Worms Read online

  James R. Montague

  WORMS

  VALANCOURT BOOKS

  Worms by James R. Montague

  Originally published in Great Britain as a paperback original by Futura in 1979

  First Valancourt Books edition 2018

  Copyright © 1979 by James R. Montague

  Published by Valancourt Books, Richmond, Virginia

  http://www.valancourtbooks.com

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without prior written consent of the publisher, constitutes an infringement of the copyright law.

  Cover by David Moscati

  Set in Dante MT

  Men have died from time to time,

  and worms have eaten them,

  but not for love.

  As You Like It

  PART I

  CHAPTER ONE

  When I used to tell people that I lived on the north Norfolk coast they would always say ‘How nice’ and begin to quote those qualities for which the area is most justly praised: the sea and sailing, the bracing air, the perfection of the light, the magnificent skyscapes, the wild birds and the sturdy, independent character of the local people. There was a time when I would have agreed with them wholeheartedly.

  I first came to the area with my wife. We had answered an advertisement for a cabin cruiser on the Broads and after several days’ discomfort and an unavailing struggle with an ancient engine we had eventually broken down at Potter Heigham. As far as I was concerned it was a blessing in disguise. I had not enjoyed our intermittent sorties along crowded waterways and when an advantageous refund was offered I accepted it with alacrity. A chance conversation in a local pub canvassed the delights of the north Norfolk coast and the landlord was able to recommend an inn in a seaside village providing bed and breakfast. I rang up immediately and had no difficulty in securing a double room.

  It might be thought that my wife would have applauded my initiative but she was all for cutting our losses and returning to our flat in London. She had not enjoyed the cabin cruiser and held out scant hopes for nine days at Blanely affording more rewarding leisure opportunities. I was more optimistic. I was also aware that my wife would soon find a list of odd jobs for me to do if we returned home. I needed a break from my unexciting job in a quantity surveyor’s office and I was determined to have one. I therefore dug in my heels and we drove to Blanely.

  The inn turned out to be quite sizeable, providing full board and apparently catering for several other guests. We reserved a table for dinner and then went to unpack our cases.

  ‘The bed is very small,’ my wife grumbled.

  ‘At least we’ll be more comfortable than on the boat,’ I told her.

  ‘That wouldn’t be difficult,’ she said.

  I agreed, and suggested that we take a walk. ‘There’s nearly two hours before dinner.’

  ‘It’s too cold,’ she said, ‘and it looks like rain.’ But she put on her coat and headscarf.

  My first uneasy impression was that my wife’s fears might prove to have been justified, that any diversion to be found in this place would have to be of our own making. There was a bleakness around us; even the landscape looked empty. Blanely is not on the sea itself but tucked away behind a fringe of marshland that runs along the coast and is sometimes flooded at times of high tide. To get to the sea we had to follow a path across the dykes and the salt pools along a high, man-made mound forming a buttress against the sea. Gulls and terns cartwheeled overhead and a brisk northerly wind forced the reed beds into flat, shimmering movement. From the marsh the sea could only be seen as a distant grey swathe and looking back to land the village was a tight-knit huddle of houses silhouetted against the sky like the pop-up illustration in a book of fairy stories. There was no real height to it but it seemed like a miniature Mont St Michel against the intermin­able flatness of the marsh.

  The path itself made several brisk changes of direction before arriving at a sluice gate which marked the point of entry onto the beach. Here one could look down and see small crabs stealthily picking their way upstream through the clear water. Grass gave way to sand and the path debouched into an open area flanked by sand dunes. Beyond them lay a wide beach that stretched away into infinity on either side with scarcely a soul on it. We had taken our holiday in late autumn to avoid the rush but it seemed doubtful if at the height of the tourist season such a beach could ever have been crowded. There was a wild, untamed quality about it.

