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Another World
A Novel
James Hanley
For Liam and Hilary
1
The moment Jones opened the bedroom window he knew it was February. He gave an involuntary shudder and closed his eyes. ‘What a bloody month! Miles long.’
The sea licked the walls, the fog the windows, the house creaked. ‘One more long, wide, cold, damp, dark bloody morning,’ he thought. He closed the window again and tiptoed quietly across the room, and began to dress. The same as yesterday, and the day before that. One blue shirt, one pair of jeans, an off-white steward’s jacket, and the inevitable pair of rope slippers. He then went to the mirror and surveyed himself. A quarter past seven. Damn! And only time to give himself a rub with the flannel. This done, he went over to the bed and stood there quietly contemplating the other occupant. Mrs Gandell was fully stretched, and quietly snoring.
‘What a night!’
He crept silently to the door and went out, closing it as silently behind him. He stood for a moment at the top of the staircase, his head a little forward, listening. Complete silence. Save for a tiny glow from a lamp in the dining-room, the Decent Hotel was in utter darkness. Slowly, thoughtfully, he descended the stairs. He opened the front door, and peeped out. No mail. No letters. Perhaps his watch was fast; perhaps hers was slow. He strode into the dining-room, inspected the three tables laid for breakfast, examined the contents of the sideboard, wound the clock, and adjusted the transistor. After which he sat down with his head in his hands. Another day. Suddenly he heard a noise from the kitchen, and realised that the maid of all work was doing her duty. Perhaps he had best go along and see.
She was bent over steaming pans when he arrived. He leaned against the door, quietly watching her.
‘Morning, Dooley.’
‘Morning.’
Dooley, who always placed a premium on words at this time of the morning, now bent lower over her pans, seemed more concentrated on her task. Jones came away from the door.
‘Mrs Gandell won’t like it, Dooley,’ he said, and stepped into the kitchen.
The reply was a bullet. ‘Won’t like what?’ she asked.
‘You know what,’ Jones replied. ‘So don’t strain me.’
She didn’t, and went on calmly stirring.
‘I had to read her a whole chapter from The Three Musketeers,’ Jones said.
‘At it again,’ Dooley replied.
‘She still won’t like it,’ Jones said.
There was no reply. ‘Are you deaf?’ he shouted.
‘Were you at it?’ asked Dooley, and turned round and studied him. ‘She’s at it more often than she isn’t.’
‘A whole hour reading to the bitch,’ he said.
Dooley extended her first morning smile. ‘Late again,’ she said. ‘Mrs Gandell’s romantic,’ she added, and turned to her pans again.
Jones came close behind her. ‘What does that mean?’ he asked.
‘What it says, Jones. And now,’ her voice climbing, ‘and now, will you let me get on with my work?’
‘She still won’t like it,’ Jones said.
‘What the hell do I care.’
