CHAPTER III

The End of the Line

CARRYING THE CARPET-BAG upon my shoulder, I came out of the gates of Ramsgate station without seeing another living soul.

Since I had no idea how far I was from Broadstairs, I hoped for nothing more than to ask directions—but the station building appeared abandoned. I wondered how late it was, and, in an absent-minded moment, checked my pocket-watch. Then, remembering that I had not wound it for some months, I returned it to my waistcoat and, instead, looked about in search of a clock.

I found one mounted on the wall above the deserted guard’s office, caged behind protective metal bars, which set the time at twenty-past-eleven. As it was such a late hour, I decided that a local hostelry would be the best place to acquire information. And so, with that in mind, I drifted out of the double doors of the ticket office and into the night air.

I went on doggedly, leaving the station-house behind me and plunging into the solitude and darkness of the road. The station building, itself, was oddly isolated—there being nothing around it, save for a number of fields stretching into the distance and—cutting across this—a wide mud path, pitted with cart tracks and cut with shivering puddles. I looked up, considering the changing sky, and observed a disparate band of dark grey clouds heading quickly eastwards, spoiling the otherwise clear winter firmament.

Pulling up the collar of my fur coat, I followed the moonlighted track, which seemed to lead into a canopy of oak trees. And, with it, complete darkness. With a cold wind stinging my eyes, I struggled onward, all the time cursing myself for finishing my hipflask early, and cursing my travelling companion for not waking me…

As I approached the clearing at the far-side of the oaks, I was pleased to see the roofs and church-spire of Ramsgate nestled amongst the trees before me. Continuing down the hill-side, it was not long before I entered the outskirts of the town. Here, despite the fact that all the local dwellings seemed shut-up and lifeless, the roads were, at least, macadamised and brightly-lighted with gas.

Heading into the town centre, I tumbled through a dizzying array of streets and back alleys, passing by a savings bank, a dispensary, a well-appointed town hall and a custom-house, still without meeting anyone at all.

Whilst the fact that I was free from the clutter of my native London was never lost to me, that I was abroad in a coastal town did escape me for a time. It was only when I travelled past the shop-fronts of one of the town’s main streets that it became apparent to me, for even before the sea itself came into view, I could taste its salt upon the breath of the wind.

Coming to the end of a long thoroughfare, I followed a wooden sign advertising the ‘West Cliff Bathing Machines’ and crossed a square, lined at the end with carved-stone railings; overlooking a harbour. With my hands pressing the balustrade, I stared out at the dark rolling abyss on the horizon. Below me, the tide was in and the foaming waves dashed against the chalk cliffs. The fresh sea air caused such a feeling of lethargy in me that before I had got another twenty yards I was clutching my chest and unsure if I could continue. I lighted a cigarette to calm my nerves, whilst I frantically searched the area. Then, up ahead of me, I saw the unmistakable shape of a tavern, hanging dropsically over the cliff-face.

I moved on, hurrying down a wide asphalt path that stood between the cliffs and a number of immaculate white residences.

Pressing on, the blackened silhouettes of the buildings ahead became more than just one amorphous dark shape on the horizon. As I drew closer I could make out a succession of dimly-lighted windows beneath a tall tower, which I took to be a disused lighthouse.

The sign above the pub door read: The Belle Vue Tavern, but it seemed that the place was entirely locked up. I pressed my face to the darkened glass on the doors, longing to hear the burr of human voices or the screech of wheezy fiddles, but there was nothing. For quite a long period—I suppose simply because I had no better way to pass the time—I continued to stand in the doorway, hopelessly turning the handle.

“You’ll not get en there,” said a gruff voice from somewhere behind me. “Not ento the Belle Vue—not now…”

I quickly turned about, but saw nothing but mist lifting off the empty roadside.

Suddenly, a man lurched out from the shadows of the tavern’s outhouses, wandering into the hazy light of the road. His dress and general aspect indicated a degree of vagrant wretchedness that only came from years of living without proper shelter. The section of his face that was not consumed with a thick, wiry beard had the sort of weathered look of old leather. Despite the darkness, I was aware of his eyes fixed upon me.

“Sorry—didn’t see you there,” I said, cocking the brim of my hat. “Please, tell me, do you know if there’s a public-house or tavern somewhere about that’s open?”

The man scratched his head thoughtfully. “What day es et?”

“Thursday.”

“Fursday?” he replied, evidently surprised by the news. “An’ what time es et?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Near mid-night, I’d say.”

“Mid-night?”

“Yes?”

“Well, you might try The Moonlighters.”

“‘The Moonlighters?’ Where’s that?”

The man paused, turning his face away from me and staring distantly down the path. Pawing the tangled curls of his beard for a moment, he hesitated, apparently lost in thought. “Well…” he said finally, pointing to the next house down, “et’s that one there, esn’t et?”

I crossed to where the man was standing, but, as I made my approach, he darted away. With sure-footed haste, the man rushed down the track and, sliding between a pair of dilapidated barrels, padded up a wooden stairs which led to a roof. There, silhouetted beside a chimney pot, he turned to watch me.