  We crossed the sandy barrier of the dunes with the spiky grass trembling like the lances of an army and I suggested that this would be a good spot to bring a picnic. Amongst the dunes one was well sheltered from the wind and the autumn sun was almost warm. My wife dismissed the idea. She had already started complaining during our walk along the sea wall and I soon saw that she did not share my sense of mounting pleasure in the scene about us. She said that it was far too bleak and baulked at my idea of a walk along the beach. Nevertheless I strode on and she had no alternative but to follow, objecting as usual that she was wearing the wrong shoes. The beach was a treasure trove of shells and coloured stones pounded into a skin-like smoothness by the sea. There were spars and fragments of old lobster pots, green bottles with labels in a foreign language that I thought might be Russian, even the staves of a barrel. I felt that I could walk along this beach all day making up stories about the objects that I found. Every day would bring something different. I revelled, too, in the power of the sea: the comber of pounding waves, the thump and roar as they broke on the beach, the hiss of the receding water. The fragments of man-made things that I came across testified to its power and I loved the noise it made mixed with the high-pitched shriek of the wind. After a while it became almost soothing.

  That night I lay awake in our cramped double bed in the inn and listened to the distant sounds of the sea. My wife was asleep and snoring softly. Moonlight streamed through the parted curtains and I was in that delicious state between sleep and wakefulness when one’s mind glides easily with the option of drifting into sleep always available. It suddenly occurred to me that I would like to retire to a place like this. My wife had come into a small legacy and we had discussed buying a bungalow on the south coast without the idea ever holding much appeal for me. I could see myself being drawn into the company of other retired couples whom I did not really care for and the whole thing becoming a tedious ritual of whist drives and gossip – perhaps my wife was right when she said that I was basically anti-social. Here, on the north Norfolk coast, there would be no enforced conviviality; one could lose oneself in the wide open spaces or take part in whatever was going on as one felt inclined. I fell asleep resolved to explore the possibilities before we left Blanely.

  Most of the other guests at the inn were men on a golfing holiday without their wives and it was their habit to eat early and noisily and depart to the nearby links. We soon got the measure of their behaviour and came down later when the small breakfast room was empty and there was no need for the exchange of tedious civilities. On the morning in question I sliced the top from my boiled egg and debated how to broach the subject: best perhaps to test the temperature of the water.

  ‘I saw a pretty little cottage up the road that seemed to be for sale,’ I said calmly, inserting my spoon into the yolk. This of course was a fabrication.

  ‘Very likely,’ sniffed my wife. ‘Somebody moving to somewhere warmer.’ She shivered. ‘I think this must be the coldest place I’ve ever been to in my life.’

  This was not a promising beginning but I pressed on. ‘Still, it’s very unspoilt.’

  ‘There’s nothing here to spoil,’ she said firmly. ‘I like a
few hills myself. I couldn’t stand this flatness all the time.’ My heart fell. There it was, spelt out unequivocally; there was no point in making my feelings more explicit. My wife wiped her mouth with her napkin. ‘What are we going to do today?’

  ‘I’d like to go for a walk along the beach,’ I said.

  She shook her head. ‘Then you can go alone. I’m not dragging myself out there to freeze to death. The landlord was saying that a bit more goes on at Hunstanton. We could drive there and have a look round. Maybe there’ll be something on at the cinema.’

  ‘You go, dear,’ I said. ‘I think I’ll take some more air. I find it very bracing.’

  This amounted to a minor rebellion as far as I was concerned and my wife was not pleased. She repeated her demand to go to Hunstanton and made it clear that she would take it ill if I did not accompany her. Nevertheless I stood my ground and, keeping my voice down and my temper under control, I said that there was no reason why we should do everything together and that I would meet up with her in the afternoon or whenever she chose to return. She departed in a high dudgeon.

  I was pleased with my show of defiance and continued to sit in the breakfast room reading an old magazine until she had driven the car away, grinding the gears in her anger. I then went upstairs, put on my coat and went out.

