Worms Read online

  The sluice gate was constructed with blocks of concrete, and a metal rail half-eaten through with rust ran along one parapet. The ducts were choked with sedge and timber and I had the impression that it had long since ceased to be used. I was hurrying across with my hand on the rail to steady myself – the concrete being slippery – when one of the metal uprights gave way. I nearly fell. I stumbled sideways against the concrete rampart and experienced an immediate stab of fear. A huge block trembled as I collided with it and for a second I thought that it was going to topple over, taking me with it into the fast flowing water – the tide was coming in with the power of the storm still behind it. I pulled myself up carefully and gingerly pushed against the concrete block. It was definitely balancing precariously and only needed a shove to come crashing down. With that and the faulty rail and the slippery surface underfoot a serious accident was a definite possibility; I would have to report the hazard when I got back to the village. Somebody could be killed.

  Now that I look back I find it difficult to remember if the idea occurred to me then. Perhaps only the vague possibility entered my mind: it might have been my wife crossing the sluice instead of me; she might have stumbled against the loose block, bringing it down on top of herself, being crushed beneath it in the mud and sand at the bottom of the dyke. I recall looking down into the dark churned-up water and seeing the particles swirling like clouds. I think I even climbed over the parapet onto one of the long bastions that divided the stream, and pushed at the concrete, testing it to see if it would fall towards the rail. Perhaps this did suggest a measure of premeditation. It is difficult to say now when so many things have happened.

  When I got back to the inn I was depressed to see the car standing outside it. It was soon revealed that my wife had driven away in such a precipitous hurry that she had left her purse behind. Her reaction to my bedraggled state was everything that I might have expected – I was scolded for making more work for her on what was supposed to be a holiday and for my selfish inconsiderate behaviour generally; it would serve me right if I caught my death of cold. I bore all this and again managed to control my temper. I think that what I had seen at the sluice gate had made me feel that I had a source of hidden power that I was holding in reserve, a kind of ace up the sleeve.

  I said that she was right about catching cold and that I ought to go and buy some aspirin to be on the safe side. There was no chemist in the village so I would take the car and go to the nearest town. My wife then began to chide me and say that I was a hypochondriac. The continuing vehemence of her attacks was beginning to get on my nerves.

  I picked up a packet of aspirins at the village store and drove to the estate agent whose address I had seen on my tour of the village. It was approaching one o’clock when I got there and I hoped I would find him still open, it being the town’s half day. The business was in a shabby side-street off the main thoroughfare of the town and a quick glance at the bungalows offered for sale in the window was not encouraging. I turned my eyes away from the grubby pegboard and pushed open the door. A girl with badly dyed blonde hair was pulling the cover over a typewriter. She did not look pleased to see me, a fact she emphasized by looking at her watch. Before either of us could speak, a man of about fifty came through from the back of the shop. His clothing was not that of a typical estate agent. He wore a quilted waterproof hunting jacket, waterproof over-trousers, and Wellington boots with the tops turned down. A glance at the fishing tackle lying on top of one of the desks told me that he was preparing to shut up shop and go off on a fishing trip. The girl looked at him hopefully and he nodded towards the door.

  ‘All right, Sylvia. I’ll look after this gentleman.’

  Sylvia picked up an anorak that seemed to be made of the same material as the typewriter cover. ‘See you tomorrow then,’ she mumbled as she went out.

  ‘We were just about to close as you can see,’ said the man. ‘What can I do for you?’ He was looking me up and down and I suppose that in my crumpled corduroy trousers and fisherman’s jersey – my normal clothes were still drying of course – I must have seemed an unlikely prospective purchaser.

  ‘I’m staying at Blanely,’ I said, surprised at how easy it was not to mention my wife. ‘I wondered if you had any cottages in the area.’

