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Drawing back the net curtain Edgar’s eye was drawn towards the familiar, humped, lump of rock sitting out at sea. There was something reassuring about its unchanging silhouette: no matter the state of the tide nor the whim of the weather it was always there, dark, foreboding, staring back at you wherever in Brocton you happened to be. As a child he’d spent many an hour gazing out the window here at The Palace imagining all the terribly exciting things that might be taking place over there. The local children liked to torment out-of-towners such as young Edgar with tales of a huge scaly-backed beast akin to a wingless-dragon, banished to the island hundreds of years ago and which, when the moon was full and the tide at its highest, would swim back to the mainland in the dead of night in search of little boys to feast upon.
Edgar smiled wryly at the memory. He’d never been scared by the tales of Brocton’s beast, well, not truly scared. For a moment he could feel the cold metal barrels of Aunty Pat’s ancient binoculars clasped in his tiny hands, his puny stick-like arms straining under their weight as he braced his elbows on the windowsill, face scrunched in concentration, squinting through the cloudy eyepieces. From his observations he’d concluded the island couldn’t be more than half a mile long and there didn’t appear to be much in the way of food nor shelter for such a large creature on the barren outcrop.
Of course young Edgar’s attempts to reason with the local children about the unlikely existence of the Beast of Brocton fell on deaf ears. Despite his well presented arguments regarding the lack of confirmed sightings and no children being reported missing from their beds they’d stuck to their guns, insisting the beast evaded the notice of passing boats by dwelling in a cave deep underground and only venturing out on the darkest of nights. That assertion was in direct contradiction to their claims of it stalking its prey by the light of a full moon but again Edgar’s logic held no sway with the other youngsters. It seemed some people, to his immense frustration, preferred to cling to their deep seated beliefs, impervious to the cold hard facts.
As he’d explained to Isabel earlier on the beach his boyish imagination had usually been preoccupied with more mortal matters. It was far likelier, in his opinion, that the island was used as a hideout by pirates and smugglers and other ne’er-do-wells. They’d be the ones, he’d hypothesised, who’d spread stories of the savage monster in an attempt to deter unwelcome visitors who might thwart their crooked activities.
It was telling, he realised now, that whilst his counterparts’ fears lay in the realm of the fantastical his own childish consternation had tended towards the human variety of malfeasance. His father’s work had no doubt played a role in that, making clear to him from a young age that man was capable of many a misdeed. The ‘Punch and Judy’ show he so despised, yet which the other children gleefully lapped up, perfectly illustrated the commonness of casual violence: just look at how Punch with his demonic squeaky voice treated his wife and child not to mention the poor policeman!
So whilst his mother’s integrity instilled in him a fierce sense of right and wrong his father’s pride in his profession pressed home the need for justice to be served. Thus young Edgar, in the guise of customs officer, had been ready and willing to round-up Brocton’s baby-faced pirates every chance he got.
Watching a flock of seagulls take flight from the beach below Edgar smiled; They’d been happy times, his visits here to Pat during his youth. Slowly his smile twisted, the hint of a frown threatening his brow. It was only natural perhaps to view those childhood jaunts through rose-coloured glasses but the knot clenching his stomach was intent on reminding him that every silver-lining had a cloud. Edgar’s cloud had been his father.
“Wonderful news!” his mother would proclaim over breakfast one morning, her hands cupping his chubby cheeks, “I’ve spoken to Aunty Pat. You’re off to the seaside young man!”
Edgar would beam enthusiastically, pretending he hadn’t lain in bed the evening before, eyes screwed shut, trying to block out his father’s thundering voice that echoed up the stairs: “For Christ’s sake Grace send him to Patricia!”
The moment they’d reached the train station both he and his mother instinctively flicked the switch, feigning excitement for each other’s sake if not their own. Miniature brown suitcase in one hand, packed lunch in the other, young Edgar would settle himself into the compartment. As the train pulled slowly away he’d press his face to the window, waving heartily through the building cloud of steam, Grace waving back from the platform’s edge. Only when they faded to a dot on each other’s horizon did either allow their smiles to fade.