The next building down did turn out to be another public-house, for above the door was a sign on which the words ‘The Moonlighters’ had been recently re-painted. With a creak, the door shunted slowly forward and I stepped inside.

The bar was cut into small compartments like pawnbrokers’ boxes, with each specific area’s label printed on gilt glass with flourishing patterns. One said ‘Bottle’, another ‘Retail’, then ‘Snuggery’ and, finally, ‘Ladies’ Bar’.

The entire pub appeared to be deserted. But when I looked again—and my eyes had better adjusted to the fuzzy lighting of the room—I realised that there was a woman seated by the hearth. In the half-light, I could make out little more than a mass of skirts and petticoats, her face being obscured by an old-fashioned bonnet. As I approached her, the woman lifted up a hand and gestured towards another door adjacent to the one through which I had entered. A brass sign read: ‘Gentlemen’s Bar’.

I turned back and thanked the woman, but she made no effort to reply and so I left her and walked into the next room.

As could be expected, I suppose, as soon as I edged through the doorway, the locals stopped short, mid-way through their drinks and conversations to scrutinise me. With a faltering smile which, in truth, only confirmed my status as a stranger—I carefully closed the door behind me and crossed to the bar.

The barmaid, who had also been viewing me with a look of amused intrigue, put down the chamois she was using to polish the brasses and walked towards me.

“What can I get you?”

“I’m sorry…” I responded with an embarrassed smile. “I don’t know what you have.”

“Well…” she said, turning and surveying the scores of pumps and bottles in her midst. “Stock or mild ale. London stout and porter. Or spirits.”

“Cherry brandy?”

“Coming up, sir,” she said, turning towards a shelf on the back bar.

With ordering a drink, interest in me seemed to wane. Soon, the silence I had encountered upon my arrival ebbed away and conversation resumed.

The atmosphere inside the saloon was thick with pipe smoke and steam from a damp log that crackled and hissed in the hearth. I removed my hat and coat, taking the opportunity as I did to better absorb my surroundings. It was a long, darkly-wainscoted room of ancient appearance, lighted dimly by gas lamps and fortified by gnarled wooden beams that led up to struts in the ceiling.

Staring across the room from my position at the bar, I could see through a number of wide bay windows that lined the far wall. Outside, waves shimmered in the moonlight, giving the observer the curious sensation of being adrift at sea.

“Where are you from, sir? London, is it?” the barmaid asked.

She was on the pretty side; albeit inclined to plumpness. Her features were hidden under a thick sheen of powder, which made me wonder what colour her face was when she awoke in the morning.

“Yes,” I said, knocking back the drink. “Another, please.”

She went back to the bar and brought the bottle.

“Is that a problem?” I asked her, as she re-filled my glass.

She drew herself back, viewing me cautiously: “What?”

“Coming from London.”

“No, ’course not.”

“That’s all right then,” I replied. “Where are you from?”

“I live ’ere in Pegwell now. But originally I’m from Dumpton.”

“Dumpton?” I repeated. “Sounds like a nice place.”

She laughed at this.

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Trelawney Hart,” I said, extending a hand. “At your service.”

“My name’s Jenny,” she said. “Jenny Onions.”

“Onions…?” I repeated. “Well, I suppose that’s shallot in life!”

My quip, although clearly an attempt at charm, seemed to meet the space above the unfortunate lady’s head, for she seemed to look upon the comment quite darkly. All subsequent top-ups of my glass were provided in silence.

The publican was present, but unavailable to serve me; involved, as he was, in a heated conversation about a verse of the Old Testament with a pair of fishermen seated on stools further along the bar. Slamming his fist down with the imbecilic slow gravity of a drunkard, the publican was reinforcing his opinion that ‘the passage’ (I did not discover which) was outmoded and largely irrelevant to Christians in modern Britain. Whereas, from what I could understand, the fishermen were taking God’s side.

Slipping back my fifth or sixth brandy, it occurred to me that, although no effort had been made to close the tavern’s doors, I should, nevertheless, probably think about making my way to my lodgings. I rummaged through my waistcoat pocket and pulled out the folded slip that Horrocks had given me at the club. As well as train times, he had written upon it the name of a Broadstairs hotel which he had cabled with the details of my reservation.

With the paper in hand, I dropped down from my stool and edged across the bar trying to think of some way to casually engage the more friendly-looking of the two fishermen. But, just at that moment, a coal-heaver with a boozer’s nose and a bloated face—who had been seated quietly by a far window puffing forth great volumes of smoke—put down his mug of beer and began to sing the verse of some old ditty; in which the sin of parting a poor man and his drink formed the doleful burden.

Soon, it seemed, the whole bar had closed their eyes and were tapping feet and singing along to the song, with the exception of myself and the barmaid. Looking over at her, I shrugged and shot her a vapid smile, but she got the wrong impression and simply topped up my glass with brandy.

“Excuse me…” I said, tapping the fisherman on the shoulder. “Can you tell me how I get to Ballard’s Hotel?”

“You wha’?” said he, twisting around on his stool and blowing smoke from his cutty pipe into my face.

“Ballard’s Hotel.” I coughed. “It’s in Broadstairs.”