  The man pursed his lips as if I had mentioned a rajah’s palace. ‘Very sought after little spot, Blanely,’ he said. ‘Very salubrious. A lot of money about. Very handy for the golf course and the yachting. When something comes on the market it’s gone in a flash. We get a lot of people from the Midlands.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ I said, already beginning to feel suitably discouraged. ‘I wasn’t looking for anything large.’

  ‘You’re lucky as it happens,’ he said, quickly rifling through the sheets of paper on his desk. ‘I’ve got a very nice little property here – very handy for the shops, easy to maintain. You could let it in the summer if—’

  ‘Not Dunrovin,’ I interrupted firmly. ‘I saw that when I was looking round the village.’

  The man’s hand faltered and he slowly lowered the piece of paper. ‘It’s very nice inside,’ he said. ‘Very attractive wide brick fireplace. It’s had a lot of money spent on it.’

  ‘I’d like something with more character,’ I said. ‘One of those old flint cottages.’

  The man pursed his lips at my presumption. ‘Now you’re asking for something. They fetch the earth when they come on the market.’ He quoted a figure that was three times what I had considered paying. ‘Even barns and suchlike are being snapped up for conversion. I sold a windmill the other day.’ He started to arrange the papers on his desk and I could see that he judged that the interview was over. ‘If you’d like to leave your name and address I’ll put you on our mailing list.’

  I looked down at the desk and wondered what to do. As I did so, my eye lit on a round tin that once might have held tobacco. Some irregular perforations had been made in its lid and through one of them a bright red tentacle suddenly darted into the air like a snake’s tongue.

  ‘Wait a minute. I may have something that might suit you,’ he said and I looked up. ‘A lady who has a property at Blanely wants to sell off one of the outhouses. I believe it’s very dilapidated – she says so herself. I’ve got the letter here somewhere. Haven’t had time to catch up with it . . .’ He started to shuffle­­­­­­ the papers on his desk and accidentally dislodged the tin, which started to roll towards me. I could easily have stopped it but for some reason I felt a repugnance to touch it. Almost mesmerized, I watched as it trundled towards the edge of the desk. At the last second the estate agent saw it and shot out a hand. Too late. The tin brushed his fingertips and fell to the floor. As I looked down it burst open and I started back in distaste. I was looking at a writhing mass of small red worms.

  I had always found worms disgusting and these were especially so. Their movements were agitated and at the moment of release they reared up like miniature snakes reacting to an attacker. Furthermore they did not remain in a coagulated mass but immediately began to separate and wriggle away as if they had engineered their own escape. The tin had fallen on a strip of ancient carpet and it was remarkable how the worms were able to insinuate themselves between the fibres and melt from view.

  Still overcome by abhorrence I did nothing, and it was the estate agent who let out an oath and sprang round the side of the desk pulling on a pair of heavy gloves. Clumsily he scraped up those worms that were still visible and pressed them back into the tin, crushing down the lid so that some of them were cut in half. The severed ends writhed frenetically, flailing from side to side. Gruesome as the sight of them was, I could not tear my eyes away. The man raised his foot and stamped down hard and repeatedly, covering the area of the carpet where the tin had fallen. Small dark circles began to appear and there was a pungent odour that made me feel sick. After a flurry of motion he stopped stamping. He was breathing hard and his plump face was shiny with sweat. It was easy to see that he was r
uffled by what had happened and my own repugnance must have been obvious.

  ‘They’re little devils,’ he said, clearly feeling that an explanation was necessary. ‘They make marvellous bait but you don’t want to let them escape.’

  ‘They seem very lively,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We get a lot of them around here. It’s funny, up the coast you’ll hardly find one.’ He placed the tin carefully in the bottom of a haversack and pulled off his gloves. The stench in the office was now overpowering; more than anything I wanted to get out, to breathe the fresh air, and I made for the door.

  ‘Here we are.’ He picked up a letter. ‘Mrs Valentine, Marsh House. Anybody will be able to tell you where it is. Tell her I sent you of course . . .’ He scribbled the name and address on a business card and brought it over to me. I noticed that he scrawled ‘Price to be resolved’ under his signature. ‘Get in touch again if you’re interested.’