Past experience warned Edgar not to look glum for too long though lest one of his fellow passengers misconstrued the situation. The last thing he wanted was to spend the entire journey to Brocton listening to a kindly stranger extol the virtues of a trip to the coast and reassuring him he’d be fine without his mother. He knew perfectly well he’d be alright at The Palace with Aunty Pat, but as for his mother…
If only she could’ve come with him things would’ve been different. It was out of the question of course, his father was barely capable of boiling an egg, there was no way he’d permit his wife to gad off on holiday leaving him to fend for himself. Back then Edgar hadn’t fully understood what went on between his parents but one couldn’t fail but notice when the atmosphere in the house became particularly strained. For such a small man Walter had certainly cast a large shadow over the Sullivan household.
Invariably the train had scarcely reached the edge of London before Edgar began feasting on his packed lunch so that by the time the city gave way to rolling green countryside he’d nothing left to do but alternate between reading his book and day-dreaming, pastimes he was perfectly content with. It wasn’t that he forgot about his mother as the distance between them increased but he’d come to understand that there was nothing he could do to change the situation back at home: better he distract himself by playing on the beach with the other children than moping around The Palace fretting about her.
‘Seaside mode’, that’s how he’d thought of it. From the moment Aunty Pat greeted him at the station, arms wide open and a smile so warm that for a moment it melted your worries away, he’d been determined to enjoy the precious days that lay ahead. The days , in fact, were easy enough to enjoy; ice creams and sticks of rock, building sandcastles and stomping them down again, miles and miles of endless sandy bay to race up and down on. The nights however were a thornier matter. His little box room with its sharply sloping roof, the one that was too small to rent to paying guests, could be wonderfully snug or terribly claustrophobic depending on one’s mood. On a good night he’d lie tucked up in bed with his book, relishing the safe solitude of his own space, The Palace’s residents falling surprisingly quiet once the lights went out. Yet on other nights…
It wasn’t the threat of the Beast of Brocton that kept him awake until the small hours. Despite his best attempts to maintain ‘seaside mode’ the guilt he felt at having abandoned his mother often blighted those lonely summer nights.
How was his mother faring now, Edgar wondered? He recalled the customary postcard he’d sent home each summer which, to his aunt’s bemusement, usually bore a rather dull image of Brocton Island. Though he’d address it, in his neatest handwriting, to ‘Mr & Mrs W Sullivan’ it was only ever his mother he thought of whilst writing it, detailing as many of his adventures as he could in the small space available. It was important, he was aware, to convey how marvellous a time he was having no matter if that were entirely true or not. The last thing he wanted was for her to worry about him.
He’d send his mother a postcard before heading back to Kembleford, he decided, for old times' sake. Would it be churlish to address it solely to ‘Mrs W Sullivan’? Would his father even notice the slight? Would his father even care? He’d let Isabel choose the card, she’d no doubt plump for something depicting donkeys and deckchairs and help him think of something jocular to write. Not that he was naive enough to believe a jaunty postcard would banish his mother’s woes, but at least she’d know they’d been thinking about her. He dearly hoped she knew her son was often thinking about her.
It was difficult to tell to what extent Pat was privy to his parents’ marital problems. Naturally she’d never raised the issue with Edgar when he was a boy, nor he with her. Perhaps she’d adopted a sort of ‘seaside mode’ of her own to ensure her young nephew’s visits were as carefree as possible: it wouldn’t’ve done to dwell on anything as serious as his overbearing father or the financial predicaments The Palace found itself in. On the whole they’d managed pretty well together over the years, he and Pat, neither of them pressing the other too keenly, thus allowing both parties to maintain their chosen facades.
When had he lost the ability to adopt that cheery ‘seaside mode’ at the flick of a switch? He suspected he knew the answer but now wasn’t the time to unlock the door to such bleak memories. Needless to say by the time of his first posting to Kembleford he found it far harder to hide his true feelings, or perhaps it just hadn’t been worth the effort anymore. After-all there was nobody in the village, nobody in his day-to-day life, to uphold any sort of pretence for and so he simply threw himself into work, avoiding social interactions as much as possible: if people thought their new inspector was rather sullen that was their prerogative.
