain admittedly. For when a rational man encounters the irrational - the unaccountable - is it not entirely understandable that he would fear for the foundations of his very existence and to flee from such thoughts? But those thoughts have stalked me through that decade since. So, in an attempt to make peace with them, I will relate to you what happened to me then, as faithfully as I can.
You may doubt the veracity of my tale. You may doubt the soundness of my mind. You may wonder whether this is just a ploy to revive an ailing career (for I admit that sales and reviews of my recent novels have disappointed my agent). Such suppositions would be understandable. I can only say that these will be the truest words that I have ever written – and the hardest to write. You must make of them what you will.
The Sunday
A little over ten years ago, I was struggling to motivate myself to write my latest novel. I had the story and the characters all mapped out in my usual manner and I had copious notes from my extensive research. This was to be the book that I hoped would crown my career to date, to cement my place in the canon of historical fiction. It was to be an epic. That in itself – the pressure that I had placed on my own reputation – may explain why I allowed myself to be so easily distracted, to find ready excuses for not sitting down at my desk. So I decided that I had to get out of London, with all its myriad of appealing options, for a week. An intense week to do little but write. That would ‘break the back’ of the novel, so to speak. My increasingly impatient agent very much approved of the idea.
It was early April, not long after Easter, which fell late in March that year. I had rented a small cottage in central Devon, just outside a small village. (I will not name it or otherwise identify its location, as I do not know what fearful secrets that place still holds that may entrap the curious mind). I have always been an urban dweller and the rural environment has never held out a great deal of attraction for me. I therefore surmised that a remote location of this sort would provide no temptations that I could not easily resist. I was in my mid-40s, tall, lean, fit and healthy. Only a greying at the edges of my thick, dark hair was evidence of the march of time. I felt myself to be in my prime in all respects.
The drive down was a long and somewhat tortuous one, but the weather was mild and dry and the roads were fairly quiet in the morning. It was early afternoon when I arrived at the cottage, which in truth was a small late 18th century house, unremarkable in itself but ideal for my needs. The interior was functional but comfortable and the views from the small windows were pleasant but unspectacular.I was confident that distractions would be minimal at worst.
Nevertheless, it was too late in the day – and the drive had been too tiring – for it to be worthwhile getting started straight away. Instead, I needed to stretch my legs. The nearby village appeared to be a 30-minute walk at most, down towards the valley, so I set off in that direction at a brisk pace. My calculation proved accurate and, after crossing a stone bridge over a small stream, I arrived in the narrow high street feeling suitably invigorated and rather hungry. The village was certainly attractive, with its gently hilly streets informally laid out. I passed a small green encircled by low rubble-stone walls and, nearby, the parish church, which was built in the same granite as many of the houses. Yew trees lined the path to its entrance. The village was, though, very quiet and I doubted that I would find somewhere to sate my growing hunger.
Idly I wound my way around the twisting corners and along narrow passages and it was as I emerged from one of these, into a street I had not come across before, that I saw the café to my left, halfway up the slope from the high street, a glow of artificial light perceptible from somewhere inside. I strode towards it with optimism, passing a disinterested black cat on the way. The small Victorian shopfront appeared virtually unchanged by time, its plate glass windows flanking a central recessed entrance. The woodwork was painted a muddy brown. On the fascia were simply the sign-painted word ‘Café’ and the number 8, which I took to be its street number. A sign in the door informed me that the café was indeed open and as I eagerly pulled on its brass handle a bell above the door gently tinkled.
What first struck me was that there were no customers. I thought perhaps that it had just closed and the door not yet locked, but this thought was immediately dispelled by the appearance of a young woman from behind the counter. She smiled and gestured at me to take a seat. What next struck me was how old fashioned the café was, but not in a contrived way. It reminded me, rather, of my youth. The small interior was neat but spartan. Across the pale brown linoleum were set Formica tables at regular intervals. with four wooden chairs to each one. A few framed pictures of English landscapes lined the cream-coloured walls. The unmistakable smell of fried bacon lingered in the still air and beneath that the I detected a faint trace of stale cigarette smoke.
I took a seat near one of the windows, though there was admittedly little to hold my attention in the street outside. On the table were a laminated menu card in a wooden holder, some yellow plastic flowers in a small white vase, salt and pepper pots and yellow and red containers which I took to contain ketchup and mustard. I picked up the menu and scanned its offerings, which were not extensive. The simple choices, like the interior, brought back memories of childhood days out to various seaside resorts with my parents. More strangely, the prices were also reminiscent of that time. Softly in the back ground I could hear a radio playing. The DJ finished talking and a vaguely familiar song from the1980s drifted around the room.
