What Men Do

About an hour before sunset, they came around a sharp bend at the top of a rise. Before them was an inn, its ugly black planking stark against the bright yellow-white dusty road. Two aged, black, wheelless carriages in a state of atrophy blocked the way ahead.

Having been married when they were both just sixteen, Eric and Isabel had taken this midsummer holiday in the countryside to celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary (both being aware that, being wealthy and living easy lives, they had been able to keep themselves fit and healthy, still going on long, brisk hikes together at least twice a week). They had been heading for a luxurious cabin by a lake that they had recently purchased from an aristocrat named Victor Gower, the Earl of Wodehaven.

There had been a big party at home, and then, while their guests were still sleeping the following morning, they had gone quietly out to their carriage, where Wilson, who had been their faithful coachman for over a quarter of a century, was waiting. He had been slim and nervous when he had first joined them. Now, Wilson was a stocky, confident man in his early fifties. Wilson told Eric he had thoroughly checked the carriage and horses and loaded their luggage.

Eric thought he loved their horses, Bonnie and Beau, both Cleveland Bays, almost as much as Wilson did. Bonnie could be erratic sometimes, but Beau’s presence almost always calmed her. They were faithful and hard-working, and Eric hoped they would get a few more years out of them.

The long day’s journey had been wonderful, even though the summer heat had been almost unbearable at times. Wilson occasionally rested Bonnie and Beau in the shade of trees, letting them drink only from fast-flowing rivers. At one such stop, Eric watched Wilson with the horses: he thoroughly checked their hooves for signs of damage, stroked their noses, talked to them as though they understood – and perhaps they did; he certainly had a way with them. Eric studied filtered sunlight playing over Wilson’s thick, black, wavy hair and thought about how he and Isabel had come to think of him more as a family member than a servant.

And then on they went with this marvellous, all-day journey, worth all the summer heat this day could throw at them. They travelled through beautiful, bounteous countryside, passing golden fields of full-grown wheat and the occasional rapeseed; rolling hills; majestic, distant mountains; rivers running fast and meandering slowly; lakes bright and placid.

And now this strange, black-planked inn before them, for some reason, creating a subtle sense of unease within him. But they had no choice, for the sun would be down in an hour, and Wilson reckoned on another three hours at least to their destination, especially as they could not go the quickest way, as the map indicated, because the road was blocked. Wilson apologised for not getting them all the way because they had had to stop so many times in the heat for the horses to rest and drink. Eric told him that it certainly was not his fault and reminded him that they had also had to stop several times because both he and Isabel had felt travel sick from the intense heat combined with the constant rocking of the carriage.

Eric helped his life-long companion down from the carriage. The horses were sweating, their breathing laboured. Eric was glad that Bonnie and Beau could now have a well-deserved rest and a hearty drink in the shade of the stable.

They left Wilson to drive the coach around the back and headed towards the inn’s front door. Eric noticed but did not tell Isabel that the hanging sign over the door proclaimed it The Witches' Inn.

On entering the inn, they were confronted by a life-size bronze statue right in front of them, which made them both jump. Isabel let out a small cry of fright and raised a trembling hand to her throat.

The unnerving statue was of an ancient soldier (most probably Greek). Although he and Isabel were a couple of inches above average height for their advanced years, this unnerving statue stood three or four inches taller than Eric. He wore a breastplate over a tunic, his right arm across his torso, his right hand holding the handle of a scabbarded sword. There was no shield and no helmet upon his bald head. Eric was unnerved by how his blank, blind eyes stared straight into him.

Eric tore his gaze away from the silent bronze man and quickly scanned the room, noting, to the left of the door, a dark staircase leading upward into gloom. Eric hurried Isabel past the unnerving statue into the centre of the amply lamplit room that ran the whole length of the inn and must comprise most of the ground floor.

Eric was appalled at the state of the place. Black paint pealed from the ceiling beams and the heavy pillars around the room. There were large holes in the ceiling plaster, and he was astonished to see that even pieces of the laths had been broken away in places (evidence of some violent brawl, Eric wondered), revealing gaps between the boards where they had warped over the years.