Yes, It was infinitely easier to be glum than it was to be happy, he concluded, whilst apathy, almost by definition, required no effort whatsoever. It had taken so much energy to fake excitement as his mother saw him aboard the train in London that he perversely relished succumbing to the gloom when Pat waved him off from Brocton at the end of a stay. There was a reassuring familiarity in the tension that crept back into his bones the closer to home he drew and of course his fellow passengers didn’t question why a young lad whose holiday had come to an end should look so forlorn.
A flash of colour caught Edgar’s eye. Tweaking the curtain back a touch further he glimpsed a kite dancing and diving low in the sky towards the northern end of Brandreth Bay. This was the first thing he used to do when he visited The Palace, after Pat had helped him up the stairs with his case: draw back the curtains and stare out to sea. Not that his tiny room in the eaves had afforded him such sweeping vistas. He inhaled deeply. Despite all the changes The Palace had been through some things remained the same: the scent of the freshly laundered bedding evoked just as many memories as the salty sea air or the vinegary smell of fish and chips.
Mmm, fish and chips! His stomach growled in anticipation. He’d have to treat Isabel to some from his favourite chip shop, the one with the burgundy awnings, provided it was still there after all these years. Probably not for lunch though, there wouldn’t be time with all the jobs Pat had lined up for them, then there was the rehearsal dinner this evening and they shouldn’t eat too much before the gala event tomorrow. It was clear how much Aunty Pat had riding on the hotel inspector’s visit tomorrow but oh how he wished he could be out there now with a bag of fresh chips in his hand, strolling down the promenade.
The promenade. Suddenly Edgar’s tongue shot to the roof of his mouth, sliding back and forth across the imagined fatty residue, and he gagged. Yet it wasn’t the thought of greasy battered fish that had triggered the visceral response, but the memory of the sickly, fatty, cream-filled profiteroles he’d gorged on as a boy. Why the heck had Pat felt the need to embarrass him like that when they’d met her by the shelter on the promenade? Why was that stupid story the first thing she elected to tell Isabel, not to mention everybody else, about him? The moment she’d mentioned food he’d feared what was coming, had only just managed to turn his head aside at her utterance of the word “profiteroles”, anger and shame threatening to flush his cheeks. Had Father Brown or Goodfellow noticed the way he’d winced, the breath tightening in his chest?
It was apparent from Brenda’s impertinent use of his nickname that she wouldn’t be letting the matter drop anytime soon, he’d have to grin and bear it. But oh, woe betide Goodfellow if he breathed a word of this back at the station, he’d have the sergeant on his hands and knees scrubbing the cell floors with a toothbrush quick as look at you.
The frustrating thing was Aunty Pat’s tale about him sneaking into the kitchen in search of treats wasn’t true, well, not entirely true. She made it sound as though he’d been a habitual glutton when in reality it had happened only the once, and even then not in quite the way she’d insinuated.
It was true that young Edgar, as was the case with most children, had a sweet tooth and that in a moment of weakness late one afternoon he’d helped himself to a profiterole from the cooling rack on the kitchen bench. The cook wouldn’t miss a single profiterole, would she? Just to be on the safe side he’d shuffled the remaining puffy balls around to disguise the gap. Before he knew it he was tucking into a second but worried about being caught red-handed wolfed this one down in two large bites, his fearful eyes trained on the kitchen door and his ears pricked for the sound of approaching footsteps. A split-second later his hand reached for the rack yet again: he hesitated, gazing at the chocolate topped ball in his sticky fingers. Two missing pastries might go unnoticed, but a third? If the cook found out he’d helped himself she’d no doubt scold him but worse than that she’d tell Pat, and whilst he knew his aunt was fond of him she was no soft-touch.
The profiteroles started to churn in Edgar’s stomach, he ran his tongue around his teeth to cleanse them of the sweet chocolaty residue.
He liked visiting Aunty Pat here at The Palace, he thought sorrily. If she found out he’d been pilfering from the kitchen perhaps she wouldn’t invite him back! That would serve him right, wouldn’t it?