“Yes? What about it?”

“Where is it?”

“Ballard’s ’otel?” he responded, thoughtfully, stroking the stubble on his chin. “You’re right—it’s in Broadstairs.”

“Right…” I said slowly. “I think we’ve established that now. How do I get there?”

“What, now?”

“Yes?”

“Well, you’ll ’ave to walk it—there ain’t no other way. Not at this time.” He spoke with oddly soft vowels; a quirk I would later discover to be peculiar to those born on the Isle of Thanet.

“How long would that take?”

“I dunno. Hour, per’aps. If you know the area.”

“I don’t.”

“Well…” he said finally. “Suggest you’d better wait ’til the mornin’ then, sir.”

“But I’m staying there to-night,” I said with pique. “I have a reservation.”

“Dunno what to suggest…”

Then he shrugged and turned his back to me.

Returning to my chair, I looked up at the clock above the counter and saw that it was ten-past one in the morning. Wondering how long the bar would stay open, I toyed with the idea of asking the publican. But, worried that this action may in fact alert him to the lateness of the hour, I elected, instead, to remain as innocuous as possible, in a hope that it would delay the inevitable. In such a place as Ramsgate, I fancied, mornings would start early, and so at the very least, there would be people to give directions to me from half-five or six onwards. In the meantime, I would continue steeling myself with brandy. When the bell did ring, I would have the barmaid refill my hipflask and venture out in search of shelter of some kind.

A strange lull in the room’s noise put me on high-alert and I looked up from my drink to see what was happening. A far door had opened and the tavern’s habitués were all focused on it, watching as the bearded tramp that I had encountered earlier entered. Unperturbed by the volley of playful badinage that seemed to erupt from all corners of the room, he scurried inside.

The man proceeded to make his way around all the customers of the pub, his advances being met with uniform reproach and occasional laughter. It struck me that he might be hawking something. As he approached the fishermen, a flurry of defensive arms went up, causing him to dodge away from them. He finished up beside me.

“Hello again,” I said cheerily.

The man drew himself nearer, bouncing anxiously about on his feet. When he did finally speak, he did so in a conspiratorial whisper.

“Postcard?”

I blinked back at him. Fair to say, whatever I was expecting, it was not this.

“Sorry?”

“Wanna buy a postcard?”

“Not really…” I replied shortly. “What sort of postcard?”

The man winked an eye at me, and from this I gathered that these would not be the sort of cards one could send to a maiden aunt, but would be of the ‘seaside humour’ variety—a low sort of thing, depicting some manner of ribald sauciness.

“All right,” I replied. “Let’s see them then.”

With a look of some surprise, the man stepped back. Then, throwing his hand into his tattered overcoat, he produced a handful of dog-eared cards and presented them to me. There was about twenty of them, all identical, depicting a Labrador puppy sadly contem-plating the puddle from a dripping umbrella. Underneath this, the accompanying text asked: ‘Will they blame me for that?’

“Is that it?” I asked.

“There’s eigh’een of ’em.”

“They’re not what I was expecting,” I said, handing them back to him. He snatched them from me, looking almost hurt.

“I’m sorry. Could you use a drink?”

The man nodded faintly, his eyes surveying me in a way that belied a palpable mistrust.

“Excuse me,” I called across the bar.

Jenny—now a picture of boredom in the company of the publican and fishermen—glanced sulkily across the bar and drifted towards me. “A drink for this man,” I told her. “And another for myself.”

“You got money?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said with a flash of pique. Reaching into my trouser pockets, I extracted a scrunched-up five-pound note and tossed it onto the counter. “Here.”

Accepting the banknote with a look of some surprise, Jenny proceeded to flatten it on the bar before us. I watched her scrutinise it, before lifting her eyes and regarding me with an air of uncertainty. In silence, she then scooped the note up and took it across the bar to the publican, where, between them, they had some manner of muted discussion.

Presently, the publican shuffled across the bar and met me with a wrinkled brow. He was a stout, red-faced old man with dirty shirt sleeves and a mouth like a crack in a pie lid.

“You gave ’er a five-pound note,” he said, gesturing to Jenny.

“I know. There was a reason for it.”

“Where’d you get that from then?”

“Well, actually…” I sighed, “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle gave it to me.”

“That right?” he replied sharply; clearly the name meant nothing to him.

“I’m afraid so. Can I have a drink now, please?”

The publican’s face had assumed a serious and judicial air: “What age are you?”

“Thirty-two. Old enough to purchase alcohol, surely?”

“That weren’t why I was asking you. There’s a war on, sir—if you ’adn’t ’eard.”

“I have actually. It’s been in all the newspapers.”

“My question to you is, sir, why ain’t you fighting?”

Normally at this juncture I would tell all manner of fantastic and colourful lies, but on this occasion—perhaps subdued by an overdose of fresh air—I told the truth.

“Emphysema.”

There was a long pause, and I watched as the publican’s brow knit, processing the remark: “Where?”

“No,” I sighed. “I suffer from emphysema. I didn’t pass the medical examinations.”