The young woman appeared rather suddenly by my table, holding a pen and notebook. She was, I guessed, in her mid-20s, dressed in a long black skirt and white blouse. She was quite tall, slim with a pale complexion and wavy brown hair just off her shoulders, framing a round face with brown eyes. She smiled again.
“What can I get you sir?” Her accent was clearly local.
In truth nothing much appealed, but hunger was increasingly gnawing at my throat and a decision was clearly called for.
“Erm, I’ll have the ham and eggs please.”
“That comes with buttered bread sir – would you like white or brown?”
“Brown please. And I don’t suppose you have any low-fat spread?
The young woman looked a little flustered.
“The butter’s local, sir. Very fresh ’tis.” She smiled warmly.
“That’s fine.”
“And a drink?”
The menu had offered black or white coffee and tea with milk or tea with lemon. For an extra 20 pence I could have Earl Grey tea. I decided on the safest option.
“A tea with milk, please.”
By the time the young woman retuned, about ten minutes later, I knew all of the pictures on the walls very well. No other customers, had entered, the street outside remained resolutely quiet and I had no signal on my phone. She set down a large white plate of thickly cut ham, two fried eggs and two thin slices of brown bread generously coated with butter, then a cup and saucer of tea, with a sugar cube and teaspoon. She gestured towards the condiments on the table.
“Anything else I can get you?”
“No, nothing, thank you.” I smiled in return.
With that she left as abruptly as she had appeared and I was left alone with my simple meal. I didn’t linger over it and so not much more than 20 minutes later I rose from the table, and put the wrapped sugar cube in my pocket as a kind if nostalgic souvenir, before approaching the counter with my wallet ready. The young woman had her back to me and was tidying up some cutlery, though given the lack of customers I’m not sure that there could have been very much to do. I coughed gently and she turned round.
“Everything alright, sir?”
“Yes, thank you, it was . . . lovely.”
I was about to offer her my bank card, but a nagging voice in my head dissuaded me and instead I offered her a ten-pound note. It was the smallest I had. She rang up the bill on the cash register, the drawer opened with a crash and she handed me my change of a five-pound note and a few coins, which I slipped into my pocket without looking. Then, catching her eye, I raised my arm in the air and waved it around the interior as I took a step towards the door.
“You know, this place really is like another world.”
The young woman looked at me uncertainly.
“Well, thank you. Mind how you go”.
As I opened the door the bell tinkled once again. Outside, I crossed over to the other side of the street and took out my ’phone to photograph this strangely old-fashioned café. The young woman was clearing my table and as I took the photo she looked up, framed in the window on the right-hand side. I then waved goodbye but she stood motionless, plate in hand. A light drizzle began to fall and I pulled up my collar and headed back in the direction of the cottage. My hunger had been satisfied, but my curiosity fatefully awakened.
The Week Days
I slept well and started early on the Monday morning, managing a productive day’s writing with barely a break to eat or drink, despite all the provisions I had brought with me. The weather was cool and overcast, offering little reason to tempt me away from the desk. By the time evening arrived I felt invigorated by my progress and allowed myself a couple of large glasses of red wine with my dinner. It was only as I sat in the armchair, stomach full and glass in hand, that my thoughts returned to the day before and the unusual café. I picked up my ’phone and was surprised to find that the photo I had taken was not there. I was sure I had taken it; was sure I had seen the momentary blink of the screen. Disappointed by this, I got up and retrieved the change from my jacket pocket. Curiously I found that the five-pound note was an old paper one and the one-pound coin was an old round one. In the other pocket I found the sugar cube and placed it on the coffee table.
I tried to put the questions posed by these discoveries out of my mind but that proved difficult, so I decided on an early night. I slept fitfully and woke early. I resolved that the best way to banish these musings was to write. So after a brief breakfast, with a strong coffee, I did indeed manage to make progress. As midday came and passed, however, my naturally inquisitive mind began to revert to its previous musings. I determined that the only recourse from these would be to return to the café and seek answers. I was also hungry, though the limited menu options hardly whetted my appetite.
I set off down the hill in bright afternoon sunshine. The route to the village seemed at once familiar but also different. Perhaps it was the effect of the sun? Once I got to the pretty high street the difference was more marked. Shops were open and it was alive with people, dogs and cars. I did my best to retrace my steps from the Sunday and eventually found myself emerging into the narrow hilly street as I had done previously. A few people were coming and going. I looked to my left where the café lay, but what greeted my eyes was not the same sight. There appeared to still be a café there, but its woodwork gleamed white in the bright afternoon light and a hanging sign had been added. On approaching the shop frontage I saw that the general arrangement was the same, but the signage bore the name ‘Another World’ in florid blue script. Flowers in hanging baskets brightened the pillars at each end. New blue and white tiling, in Mediterranean style, lay between the pavement and the door. The tables inside the windows were occupied and the whole scene that greeted me was warm, lively – and unmistakably modern,
Hesitantly I entered. This time there was no tinkle of a bell as I did so. Instead, I was met by the hum of chatter. I took a few steps in, scanning the scene with growing bewilderment. The white walls were barely visible beneath a plethora of objects that hung from them. Aside from photographs of exotic scenes and animals, there were African and Asian masks and fabrics, Japanese fans, Greek and Roman friezes, a boomerang, a native Indian head dress and much more. It was almost dizzying trying to identify individual objects, such was the overall kaleidoscopic effect. Only the floor of varnished bare boards, was neutral.