  I said that I would and took my leave. The prospect of finding a house now seemed of secondary importance compared to getting away from that revolting smell and the recollection of those disgusting, writhing creatures. I thought that I glimpsed another on the floor as I opened the door to the street, but I did not look down again to confirm the impression. I hurried to my car and drove back to Blanely.

  CHAPTER TWO

  My wife was not glad to see me. Much of the golf course had been flooded by the downpour and with greens turned into pools there was little hope of any more play during the day. The golfing fraternity had therefore returned to the inn and were now making a great deal of noise in the saloon bar. In a corner of that same bar my wife was toying with a beef and pickle sandwich washed down by tiny sips of gin and lime. She complained about what she called the ‘uproar’ and the unsavoury jokes, above all, about the fact that I had kept her waiting for her lunch. On all counts I was the sole recipient of her grievances. It was made clear to me that I had a lot to make up for and as this message sank in it soon became obvious that I was not going to be able to escape twice in the course of one day. I would have to put off a visit to Mrs Valentine’s property.

  My wife had another gin and lime and a Tia Maria with her coffee and after a nap was sufficiently restored in spirits as to wish to be taken back to Hunstanton. There I dutifully drove her and we walked along the front, past the closed amusement park and an ancient pier wrecked by storms and crumbling into the sea. The wind was brisk and I noted that there were few other holidaymakers in the town. Many hotels and cafés had shut and a run-down, end-of-season atmosphere prevailed which I found depressing. We had an indifferent tea in a residential hotel and the loudest sound in the room was the ticking of a grandfather clock. I thought about what the estate agent had described as an ‘outhouse’ and felt a mounting sense of anger against my wife that I could not go there and view the property immediately. Supposing somebody else came upon the scene and bought it whilst I was dallying? It was an unlikely prospect but it helped stoke my brooding frustration.

  That night I lay in bed and again listened to the sea. It might be thought that after my experience on the beach my enthusiasm would have waned but this was not the case. Sharply defined images thrust themselves into my mind; I pictured the windswept scene, the quietness and austerity of the landscape. I felt peculiarly elated, as if my senses were coming awake for the first time. I looked towards the window and saw the curtains trembling in the wind. They had a nondescript pattern of coloured vertical lines but now as they shivered transparently I could see the same design as on the side of the tomb in the church: the worms of hell. In a quick subliminal flash, I saw the old man on the beach, his gleaming spade coming down like a guillotine as it dug into the wet sand. Then the severed worms dancing. I sat up and shook my head. This was not like my dreamless dozing of the previous night. I was being menaced by recurring images.

  I turned and shuddered as I saw a wisp of hair lying across my sleeping wife’s forehead. She twisted and the hair fell to curve into her ear, as if trying to enter it. I took a deep breath and turned away. I had to learn to control my imagination. There was no reason to think what I was thinking. If I shivered it must be because I was cold. I reached across to move the lock of hair aside and she twitched in her sleep and brushed my hand away. It was an involuntary gesture but perhaps all the more distressing for that; it was as though her rejection of me was automatic and instinctive. I lay back and avoided looking at the curtain. Black thoughts always arrived at night; it would be better in the morning.

  The next day I was woken by car doors slamming as the golfers set off for the links. Sunlight streamed through a gap in the curtains and when I looked at the harmless and rather ugly pattern of red, green and blue lines I smiled at my anxiety of the night before. The only worms around would be harmlessly throwing up casts on the lawn and listening for the approach of predatory thrushes. I could sense that my wife was in no mood to get up early and I rose and dressed whilst she quickly moved into the part of the bed that I had vacated. ‘I’m going for a little walk, dear,’ I said. She made no answer and I raised the latch and went down the creaking stairs.

