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‘It applies to most of the railways in East Anglia.’
‘So that even though it’s flatter, it’s slower?’
‘Time matters less.’
‘I should have hated going to a place where time mattered or that you’d been to before. You’d have had nothing to remember me by.’
He hadn’t been quite sure that her words exactly expressed her thought, but the thought had lightened his heart.
Holihaven station could hardly have been built in the days of the town’s magnificence, for they were in the Middle Ages; but it still implied grander functions than came its way now. The platforms were long enough for visiting London expresses, which had since gone elsewhere; and the architecture of the waiting-rooms would have been not insufficient for occasional use by Foreign Royalty. Oil lamps on perches like those occupied by macaws lighted the uniformed staff, who numbered two, and, together with every other native of Holihaven, looked like storm-habituated mariners.
The station-master and porter, as Gerald took them to be, watched him approach down the platform, with a heavy suitcase in each hand and Phrynne walking deliciously by his side. He saw one of them address a remark to the other, but neither offered to help. Gerald had to put down the cases in order to give up their tickets. The other passengers had already disappeared.
‘Where’s the Bell?’
Gerald had found the hotel in a reference book. It was the only one the book allotted in Holihaven. But as Gerald spoke, and before the ticket collector could answer, the sudden deep note of an actual bell rang through the darkness. Phrynne caught hold of Gerald’s sleeve.
Ignoring Gerald, the station-master, if such he was, turned to his colleague. ‘They’re starting early.’
‘Every reason to be in good time,’ said the other man. The station-master nodded, and put Gerald’s tickets indifferently in his jacket pocket.
‘Can you please tell me how I get to the Bell Hotel?’
The station-master’s attention returned to him. ‘Have you a room booked?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Tonight?’ The station-master looked inappropriately suspicious.
‘Of course.’
Again the station-master looked at the other man.
‘It’s them Pascoes.’
‘Yes,’ said Gerald. ‘That’s the name. Pascoe.’
‘We don’t use the Bell,’ explained the station-master. ‘But you’ll find it in Wrack Street.’ He gesticulated vaguely and unhelpfully. ‘Straight ahead. Down Station Road. Then down Wrack Street. You can’t miss it.’
‘Thank you.’
As soon as they entered the town, the big bell began to boom regularly.
‘What narrow streets!’ said Phrynne.
‘They follow the lines of the medieval city. Before the river silted up, Holihaven was one of the most important seaports in Great Britain.’
‘Where’s everybody got to?’
Although it was only six o’clock, the place certainly seemed deserted.
‘Where’s the hotel got to?’ rejoined Gerald.
‘Poor Gerald! Let me help.’ She laid her hand beside his on the handle of the suitcase nearest to her, but as she was about fifteen inches shorter than he, she could be of little assistance. They must already have gone more than a quarter of a mile. ‘Do you think we’re in the right street?’
‘Most unlikely, I should say. But there’s no one to ask.’
‘Must be early closing day.’