“Oh,” he said in a softer tone, “I’m sorry to ’ear that.”

“I also have very delicate feet.”

“Right. Well, my apologies then,” the publican murmured, his eyes swerving guiltily back to his drinks. “What was it you was after?”

“Cherry brandy for me,” I turned and gestured to the man at my side. “And whatever this man requires.”

“Wallop, Billy?” asked the publican.

Turning, I observed the tramp nodding his head vigorously. The publican crossed the bar and collected up the brass slop trays from the counter. When he had them together, I watched, intrigued, as he set about emptying their contents into a tumbler. The result was an unpleasant-looking brew; brown, with effervescing scum. It looked rather like the contents of a spittoon.

“What’s that?” I asked in confusion, as the publican shuffled back across the bar.

“Wallop.”

“What’s it for?”

“It’s for ’im,” he said, gesturing to the man at my side.

“For him?” I exclaimed. “I wouldn’t give that to a dog!”

“Dog wouldn’t drink it,” replied the publican sniffily. “But ’e will.”

I turned to the tramp.

“You’re not seriously considering—–”

My inquiry was interrupted as the man leant forward and grabbed the tumbler. With a single deft movement, he brought it to his mouth and drained the contents. Then he stood before me, smacking his lips and wiping the remaining froth from his beard.

I shook my head in disbelief.

“Get him a proper drink,” I said. “He’ll get sick if he drinks that rubbish.”

“’S’what ’e likes!” the publican replied defensively.

“Get him a brandy.”

With a shrug, the publican shuffled across the bar to collect a clean beaker.

“What did he call you? Bill, was it?”

The tramp looked quite startled by my question and nervously tugged at his beard.

“Billy,” he said in a low voice. “Billy Crouse…my name.”

I extended a hand.

“Trelawney Hart!”

It was with a look of some astonishment that Billy took my hand. It occurred to me that he had spent such a long time living on the outskirts of humanity that normal gestures such as these were something he was no longer accustomed to.

The publican returned and placed a fresh tumbler on the counter, which he filled with brandy, before withdrawing. Billy picked it up and spent a moment happily contemplating its contents.

“Where do you sleep?” I asked.

Billy looked at me, surprised either by my interest or the directness of my question. In response, he pointed towards the ceiling. However, it was all too clear from his ragged appearance that he did not sleep in the pub, and I wondered if he had misheard me.

“I have a room booked in a hotel in Broadstairs,” I told him. “I’ll get you a room too if you can get me there.”

Putting the tumbler to his mouth, he knocked back the brandy.

“Too late for that now.”

Upon hearing what was clearly the consensus view, I sighed and opened my cigarette case. Offering it to Billy, he picked one out and rolled it for a moment between his fingers. But, as I struck a match and pushed it in his direction, he looked wildly at me and mumbled something about saving it. Reaching into his coat pocket, Billy extracted a rusty Egyptienne tobacco tin and opened it on the bar. The box contained a selection of dog-ends that had obviously been lifted from the roadside (some were still damp with rainwater). Placing the Guinea Gold into the tin with some delicacy, he extracted one of the cigarette ends and put that to his mouth instead. Lighting this for him, I watched as he took one long drag and twisted it out again on the inside of his box.

“Do you know this area well?”

“There’s probably no man alive that knows it better,” Billy said, “I was born no more en five minutes from where we’re standin’.”

“Really? Tell me, how long have you been a tramp?”

“I’m not a tramp!” Billy vociferated.

“All right!” I exclaimed. “Steady on.”

Billy continued sullenly: “I weren’t always like this, you know?!”

“What do you mean?”

“Ten years ago I was a joiner in Canterbury.”

I removed the cigarette from my mouth, unlighted: “What happened?”

Billy did not answer at first. Then, his eyes lowered and he glanced in the direction of the fire.

“My wife was killed en en accident. I took to the drink.”

There was a long silence. It would have been difficult for any man not to be affected by Billy’s words—but considering his story so closely paralleled my own, it naturally awoke profound feelings of sympathy within me. I looked fondly at him, noting the thoughtful, quivering lines on his forehead and the way his eyes remained determinedly fixed on the hearth flames.

Ignoring the litany of trite remarks that sprang to my mind, I turned back to the bar and lighted my cigarette.

Looking across the room, I noticed that whilst I had been talking to Billy the number of patrons in the pub had dwindled considerably. The bar was now unattended. Scanning the room, I saw that Jenny had left us, and the publican was standing next to the far door, bidding farewell to the fishermen that I had so ineffectually engaged earlier in the evening. As the door swung shut behind them, the publican yawned deeply and made his way back to the bar. Lifting the gate and walking through, he saw me gesture to him and sauntered towards us.

“Yes?”

“Two more cherry brandies.”

“They’ll be your last,” he replied.

I took out my hipflask and placed it on the bar.

“How about filling this up?”

“With what?” the publican said, pouring out the last dribble of brandy into my glass and planting the empty bottle on the bar beside it. “We’re all out of brandy now—you drunk ’alf the bottle.”

“You don’t have to look so unhappy about it,” I returned. “I thought the sale of alcohol was your stock in trade?”