  This time I made a short tour of the village before retracing my steps towards the sea. In fact I could only see one house for sale and that a modern bungalow set back from the main road – not the kind of property I was seeking. However, I made a note of the agent’s name and address and began to walk through the churchyard towards the sea wall. It was a fine church like so many in Norfolk and the lichen-covered gravestones paid tribute to the longevity of the inhabitants. My off-the-cuff remark about the bracing effects of the air must have been correct. A bicycle was leaning against the porch and, as I approached, the vicar emerged sporting a pair of bicycle clips and a vase of dead flowers. We got into conversation and I learned that this was but one of three parishes that he was responsible for. He bemoaned the small congregations and the lack of people prepared to help in the work of the church.

  ‘A marriage, a christening, a death – that’s the three times most people come to church these days,’ he said. I sympathized and accepted his invitation to look round the church. There was a fine rood screen and a handsome font with figures in painted relief but the pièces de resistance were two life-size effigies carved in stone, lying side by side on tombs with stone dogs at their feet. Their ruffs and doublets placed them as a sixteenth-century couple and I admired the intricacy of the carving and the design on the sides of the tombs. One unusual feature of the motif was what I first took to be either flames or snakes writhing upwards towards the two bodies.

  The vicar corrected me. ‘The worms of hell,’ he said. ‘They rear in pursuit of the souls of the deceased.’

  I nodded, thinking it a macabre idea, and turned away from the fakir’s bed of worms. The temperature of the church suddenly seemed to have dropped several degrees; the cold was so severe that it almost took the breath away. The vicar rubbed his hands together and without another word, both of us strode down the aisle and came out into the open. ‘It suddenly seemed cold in there,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ said the vicar. His expression tightened and a look of distaste came over his face as if I had touched upon an awkward subject. There was a short exchange of banalities and he climbed on his bicycle and creaked away without looking back. I was probably exaggerating but I felt that the downward pressure he exerted on the pedals suggested a desire to put as much distance between the church and himself as possible.

  I went through a lych-gate and followed the path along the sea wall. The wind was blowing strong and the few trees around were permanently leaning away from the sea, their branches gnarled and spread like the fingers of arthritic hands. They seemed to be raised in a gesture of self-preservation against the elements. Once again I filled my lungs and enjoyed the power that was being unleashed all about me. Battalions of clouds broke and reformed high above my head as they sped inland and there were distant menacing patches of black as if a storm was on its way. My raincoat was flapping round my legs and I felt exhilarated, ready for anything that nature could throw at me. When I reached the beach the sky was dark and the wind had dropped to an eerie whisper that rustled the coarse grasses on top of the dunes. I was annoyed to find that I was not alone. Beyond the first bank of shingle a man was digging in the sand. As I watched, he bent down and plucked something up before dropping it into a bucket. He must be digging for bait, I thought – ragworms or the like. For a second it flashed across my mind that this was my second exposure to worms within the space of half an hour but I attached no importance to it.

  I started to walk along the beach in the shadow of the dunes and the man raised himself and saw me. He leant on his spade and gestured towards the sky. ‘If you’re looking for a soaking you’ve come to the right place. That sky’s going to pour buckets­­­­ within the half hour.’

  I mumbled a response and continued on my way. Some of the mood of defiance that I had shown towards my wife still rested with me; I did not want to turn tail and go back the way I had come. I looked back and saw that the man had taken his own advice. His spade was over his shoulder and he was trudging back towards the dunes. Ahead, the beach curved away into infinity and a weatherbeaten sign reared up like a gibbet. It said, ‘Blanely Point Nature Reserve. This is a protected area. The taking of eggs is prohibited.’ I walked on and short sharp squalls of wind began to tug at the tussocks of grass. The sky was dark and lowering. I had the impression that it was slowly descending on the land like a huge black cloak. For the first time I began to feel that my idea of a walk had been foolhardy; everything suggested that I was going to be soaked to the skin at the very least.