One horizontal central beam divided the two halves of the room from a little way out from the rear wall to the centre. Just to the left of this beam was a door that Eric assumed led to the kitchen. To the left of the door was a fireplace with a simple mahogany mantlepiece, already made up with logs in preparation for the autumn. Many comfortable-looking armchairs of various styles, materials, and colours stood around several low tables with a cheap, old-looking six-seater pine dining table in the centre. The dining chairs were also of cheap pine with no seat coverings. There was a long bar along the right side of the back wall with old walnut cabinets on the wall behind, one cabinet door hanging slightly from its hinges.

A few feet behind the intimidating bronze statue was a billiard table, or, as Eric still liked to think of it, Winning and Losing Carambole Game. The two cue balls and the red object ball were lying motionless on the worn green cloth. Eric thought that if Isabel wanted to retire to bed early, he and Wilson might have a game later.

Isabel jumped for a second time, causing Eric to turn quickly. A broad, slightly overweight man in his forties, of average height, with dark brown hair cut very short, casual, untidy clothing, and two days' stubble on his chin, was striding confidently towards them.

No sooner had Eric taken stock of this man than the stranger was shaking his hand vigorously, a beaming grin and glinting brown eyes welcoming them heartily.

“Jim Mates. Call me Matey.”

Mr. Mates explained that he had blocked the way ahead because the road was too dangerous. Eric explained that it was their fiftieth wedding anniversary, where they had been heading, and that they had to cut their journey short.

Mr. Mates introduced them to his wife Verbena: a short, slender woman with a worn but pleasant face, light brown hair with streaks of grey, and watery turquoise eyes that, Eric thought, looked as though they had seen too much of the world.

Eric noted that although Matey and Verbena were one or two decades younger than he and Isabel, they were both slightly round-shouldered, their backs ever so slightly curved, whereas he and Isabel were both square-shouldered and straight-backed, having obviously looked after themselves better than the innkeeper and his wife. Also, Eric was pleased that he was two or three inches taller than Matey.

The couple then introduced Eric and Isabel to their son Theodor, who was celebrating his sixteenth birthday today. He was a skinny, pale-complexioned young man with a permanently moody expression beneath a shock of black curly hair. Matey explained that Verbena is a Latin name meaning The Sacred Bough and that Theodor is an ancient Greek name meaning Gift from God.

“Happy birthday, Theodor,” Eric congratulated him. “That’s a fine boy you have there, Mr. Mates.” Although, Eric was unsure if this sullen fellow was a fine boy.

“Call me Matey,” Jim Mates reminded him. “We don’t take in guests anymore, but as you’re in a predicament, we’ll make an exception.”

A young girl of about seventeen or eighteen entered, obviously a servant by her dress. However, she did not curtsy to her employers or to Eric and Isabel, which irritated Eric immensely. The girl, whom Mr. Mates introduced as Rachel, was beautiful, slender, with ample firm breasts and a very tight waist. She gave off an air of intense sexuality, which made Eric feel guilty for noticing.

“We were just about to have a late-in-the-day birthday celebration for Theodore, Mr. Hall. As it is your fiftieth anniversary, I insist you join us for a joint celebration.”

Eric was unsure about this, imagining, before entering the inn, that the innkeepers would have eaten long before now and that he and Isabel would be given a quiet table to themselves, Wilson being given a meal in the kitchen with the servants. This day was a special anniversary, and he wanted to spend as much time alone with Isabel as possible.

“Er, I’m not sure,” Eric began hesitantly.

“I insist, Mr. Hall,” Mr. Mates interrupted jovially but forcefully.

Eric looked to Isabel, who gave him nothing. She could be irritating sometimes, but he still loved her as much as the day they were married all those years ago.

“Ok...” Eric said tentatively.

“That’s the spirit!”

“But,” said Eric, “If we’re to call you Verbena and Matey, then you must call us Isabel and Eric.”

“Done,” said Matey. “And your coachman will join us, too.”

That took Eric by surprise, and he saw that it had Isabel, too, but it pleased him, and he knew Isabel would be pleased, too. But Matey’s following comments told Eric that he had taken their hesitation to mean that they were going to protest.

“There are no other servants. My wife and Rachel do all the cooking, and I help out a bit...”

“Just a bit,” Verbena interrupted.

Matey gave a hearty laugh. “More than a bit, my dear.”

Verbena scoffed good-humouredly. This conversation caused Eric to wonder what their son did around here apart from maybe chopping wood – certainly not repairs, that was for sure.