“Aye, it is. But there’s a war on. And it’s my stock I’m tryin’ to conserve.”

“Oh?” I said casually, “You’re one of them.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a supporter of Mr. Lloyd George?”

“’Course I ain’t,” the publican returned with a snort. “I own a pub!”

“I see. Then you think the outcome of the war so hopeless that you’re letting the Germans win already?”

“What?”

Turning my head, I gazed across at the darkened waves outside the windows, saying distantly: “I suppose you are closer to them than most down here. I can see why you’d be scared.”

“Scared?”

“Sorry…” I said, turning back to face him. “Not scared, so much as…careful.”

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“You know, not giving us another drink.”

Without allowing him any chance to respond, I turned my head and began to address Billy once more.

“The Germans’ puritanical hatred of alcohol is well known—it is, in fact, practically what defines them as a nation. I suppose it’s natural for one who is resigned to thinking that they’ll ultimately triumph to begin to adopt a more abstemious way of life. But, still, I never thought I’d live to see the day that I was denied a drink by an English landlord.

“Ah!” My hand dashed up to meet my forehead, as though a thought had suddenly occurred to me. Turning back to the publican, I said: “Perhaps, sir, you are a Welshman?”

“W–Welshman?” he stammered. “Now look ’ere…’course I ain’t a Welshman. It’s the middle of the bloody mornin’, that’s all. I can’t stay open all night.”

“That would be convincing,” I replied, locking eyes with him for the first time, “except I have only asked you to refill my flask—it was, fairly obviously, my intention to leave.

“You know,” I said, turning back to Billy. “I was talking to a friend of mine at the Ministry about this very thing only the other day. He called it ‘passive capitulation’. They’re cracking down on it in London.”

I picked my beaker up and gulped down the half-measure of brandy. Then, placing it back on the bar, I slid the glass towards the publican.

“Don’t worry,” I told him, “I daresay you’ll be all right down here—I don’t suppose anyone will report you.”

“Report me?” the publican repeated, “I dunno what you’re going on about. I’m jus’ thinking of my stock.” He had adopted a thoughtful, hang-dog expression. “You know, thinking about it, I do ’ave a bottle of brandy upstairs,” he said then. “My own, not the pub’s. I suppose I could let you ’ave some of that?”

“Well that’s very decent of you.”

“You understand it’s because I’ve just remembered I ’ad it now—not because of whatever you was talking about?”

“Of course.”

“All right then.”

With a dutiful nod the publican absented himself; shuffling down the slim gangway behind the bar, he retreated into some unknown part of the pub.

Turning to Billy, I thought I could detect a faint, deferential smile amidst the curls of his beard.

“Your ‘friend at the Ministry’?”

“I know,” I responded with a shrug.

Although the bottle was itself green, it had such a heavy covering of dust that it was imbued with a murky brown complexion. Licking the tip of my finger, I ran it across the label, and, with some surprise, read the words: Heering’s Copenhagen Brandy.

“My word,” I said in astonishment. “Where did you get this? I haven’t seen a bottle like it for years!”

“Can’t remember now…” muttered the publican. “People leave things in the pub from time to time—per’aps that was it?”

It seemed odd to me that the publican should seek to disassociate himself from something he intended to sell and it suddenly occurred to me that the bottle might be the product of smuggling. But, naturally, I said nothing.

“Well, let’s get it open!”

“’Old on!” the publican said, turning the bottle around and pulling it back towards him. “If you want it, you’ll ’ave to pay for it first.”

“How much?”

“Well…” the publican said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Couldn’t let you ’ave it for less than a pound really.”

“A pound?” I replied with surprise. “Seems like a reasonable return for something you found in the pub.” Then, with a long indrawn breath, I added: “Very well. As long as there isn’t cork damage, you can take the money from the five pounds you have already taken from me.”

“Done!” said the publican. Turning to a back counter he collected a wooden-tipped corkscrew and placed it next to the bottle. “I’ll get you your change. Since you’re leaving.”

“Oh, and get me some cigarettes.”

With some difficulty I wrenched out the cork from the bottle, and then poured out two large measures into our beakers. Warming my glass in the palm of my hand for a minute, I held it up to the lamp. A thin reddish-brown liquid sloshed about inside.

“Looks all right.”

Putting the edge of the glass to my lips, I swung my wrist back and let half its contents swill into my mouth. No sooner had I done this, my eyes bulged and I felt the sides of my face burning. So astringent was the drink’s bite that my first instinct was to spit it out as quickly as possible. Instead, the liquid wobbled in the back of my throat, rising and retreating with the rhythms of my breathing. Fighting my natural urges, I tilted back my head and pinched the tip of my nose, until, finally, it drained.

“Good…Christ,” I gasped when I was able. I could feel the drink travelling hotly through my chest. “Be very careful…” I warned Billy, “it’s a damned bugaboo!”