“Are you alright me luvver? You look betwaddled.”
The voice came from behind the counter to my left. I turned to see a round-faced woman of about 60 or so with short auburn hair, dark eyes and warm smile. She wore a colourful, patterned apron.
“Erm, yes, sorry. I was just expecting . . . something else.”
“Tis a bit much, I know, the first time you comes in.” She was warm and friendly.
No . . . I mean, yes, it is a lot to take in. But what I meant was that I was here before, on Sunday, and the place was completely different.”
“Sunday? We don’t open on Sundays, ’cept in the high summer. Must have been somewhere else.”
She looked somewhat doubtfully at me this time. It was a look I recognised. The same look that people gave my father in the later years of his life, when dementia had begun to take hold. Could I have got mixed up? Was I in the wrong place? No, I was sure that I wasn’t. But I could not explain to myself what I was experiencing.
I managed to compose myself and, to avoid further awkwardness, I ordered smashed avocado on sourdough toast, a sparkling water and a cortado. There was a bright yellow table free on the far side and a few minutes later the same woman brought over my order on a tray that appeared to be a souvenir of Spain.
“Anything else you need?”
Her manner was warm once again.
“No thank you, that all looks perfect!”
At that the woman was called to the neighbouring table, clearly by someone she knew well, and I turned my attention to the sensory overload of my surroundings as I lingered, this time, over my light lunch.
I passed the afternoon and early evening back at the cottage distractedly trying to write. The lure of history proved no match for the intrigue of the present. More than that, the intrigue was now accompanied by a creeping anxiety that I struggled to supress.
The Tuesday and the Wednesday followed a similar course with long days of writing interrupted by lunchtime trips to the café, which I found each time to be the same as it had been ion the Monday. The woman who served me – who I took to be the owner – acknowledged me in an outwardly friendly manner, but I sensed an underlying wariness. Though perhaps that was simply because I wasn’t a local. My writing, meanwhile, was suffering from the law of diminishing returns. So much so that by Friday morning I had resolved to return to London the next day and to avoid the café.
By Friday evening my inspiration had run completely dry, replaced instead by an irritable frustration. I decided therefore to spend my final evening at the village pub, which I had seen on my increasingly circuitous walks and which lay on the far side from my cottage. To be truthful, my motivation was not simply to relax with a local ale or two, but to perhaps gain a little local insight that might shed some light on what had stirred in the shadowy parts of my mind.
In eventuality this proved to be a more straightforward undertaking than I had anticipated. It should not be overlooked how simply tongues may be loosened by the offer of a drink, or how eagerly long-held gossip may be shared with a generous stranger. I returned to the cottage late that evening a little unsteady on my feet, but with a clarity of purpose in my head. That night, my last in the old cottage, I slept soundly for the first time in days, oblivious of the consequences of my new-found intentions.
The Saturday
I drew open the curtains on a glorious Spring morning; not a cloud was visible in the clear blue sky. I took this as an auspicious start to the day, though as a writer fond of using pathetic fallacy I may have been unwittingly blurring the line between reality and fiction. After a leisurely full breakfast, intended to last me through much of the day, I packed up my things into the boot of the car and drove down to the village, where I left the car in the small parking area by the stream.
It was a short walk from there to the small churchyard. I entered through the lych gate and followed a worn stone path that led, shadowed by the yew trees, in a more or less circular route around the old church. It wound between the ranks of gravestones, dotted here and there by more elaborate 18th and 19th century chest tombs and stone crosses pockmarked with lichen. The grass was green and lush in the dappled sunlight. Birdsong filled the air.
It didn’t take me long to find the grave I was looking for on the north side of the church; the directions that I had been given in the pub the previous night proved to be surprisingly reliable. Soon I was standing in front of a simple pink granite headstone with a short inscription.
Catherine Bere
Died 18th April 1986
Aged 25 years
Gone to another world
On the grass beneath the headstone lay a fresh bunch of deep yellow marigolds, tied with a ribbon. I stood quietly in contemplation before the grave for a couple of minutes, until the spell was broken by the sound of laughing voices from the nearby path. I left the churchyard by the way I had come and set off, for a final time, on the walk that would take me to the short hill up to the café.