“What I mean to say is, your coachman will have no company eating in the kitchen.”

“Oh, no,” said Eric, “it’s fine. Wilson’s been with us a very long time, and we think of him as part of the family.”

There was the tiniest of pauses and the faintest drop of his smile before Matey beamed and exclaimed, “That’s grand. We’ll eat as one big happy family.”

Eric felt the faintest apprehension as to be almost not there at all, having the vaguest sense that he had stolen Matey’s thunder, that Matey had wanted to coax them into letting their coachman eat with them. Eric thought this power, having been taken away from Matey, had more than mildly annoyed him. Eric also had the impression that Matey had, over the years, become adept at hiding certain traits of his personality. Verbena’s tentative smile as she said, “We have a cake”, practically confirmed this for Eric.

Wilson entered with their overnight bags, placing them on the nearest chair. Eric was mildly irritated that Wilson had paid no attention whatsoever to the somewhat frightening bronze statue that seemed to be on guard, permanently staring at the front door with unsettling blind eyes.

Also looking at the formidable statue, Matey said, “I’m selling it. But when the merchant and his strapping son, with me and Theodor helping, were carrying it to the front door, the damned merchant did his back in. Now, it’s stuck there until they return.”

Eric felt vaguely relieved at this explanation, having, he supposed, felt mildly apprehensive that anyone would want to place such a frightening figure right in front of the door, which, it should be evident to anyone, would intimidate guests as they entered.

Instead of offering them a seat, Matey opened the front door, looked out briefly to his right, and then returned, saying, “It’s starting to be a fine sunset; it’ll go on for a couple of hours or more. Why don’t you two young lovers go and watch while Wilson and me talk about men’s things over a glass or two of fine whisky? We’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

The thought delighted Eric, and he did not need to look at Isabel to know that it delighted her, too.

Wilson, Eric saw, was also delighted.

Eric and Isabel went outside. It was only marginally cooler than inside, with not even a hint of a breeze to relieve the humidity.

They stopped in front of a crude fence made out of stakes of differing shapes and sizes and a single rope tied near the top with a crude wooden sign saying, in sun-bleached red paint, Danger cliff edge, some of the stakes tilting sideways, a couple lying on the ground, bringing that part of the rope down with them; another thing in need of repair, or, preferably, replacing.

Upon the hillside behind the inn stood tall trees in full bloom. Over to their right, the sunset was beautiful: a deep red and purple ocean over a landscape of green and orange-yellow hills and low mountains. Eric remembered their honeymoon in Cornwall. Unlike honeymoons for poorer people, their honeymoon did not consist of visiting family and friends who could not make it to the wedding but was a romantic fortnight for just the two of them. It was a wonderful, loving fortnight they would never forget. Every evening, they stood on the beach, which was often completely deserted apart from themselves, and watched the amazing sunsets over the Celtic Sea. At just sixteen, it was the first time either had travelled without their parents, making their honeymoon the adventure of a lifetime.

Eric reached for Isabel’s hand. She clasped too tightly with her thin, bony hand, but he did not mind. Holding hands reminded him of when they had first met, both only fourteen. Isabel had been radiantly beautiful and so full of energy, Eric sometimes having trouble keeping up with her. They had walked the London parks together, had sat by the Serpentine, watching late-afternoon sunlight glinting off its tranquil surface, and had kissed and cuddled, never tiring of speaking their love for each other. With Isabel at his side, Eric believed he could achieve anything. Their love was everything, and the world seemed born anew. Even then, Eric knew they would spend the rest of their lives together. The Good Lord had not given them children, but that was alright. Each other’s company had been all they had needed through the many happy years of their marriage.

A while later, Matey called from the door. Reluctantly, they went back inside The Witches' Inn.

Although the spread was admirable for a country tavern, Eric was still not completely comfortable with this joint celebration, having wanted himself and Isabel to celebrate alone. They should have been having a royal dinner at their cabin, and then, the servants dismissed, a quiet, romantic evening on their own with soft candlelight and a good bottle of port. But none of that was to be, and so a joint celebration it was.

The Innker’s son, Theodor, was rude throughout dinner. He ate his food like an animal, spoke out of turn, and mostly ignored his parents’ guests, only being mildly reprimanded by his parents. Eric knew that a stint in the army would soon rectify his character.