My words did little to rein in Billy’s enthusiasm, however. Wiping tears from my eyes, I observed his hand flit across the bar and close around his beaker. Bringing it to his mouth, his eyes widened as the drink’s bouquet lifted through his nostrils. Knocking the drink back in one, Billy casually returned the glass to the bar. For a moment I looked up at him, blinking in amazement at the lack of reaction the drink had had. But then, slowly, his mouth crumpled and a hollow growl issued forth. Lurching forward, Billy grabbed hold of the bar with his head lowered. Finally, his shoulders reeled with a number of convulsive movements.

“Bloody ’ell,” Billy said in a hoarse tone. “What’s en et?”

“God knows.”

“It’s like medicine!”

“Medicine? Hardly that…” I responded, looking fondly at the bottle. “I expect it’s actually terribly bad for you.

“Look here, Billy,” I said, when he had sufficiently recovered himself to stand upright. “I shall be in Broadstairs for the weekend and I could use someone like you!”

“What d’you mean?”

“A guide,” I replied, filling our glasses once again. “I know nothing of the area, whereas by your own admission you know it intimately. I might even be able to pay you—but if not, I’ll make sure you eat and drink well at least.”

Billy looked hard at me for a moment but said nothing.

“Well, there it is,” I said, “think about it—after all, it’s not really the postcard season!”

“Why’re you ’elping me?” Billy said suddenly.

“Well, for Heaven’s sake,” I said slapping him manfully on the shoulder, “you have already shown you’re a good fellow. Don’t you see? I wouldn’t have found this place if it was not for you!”

Returning from the cashbox, the publican strode across the bar and uncupped his hands in front of me, causing a deluge of silver and bronze coins to rain down onto the bar before me.

“Your change,” he said curtly. “If you could take it and go—as I’m closin’ up now!”

“What?” I said, waving away the suggestion as though intolerably trivial. “Surely you’ll join us for a glass of this fine vintage?”

“No,” replied the publican, “I’ve been on me feet since six o’clock this morning.”

Scooping up the coins from the bar into my awaiting palm, I loaded up the front pockets of my trousers until they bulged like hamster cheeks.

“Well, what about him?”

I nodded across the bar at the coal-heaver, now curled up in his chair, snoring over his beer.

“What about ’im?” responded the publican. “That’s me brother-in-law. Unfortunately, ’e lives ’ere.

“Come on! Don’t you ’ave ’omes to go to?” the publican said loudly and ritualistically, as I slipped an arm into my coat. But before the publican’s words had time to settle, their insensitivity hit him and he threw up his hands. “Sorry, Billy,” he said quietly, “you know what I mean…”

Replacing the cork in the bottle neck, I collected up the rest of my belongings and trailed after Billy, who was making his way to the door. When we had reached the stools where the fishermen had sat earlier in the evening, I came to a halt.

“Wait a minute,” I called back to the publican, “what about the cigarettes?”

“What?” he responded tersely; desperation entering his voice. “Right. Four-pence then.”

Burrowing into my trouser pockets, I extracted a handful of coins. From this, I selected a penny and a thrupenny bit, which I slapped onto the counter. Rolling his eyes, the publican muttered something below his breath and, crossing to the other side of the bar, disappeared from sight. He emerged a moment later—having come out from behind the bar—and strode across the carpets towards me, holding up a box of cigarettes between his squat fingers. Without another word, he pushed the packet into my hand, and then set about keenly ushering myself and Billy from the building. With the man’s hand pressing hard into the small of my back, I tumbled unsteadily forward through the doorway and out into the freshness of the night. Just as I did, the tavern door was slammed shut and I heard the dull metallic scrape of its bolts being pulled across.

Looking down at the cigarettes in my hand, I saw, much to my chagrin, that I was clutching a packet of twenty Sheiks.

We left the saloon bar by the same door through which Billy had entered, emerging at the top of a steep slope—as it seemed that the pub stood upon the crest of a hill. Whilst we had been inside the pub, the weather had made a change for the worse, and so—with the rain bouncing off the peak of my hat—I pressed myself to the side of the tavern wall and hastily did up the buttons of my coat.

“We need to get rooms,” I told Billy.

“You shan’t. Not now.”

“But there must be a hotel!”

“Yes,” he said. “That’s one there.”

He gestured across the road and I squinted up at a large square building of dirty white brick. Standing above it, dominating the skyline, was the large tower I had earlier mistaken for a lighthouse. Seeing it up close, it seemed more like the sort of thing one would expect to see protruding from the grounds of Colney Hatch.

“Well…” I said. “Let’s try there.”

“You won’t get en.”

“We must try!”

Leaving the carpet-bag and bottle by the side of the pub, I strode away, stopping short when I realised that Billy was not following.

“I’ll get you a room,” I said, turning back to him.

“They won’t let no-one en now,” he called back to me. “’Specially not me.”

I ventured on undeterred. Coasting down the slope, I entered the courtyard of the Pegwell Bay Hotel and saw that stretching out behind it was a vast, meticulously-attended garden. With the rain stalking the grass, it impressed upon me the complete absence of cover in the vicinity. And so, with a great sense of urgency, I bounded up the stone steps that led to the hotel’s main entrance, determined upon admittance.

Slamming down the brass door-knocker, my rapping created such a noise that it disturbed an owl that had been sheltering upon one of the window ledges. The bird swept through the air above my head, jettisoning a skilfully-aimed pellet that bounced off my left shoulder.