On arrival I saw that the lunchtime rush had subsided and that, helpfully, the café was now in something of a lull, no doubt until the teatime trade. The usual hostess greeted with me with a smile as I entered. I ordered a cortado and asked her if she would join me at the table for a few moments. She seemed wary, no doubt understandably, but I managed to convince her that I was a writer interested in the local history. This, after all, was partially true. She joined me shortly afterwards, bringing a coffee for herself as well. It had no doubt been a busy day and she perhaps enjoyed the chance for a brief respite. Whatever the reason, it did not take much bidding on my behalf for her to provide the answers that I had been seeking – and some that I had not. With her dark eyes fixed on me, she began hesitantly, but proved to be a concise narrator.
“Yes . . . yes . . . Catherine was my dear sister . . . my older sister. She’d always wanted to run her own café and when the chance came to buy this place – with a small inheritance – she was so pleased. The place had been vacant for a while and it was rather tired looking when she took it over. But she had big plans for the place, big dreams. If only she’d had a chance to see them come true. She’d only had the place a few months or so when she had the accident. Came off her bike going down the hill, trying to avoid a stupid black cat.”
At this she paused briefly to compose herself.
“Well, after that I felt it was my duty to take the place on, in honour of her you understand. There was just the two of us growing up and she always looked after me. She’d told me, just a few days before the accident, that a bloke had come in one day – a grockle she said – and had commented that the place looked like ‘another world’. That got her thinking, see. She was going to fill the place with objects and decorations from all over the world, make the place truly magical. So that’s what I did, backalong until now. I hope she’d be happy with it.”
At that she looked around the walls wistfully, her eyes a little moist.
I too needed to compose myself. The mention of the visitor to the old café re-awakened in me a creeping dread that I had been suppressing. I wanted to know more, but at the same time feared what I may learn.
“I don’t suppose you have any photographs of Catherine by any chance?”
“Well not here no. They’re all at home, but . . . hang on minute. There is something.”
She got up wearily from the chair and went to the back wall near the counter, from where she took down a framed photograph, something that was easy to overlook amongst the visual chaos of the interior.
“Yer ’tis. Not as ’ansum a front as it is now.”
She handed me the photograph. It showed the café exactly as it was on that Sunday I had visited, seen from across the narrow street. In the right-hand window the young woman – Catherine – had paused whilst clearing a table to look out towards the photographer. It was, as far as I could see, the same as the photograph that I thought I had taken but which I could not find on my ’phone. Surely this was a coincidence? But how? It was then that I noticed it, in the bottom left of the photograph. It was easy to miss. Just a faint reflection, in the left-hand café window, of the photographer’s face. And unmistakably that person was me.
I handed back the photograph and, without a word - for I was unable to speak - got up and walked to the door. As I opened it a bell gently tinkled but, looking up, I saw that there was no bell, no mechanism. A woman’s voice came from behind me, in that Devon accent I had come to know well.
“Mind how you go now, Jack.”
I half turned, reluctantly, and saw Catherine sitting at the table I had just left, a smoking cigarette held nonchalantly in one slim hand. She turned her pale round face towards me and smiled.
I closed the door behind me, went out in to the street, down the hill, across to the car park and into my car. I barely looked in my mirrors before pulling out. Soon I was out of the village and onto the A30, then in turn onto the A303. All the time I tried to think of nothing but the road ahead and to get back to London as soon as I could. It was only once I was on the M3 and approaching the nondescript but familiar urban sprawl of the city that I allowed myself a degree of rumination on the week’s unfathomable events. It took all of my self-control to stop my hands shaking on the wheel. Perhaps what induced a deep fear in me, more than anything else of those strange events, was hearing her say my name. For I was sure that I had told no-one there my name and certainly not my real one, the name I was born with.
Afterword
I have never returned to Devon since that trip. Indeed, I have rarely ventured outside London, except for occasional book fairs, signings and readings in a few cities here and abroad. Such opportunities have become altogether less frequent lately. I never did finish my intended epic novel. Once home, reviewing what I had written proved to be a highly dispiriting experience. The prose was long-winded and rambling, with passages that bore little relevance to the story I had set out to tell. I discarded it all and had no stomach to start over again. I had intended that my week in Devon would lead to perhaps the pinnacle of my literary career; instead, it proved to be the catalyst for decline.
And what of the future now? Well, for the last ten years that wrapped sugar cube has been sitting in the top draw of my writing desk, a tangible memento should I ever have cause to doubt my memory. Just now I opened that draw and saw, with a slight shiver, that the sugar cube has gone. A portent? Perhaps. But for good or bad? Only time will tell.