Eric was also irritated and embarrassed by the servant girl, Rachel, who was serving the food whilst wearing her blouse too low, revealing too much of herself. Matey and his wife and son took no notice. Eric could not help but feel guilty about his erection beneath the table, the first he had had in a very long time. He dared not look at Isabel until his erection eventually subsided.

Wilson ate mainly in silence, only speaking when spoken to, probably feeling uncomfortable, thought Eric, at dining with his master and mistress. Matey was doing his best to befriend Wilson, and Eric could not help but think Matey was trying too hard.

Eric asked Matey why they had stopped taking in guests.

Verbena looked nervous, shifting in her chair and pushing her hair behind her ear, her watery turquoise eyes projecting an inward defensiveness.

With glinting brown eyes that seemed to be permanently hiding something, Matey studied Eric, the intensity of his stare making Eric uncomfortable.

Matey told them about how the inn, before he and Verbena had taken over a few years ago, used to be owned by witches, “devil worshipers”, and, according to the locals, they had organised regular orgies and sacrifices. He told them about the formidable bronze statue that stood before them, telling how the previous owners had had this and another life-size bronze statue up in one of the bedrooms and how the locals had said that the owners could manipulate them, bringing them to life with the power of black magic. When the local townspeople from down in the valley had stormed the inn with the local police, and the owners and their cohorts were arrested for unnatural practices, the smaller statue, a dwarf, had been taken away and melted down, but no one ever returned for this one, their terror of the place getting the better of them.

“You mean to tell me you carried that thing down the stairs!?” Eric exclaimed.

Matey was quickly searching for a reply while Verbena nervously ran her fingers through her hair when Isabel asked, “Why on Earth did you buy an inn with such a terrible reputation?”

Opening a second bottle of rich red wine, Rachel replied, “Everything in this life is what you make it. There is no point in dwelling on the past.”

Eric had never witnessed a servant interrupting their master’s dinner conversation and was again shocked at how Matey and his wife ignored this girl’s impertinence. He was angry at the servant girl for preventing Matey and Verbena from answering Isabel’s question. Eric was also annoyed with Isabel for relieving Matey of answering his question about the statue, the moment for that conversation having now passed. Matey now continued with his morbid tale as though no questions had been asked.

“There followed a hunt for witches that spread far beyond this place. It was led by one Victor Gower, Earl of Wodehaven, who had lost his nephew and his nephew’s bride to the witches of The Witches' Inn. As though the aristocracy don’t have their vices and sins, yet they judge everyone else. Aristocracy hypocrisy is what I call it.”

Eric had quickly hidden his surprise when Matey mentioned Victor Gower, thinking it wise to conceal that he and Isabel had purchased their holiday cabin from the very man Matey seemed to hate.

Matey studies Eric intently. “A lot of them witches were burnt; burned ’em alive, they did. The smoke got to some of ’em, putting them out of their misery. But the others: the local postmaster told me he had never heard such screaming. Purifying flames, the pastor had called them, but he wasn’t up there, tied to a post, was he? Purifying flames describes something mythical...but them flames they felt were real...more real than any foolish pastor could ever imagine.”

Eric was shocked by Matey’s blasphemy but more so by his seemingly heartfelt anger at what had happened to a bunch of evil witches.

There followed an awkward silence around the table that Matey broke with, “Ah, that was years ago. No point dwelling on the past,” echoing what the servant girl, Rachel, had said just a minute before.

“Anyway,” Matey said tiredly, “We gave it a go. But the only people who would stop here were those from far afield who did not know the reputation of The Witches’ Inn. Now, we are content to live off our savings. Besides, it was a lot of work."

Judging by the state of the place, Eric had already made up his mind that Matey was work-shy. One thing bothered Eric, and he would not mention it because he was tired of Matey talking about witches and certainly did not want Isabel to hear any more of it: why had Matey and Verbena not changed the inn’s name to something more appealing?

When the meal was over, Verbena helped Rachel clear the table. Then, Matey ordered Rachel to prepare the Black Room: to make sure the bed had a clean sheet (“You’ll not need blankets,” Matey said to Eric) and fresh pillows (“The expensive eider ones”); to make sure there were clean glasses and full jugs of fresh water on each bedside table; to light the lamps; and to make sure the window was wide open, for it was going to be another hot night, Matey’s joke “No use cooking our guests as though they were witches” producing no response around the table, Eric noting Matey trying to hide his annoyance, once again.