Despite this, the clamour had no effect on the building’s inhabitants—certainly, no porter came to my aid.

I slunk away from the doors of the hotel just as a clap of thunder sounded. The rain had begun to descend in torrents, shimmying in bursts through the moonlight like clouds of mayfly.

Reaching the gate, I gazed across at the sea ahead of me, now just a distant looming darkness. Looking back up the path, all the buildings that straddled the top of the ascent—including both public houses and a cluster of fisherman’s cottages—were lifeless and foreboding in silhouette. I turned the other way and looked down at the valley below, searching for an omnibus shelter or barn which might afford some cover, but, with the gloom and the mist and the damp wind stinging my eyes, I could make out nothing save for a few gorse bushes and a distant grove of silver birch.

I began to wearily trudge back up the slope, which the rain was fast turning to sludge. My boots squelched down, falling between the hollows of glistening hoof-marks. As I neared the top of the slope, I lost my footing and skidded back—falling face-first into the mud. My body followed and I juddered back down the hill, coming to a halt three feet back with my knees embedded in the sucking earth.

With little regard for my appearance I scrambled up the slope, still on my hands and knees, grasping at occasional clumps of grass. Reaching the top, I returned to form and rubbed my hands down the front of my fur coat.

“Billy!” I called out again, my voice echoing about the houses. “Billy? Where are you?”

I listened intently, but could make out nothing except for the restless drum of the rain falling down around me.

“Up ’ere.”

I looked about but saw no one.

“No,” insisted the voice, “Up ’ere…” Turning my head up, I suddenly saw the dim outline of Billy’s head over the top of The Moonlighters’ pub sign.

“What are you doing up there?” I shouted. “We need to find cover from the rain—not get closer to it!”

“Come up!”

Without uttering any further word of explanation, the darkened outline of Billy’s head disappeared from view.

I made my way to the wooden stairs I had seen Billy ascend earlier in the evening. Pushing my boot into the top rung, I slipped my foot across the guttering and onto the flat, tarred section of the roof immediately before the chimney stack. As I did, a sudden strong squall of wind threw me back, but, luckily, I was weighed down by my mud-covered boots. Blinking the rain from my eyes, I tensed, and concentrating my weight, staggered forward with bent knees.

For some minutes I remained there, hugging the chimney stack, waiting for the winds to abate so that I could lessen my grip. When the moment came, I turned and dropped down, so that my back was arched against the cold stone of the chimney.

With the wind no longer in my face, I scooped my dripping hair from my eyes and scanned the neighbouring rooftop of The Moonlighters, trying to work out where Billy had been when he called to me.

The wooden stairs I had climbed up were midway between the two pubs, being attached to an outhouse which could conceivably form part of either estates or be shared between them. It was obviously of a newer construction than the two houses that braced it. Apart from the a small cut-away section I was standing on that gave access to the chimney, the building’s structure was of the American saltbox variety, with a long, pitched roof leading down to open guttering at the base.

It struck me that there were only two ways to get to The Moonlighters’ roof. I could either try to cross the iron guttering at the base of the slope or climb up the roof and—using the chimney stack as a support—push myself onto the ridge. Pressing myself flat to it I would be able to slither across on my stomach, with my legs on either side.

I stepped forward and pressed my right boot onto the guttering. At first it seemed fairly stable, but as I applied more pressure, it let forth an unnerving creak and seemed to dip under my weight. In doing this, it also suddenly struck me that by proceeding in such a way, I would be required to cross the narrow line of guttering like a tight-rope walker, with one foot in front of the other. Considering my condition, such a plan would be pure folly.

Instead, I turned and scrambled up the wet, glistening tiles, causing a number of slates to dislodge and clatter down the slope behind me. Coiling my body around the far-side of the chimney stack, I dropped forward and, with a deep breath, wrapped my fingers around the ridge of the rooftop. Stepping up on tip-toes, I heaved myself up, pushing an elbow over the top, and followed it with my chest and, then, finally, my left knee.

I had no time to settle on my uncomfortable perch, however, before I was very nearly thrown from it. A blast of wind screamed up from the shore below, knocking hard into my left side and dousing me with spray. Losing balance, I flailed awkwardly, struggling to keep upright.

The damp, freezing air jarred the side of my face, so I dropped forward and buried my cheek into the arm of my fur coat; my fingernails clawing desperately at the slates, and digging into mortar and wet moss.

Glancing down, I saw the sea thundering in on the beach below—its fierce black waves crashing down unceasingly, pounding the foaming wash that jostled the dark stones in the bay.

At that moment I became conscious of the ludicrous nature of my situation—and aware that I must get back to ground-level at all costs. My only course of action seemed to be to reverse and slide down the tiles, back to the safety of the chimney stack that I had so thoughtlessly abandoned. However, when I went to lift my left leg, it refused to move. Fear had paralysed me, giving me the dexterity of a limpet.