  The landlord was surprised to see me up with the golfers and jokingly asked if I was on my way to the links. We exchanged a few words and I asked him for the whereabouts of Mrs Valentine’s house. It was apparently up the other end of the village, near the mouth of the estuary, and I could see him looking at me questioningly; he wanted to ask why I required such information but he said nothing, and I merely parted with the observation that I hoped the good weather would last for the rest of our stay.

  After a brisk walk that took me past the few shops in the village, the methodist chapel and the constable’s house, I came to a row of Georgian cottages and beyond that a line of elms that had mercifully been spared from the Dutch elm disease. I could see a small park with horses grazing in it, and over the tree tops the grouped chimneys of a substantial house. On the far side of the house was the open marsh and the sea. I approached the gate and hesitated, wondering whether to proceed up the drive. It was still not nine o’clock and perhaps dauntingly early to call.

  I was spared from making a decision by the appearance of a handsome woman of advanced middle age. I judged that she was the same age as myself, perhaps in the early or middle fifties. She wore a tweed skirt, a golfing jacket and brogues and was clearly bent on walking the two elderly King Charles spaniels that accompanied her, their chins almost resting on the ground. She looked at me inquiringly as I stood poised in the gateway and I smiled as agreeably as I was able.

  ‘Am I by any chance addressing Mrs Valentine?’ I asked.

  She assured me that I was and I went on to produce the estate agent’s card and announce the purpose of my visit, apologizing of course for my early arrival. She said that this did not matter and retraced her steps up the drive with me in attendance. It was her turn to talk and she explained that she had been fairly recently widowed and was now finding that the upkeep of a large house made substantial inroads into the income she derived from her late husband’s pension and insurance arrangements. Looking around the garden I could see at a glance that it had been neglected; shrubs and plants were straggly and overgrown and weeds choked the flowerbeds. She followed my gaze and confirmed that a permanent gardener had had to be replaced by an odd-job man who came in a couple of times a week. I sympathized and waited in the drive whilst she went inside the house to get the keys. It was a splendid Georgian building but badly in need of a coat of paint.

  When Mrs Valentine reappeared I could not help noticing that she had applied some powder to her nose and cheeks and tidied her hair. I was flattered. We walked along a path, with a box hedge on one side and an old red brick wall lined with plum trees on the other, and approached a building that once might have been a stable. It was situated exactly at the corner of the property, looking out across the marshes to the sea and positioned a hundred yards or so from the house. The windows were green and dirty and a bramble almost covered
the door. Part of the roof had fallen in and I could see blackened timbers. Mrs Valentine saw my worried face and misconstrued my expression. She thought I was horrified by what I saw, whereas I was in fact delighted by the situation of the building and could see its possibilities. What made me appear anxious was the thought of my wife’s reaction. I could almost hear her scornful disbelief if I told her that I wanted to spend her legacy on what she would clearly believe was a ruin.

  ‘My husband used it as a workshop,’ explained Mrs Valen­tine. ‘Unfortunately a window blew open and the wind caused a paraffin heater to flare up and set fire to a curtain. As you’re going to see, I’m afraid the interior was badly damaged.’ Her tone was openly apologetic and she was obviously far from being an experienced saleswoman. I could imagine the estate agent crooning over the possibilities of the place if he had not been too busy with his fishing. The key turned in the lock with difficulty and I stood aside to let her enter ahead of me. A slight blush illuminated her cheek as she passed through the doorway followed by the dogs.

  Inside, the air seemed to be colder, and I saw that the roof was exposed to the heavens; above our heads most of the floorboards were either burnt or rotted away and the brick floor heaped with debris. Evidence of its original use as a stable was visible in the stalls and mangers but a handsome brick fireplace dominated one wall, perhaps originally installed for the comfort of the grooms or, more probably, the health of the horses. A work bench and tools stood against one wall and there were shelves of paint tins, brushes and bottles of turpentine now covered in rust and cobwebs. It looked as if Mr Valentine had abandoned all interest in the place after the fire. I saw Mrs Valentine looking at me nervously and for this reason allowed my face to set into an even gloomier expression.