Rachel disappeared through the door to the kitchen. Moments later, she returned not with a lighted taper, as Eric had expected, but with a tin of those new Lucifers (apparently an improvement, Eric had heard, on those dangerous Congreves). She then headed, it seemed to Eric, towards the front door. Matey called out, “Oh, and oil the door lock.”

“I don’t have any trouble with it,” Rachel replied, and, once again, Eric was astonished both at the young girl’s insolence and how Matey stood for it.

“A lot of the guests do,” Matey said in mild annoyance.

“Ok, I’ll oil it!” Rachel exclaimed like a petulant child, and then, picking up their overnight bags, she turned right and disappeared out of sight. Eric now remembered the dark staircase he had glimpsed when they had entered the inn. From this angle, rather than looking towards the front door, the menacing statue seemed to be peering, with its unnerving blind eyes, up the stairs after the servant girl.

Eric listened to her footsteps ascending the dark stairwell, several boards groaning loudly under her weight. Eric had an image of Rachel pressing her slight frame and ample breasts down on him as he lay on this very table at which he sat. Aghast, Eric quickly pushed this unwelcome vision away.

To help take his thoughts from the young servant girl, Eric asked, “Black Room?”

“Just a name we use because of the ebony,” Matey replied before getting up and fetching an old, large key from the bar. Without saying a word, Matey gave it to Eric. It felt rough and heavy in his hand as he slipped it into his jacket pocket.

Matey told Wilson he could stay with him by the fire and drink fine whisky. Wilson was delighted at the prospect. But Eric was annoyed with Matey – annoyed and jealous. Eric did not know when or how it had happened, but at some point during the evening, Matey had learned of Wilson’s Christian name, Phineas, and he had just used it (actually, this damned innkeeper had said Phinney!) to address Wilson, which, even though he and Isabel had come to think of him as a family member of sorts, neither of them had ever done. If Eric had started calling Wilson by his given name, he would have liked the surprise and, hopefully, delight to have been whole and original, untainted by this previous use. Eric felt guilty, but a small part of him hated their over-friendly host.

When the servant girl returned downstairs, they all stood and began to say their goodnights. Matey told them to wait a minute because he had something for them.

Eric watched Matey cross to the bar, take something out of one of the walnut cabinets behind it, and then saunter back to them, beaming a mysterious, and, Eric thought, somewhat perverse grin.

“Hold out your hand, young lady,” Matey told Isabel, looking her straight in the eye, only a remnant of his sickening grin remaining. Eric was angry that Matey would address his wife in such a way. He also thought this young lovers and young lady stuff had gone far enough. It was undignified.

Matey continued staring at Isabel for what was a too-familiar length of time. Eric was about to protest when Verbena spoke, looking directly at Isabel: “Take them.”

To Eric’s surprise, Isabel willingly held out her hand without hesitation, into which Matey placed two perfectly rounded pills of the most vivid purple.

Verbena spoke again without a hint of humour: “Take one each as you get into bed, and you will both experience pleasure that you haven’t known for decades – especially you, Isabel. We will not charge extra for this service. We just want our guests to be happy.”

Eric noticed Rachel leaning against the billiard table and grinning lewdly. Once again, although the servant girl in one way disgusted him, he felt a stirring and, with great effort, prevented another erection.

Eric watched in astonishment as Isabel slowly closed her hand around the gaudy pills that contained God-knew-what, with a look of what Eric could only think of as gratitude.

Again, Eric was about to protest, trying to find the right words for this bizarre situation, when Matey said pleasantly and very quickly, “Well, we’ll let you two get off to bed;” and before Eric knew what was happening, Verbena walked away quickly, going out of sight through the kitchen door, and Matey had placed his arm around Wilson’s shoulders and led him, speaking softly and jovially to him, over to the other side of the room and sat him down at one side of a low games table in front of the log-filled fireplace. No doubt they would play chess or some card game – probably gambling on it if he had judged Matey correctly – until Wilson was too tired after all the driving he had done today.

Eric felt Isabel gently taking hold of his arm and heard her whisper warmly, “Come on, Eric, let’s get up to bed.”