I was also becoming increasing aware of a throbbing in the back of my throat; a tightening sensation which I felt instinctively must be the first symptom of some sickness induced by exposure. I had been reciting the Lord’s Prayer, but this had robbed me of my voice—and, in my weakened condition, I considered if this were a sign of something.

Suddenly, a fierce new pain inched through my fingers—and with such sharpness that it succeeded in lending focus to my otherwise fuddled brain. Craning my neck up, I saw that it was caused by my fingertips clipping the successive edges of the roof tiles as they slowly passed them.

Through some unknown process, it was clear I was being slowly shunted forward across the roof. Looking up, I saw Billy’s straining face ahead of me, his outstretched arm behind my head…

As I drew closer to Billy I felt the pain in my neck subside briefly, as he adjusted his hold on me. Then it was back, stronger than before, and I was dragged, half-choked, across the slates.

When he released his grip for a second time, I opened my eyes to discover that I was now hanging over The Moonlighters’ roof looking down upon him.

Billy jumped down from the beer barrel he had been standing on, splashing into rain-pricked puddles and throwing jets of water through the air. Quickly, he set about shifting the barrel to a distant part of the rooftop. When he had finished, he returned and looked up at me.

Grabbing the heel of my left boot, Billy tugged hard upon it, dragging me to the very edge of the outhouse’s roof. Just at that moment, another fierce gust of wind was driven up from the sea below, it knocked into my side and threw me over, with such force that I found myself tumbling helplessly forward.

Billy threw his arms up to catch me, but I crashed down awkwardly on top of him, my chin knocking the top of his head. I felt one of his hands push across my chest, catching me beneath the arm; whilst his other snatched the waistband at the back of my trousers. And so it was that I was jostled into a slanted, weak-kneed stance with the words “I got yer, I got yer,” repeating in my ear.

I suppose I must have been in some kind of a stupor, for although I was standing, I felt so utterly numb from the cold that I could hardly tell if my feet had contact with anything at all. The moment that Billy released his hold on me, I slid through his arms and dropped to the floor.

I recall the moment of calm that followed with absolute clarity; just lying there, beneath that vast featureless sky, watching the rain-drops twisting through the air above me.

Billy’s shadow fell upon me; his knees issuing a pronounced crack as he squatted at my side. He had left me for a time, crossing to some distant corner of the rooftop; and returning clutching a bundle to his chest. Presently, I felt his fingers around my neck and he pushed me into an upright position. Wrapping a coarse blanket across my shoulders, he then dropped the bottle of Heerings into my lap. But when I failed to respond, Billy pulled the cork out of the bottle himself and pressed it to my mouth. The brandy jolted in, mixing with a good deal of salt from my lips. As the hot, briny liquid hit the back of my throat, I retched with such violence, that the liquid erupted in my mouth and shot through my nose. The burning pain that pulsed through my nostrils had a reviving effect. Sitting there, panting between coughing fits, my streaming eyes started to focus once more.

“You’re all right,” Billy said, looking hard at me. “Come en.”

Billy stood, holding out his hand towards me. Taking it, I struggled up. But, as I got to my feet, I was hit by a momentary wave of light-headedness and found myself dropping back a few steps. Billy swept impulsively forward, grabbing my shoulders and steadying me. When I had settled, he turned and moved across the rooftop, motioning to me to follow. I did so, sweeping through the puddles after him.

On a far corner of the rooftop, a solitary wooden hut was situated. Silhouetted against the night sky, I could only make out a few details, but it appeared to be a sort of decorative cabin, perhaps being designed as a bathing box or small boat shed. The door was open and flapping wildly about in the wind. Billy grabbed it. Holding it open, he turned and instructed me to enter. I ducked through the door, but, unable to make out anything within its gloom, I stopped short a few steps from the doorway and turned round. Billy entered after me. Slamming the door closed behind him, we were plunged into complete darkness.

The stillness inside the hut was broken by the sound of Billy scratching around, searching for something. Suddenly, a match was struck, its flame casting wavering shadows on the walls. Lighting the wick of an oil lamp, the flame settled and, under the arc of light it provided, I was able to perceive a cluttered collection of other personal trappings, including a number of sailor’s blankets, a rubber basin, a Primus stove and a polished brass kettle. Evidently, this was Billy’s home.

Putting the lamp to rest on a small shelf, Billy crossed to the back of the hut and dropped to his knees once more. Throwing back a tarpaulin, he untied a line of cord from around a bulky roll of material and pulled back what turned out to be a large and somewhat-misshapen straw mattress. Drawing it out, he proceeded to flatten the mattress across the floor, and I was forced to move back a step in order to accommodate it. Looking down, I saw that I had left a puddle of dirty water on the wooden floor beneath my feet. I apologised to Billy, but he simply shrugged and turned towards the door. Throwing it open, he quickly stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind him.

Left alone, I sat down onto the mattress and took my boots off. Putting them down in the corner of the hut, I snatched up one of the sailor’s blankets and shifted up the mattress. Billy returned, carrying my carpet-bag, which he put down beside my upturned boots. Then, throwing his coat open, he pulled out the brandy bottle and tossed it onto the mattress beside me.

Clutching the bottle, my head fell back and very soon I was asleep.