  Suddenly a spot of rain hit me forcefully on the top of the head, then another. The ground in front of me began to be polka-dotted with dark spots contrasting sharply with the near white of the sand. Then the skies opened and within seconds I was saturated. The rain fell in a continuous downpour like water gushing from a broken gutter. I could see the sea as through opaque glass, and gusts of wind whipped the rain into strange patterns across the sand like the footsteps of a running man, an invisible man. Spurts of sand would rise in the air for a distance of twenty yards or more and then veer sharply to the left or right before disappearing, as if whatever had made them had been snatched heavenwards. Small rivers quickly became torrents as they ran down from the sand dunes.

  Had I been properly prepared I might have enjoyed the storm but my lightweight mackintosh and casual shoes and trousers were no match for the elements. Rain ran down my neck and my soaked clothing clung to my body. I was shivering, and wriggling my toes to stop them from freezing. Desperate to find shelter I turned towards the dunes and soon found myself up to the knees in clinging sand. There seemed to be no place where one could escape the combined force of the wind and rain. For a few moments I worried seriously about the dangers of perishing from exposure; I had never been so cold and wet and the downpour showed no signs of diminishing. It was vital to keep moving but I was not used to physical exercise and my supplies of strength were quickly evaporating. I felt that if I lay down I might never get up again. All this may seem like an over-dramatization of my situation but it was exactly how I felt at the time. I was genuinely frightened.

  I struggled on through the dunes and the veil of rain and was relieved beyond measure when I suddenly saw a man-made structure looming up before me: a grey outline that I recognized as an old World War Two concrete bunker raised to defend the coast against the threat of German invasion. It was low and squat with recessed apertures widening to provide the maximum field of fire. Sand had piled up against its sides and there was a low rectangular opening which served as an entrance.

  I stumbled forward and half-crawled into the bunker. Although protected from the wind and rain I was no warmer and my nostrils told me th
at the bunker had found use as a latrine. Old tins and scraps of soiled newspaper littered the cement floor and I felt depressed that it had been necessary to take refuge in such a place. I slapped my arms about my body and peered out through the apertures waiting anxiously for any sign that the storm was abating. How my wife would have laughed if she had seen me. She was probably watching the downpour from the comparative comfort of a seafront café in Hunstanton. She would be having a cup of tea and enjoying a cake, the largest and most fattening that the establishment provided. She always ate when she was angry and then blamed me when she put on weight. I began to feel quite irritated myself as I compared my situation to hers. My teeth were chattering and my feet seemed to be frozen to the inside of my shoes. The discomfort of my wet underclothes clinging to my body was intense. I must get back to the inn before she returned and try and find a way of drying my clothes. I could just imagine her self-satisfied voice uttering the words ‘It serves you right!’

  On the wall somebody had scrawled a skull and crossbones and the word ‘DEATH!’ For some reason the sight made me grit my chattering teeth and clench my fists. It was almost as if the graffiti was a sentiment expressed against my wife with which I violently concurred. I stamped my feet and as if at a signal the force of the rain began to abate. I could see the glistening dunes and the grey vengeful sea topped with white breakers. The wind still whistled sullenly but the sky had lightened and was now a uniform grey. Since I was already soaked to the skin there was little point in staying where I was; I might as well get back to the inn as quickly as I could. I took a last unloving look round the bunker and ducked out into the open. A mean rain stung my face but the wind had lost its terrifying power. My footprints through the dunes had been completely washed away and the cold cut me like a knife. I needed to get back to the inn by the quickest route possible. Shivering uncontrollably, I hauled myself up to the top of one of the dunes and looked inland. The church tower was clearly visible and in the foreground I noticed what seemed to be another sluice gate, built across a fairly substantial tidal dyke. It was impossible to see clearly but I had the impression that a path ran from the sluice towards the village. If it did so it would certainly provide the short cut I was looking for and I hurried down the dune talking out loud to propel myself along. I would have made a strange spectacle if there had been anyone around to see me.