Looking at the profiterole still pinched between his fingers he wondered if he could put it back; Would the cook notice the little finger prints in the glossy chocolate cap?
Tears began welling in his eyes. How rotten he felt at taking advantage of his aunt’s kindness. If it weren’t for his trips here to Brocton he’d be stuck at home…
Home! His father! What if Pat told his father he’d been stealing from the kitchen?!
The panic took hold instantly, his father’s harsh voice booming in his ears: “Ungrateful! Deplorable! Thief! Thief! THIEF!”
He should put the profiterole back and run up to his room, pray his wicked deed went undetected. An unseen hand churned a wooden spoon around and around in his stomach, he pursed his lips together holding his breath tight.
Swallowing back the bile that rose in his throat young Edgar feared he might be sick. A single tear ran down his cheek. When he’d been unwell last winter his mother had tucked him into bed, run her hand gently across his brow and read quietly to him until he’d settled. Would Aunty Pat do that, he wondered, if he was ill?
Cogs began whirring in his simple, childish brain; More to the point would Aunty Pat send a poorly little boy back to London, all alone on a train? Or would she let him stay here, with her, for as long as it took him to feel better?
Edgar looked towards the kitchen door then stilled his breathing, trying to pick out the noises drifting down the hallway over the sound of his heart thumping in his chest: The coast was clear.
Decision made he gulped hard, bringing the profiterole to his mouth, forcing his lips open around it. At first he could manage only a nibble but conscious of being short of time he willed himself to take increasingly bigger bites. Lifting the fourth one from the rack he sighed resignedly and with barely a pause began chomping away. How many had he eaten in total? Six or maybe seven, though at the time it had felt like two dozen, standing there at the kitchen bench, chewing and chewing and gulping and gulping as frothy fatty cream spewed around his mouth, clogging his throat. By the end he’d prayed to be discovered, but nobody came to his rescue and so, finally conceding defeat, he’d stepped back from the rack with it’s conspicuous gaps then scuttled up to his little room in the eaves.
By the time his crime had been unearthed young Edgar was curled on his bed, face buried into the pillow, a face that had left dark brown flecks of chocolate smeared on the pristine white pillowcase alongside the big damp tear-stains. Aunty Pat loomed over him, back ramrod straight, arms folded indignantly, sternly dispensing the lecture he’d so thoroughly deserved. Of course her ire was understandable but back then he’d been heartbroken that his ploy had’t evoked the sympathy he so desperately craved. Why couldn’t she just perch on the side of his bed and console him the way his mother had done when he was ill? Couldn’t she see how poorly he was feeling? Shouldn’t she at least rest a hand on his brow to check for a temperature?
Roundly chastised he’d been left alone with a glass of water on the bedside table and strict instructions to aim for the chamber pot if he became nauseous.
That night he’d spent stifling his snivels and willing his stomach to calm had been the longest of his short life. All he’d wanted was for Aunty Pat to tell him he could stay here with her until he recovered, or better still stay here in Brocton with her forever. It wasn’t as though he was taking up any space, she never rented out this poky room, and he could offer to help out around the place to earn his keep though we wasn’t entirely sure what chores he’d be good at. It didn’t seem fair, why did the local children get to live here by the seaside all year round while he was only sent here when his father was in a bad mood.
His father.
His mother!
Edgar’s scrawny body heaved under the strain of one guilty sob after another. How selfish he was, wishing he could stay here with Aunty Pat when his poor mother was back at home, alone with his father. He had a vague awareness that his own presence in the house often made things worse, not better, for her, being prone as he was to saying or doing the wrong thing in his father’s eyes. But still, in that moment, he wanted for nothing more than to magically transport himself back there: at least that way he’d know what was going on instead of lying here imagining the worst.
It was to be a long restless night for The Palace’s youngest resident but it was, he told himself, little more than he deserved for such terrible behaviour and such an ill thought-out plan.
The following morning although his stomach no longer churned with the proliferation of profiteroles, guilt and worry still bubbled and frothed away in there. The disappointment he felt in himself was apparently shared by the cook who fixed him with a look of pure scorn when he passed by the kitchen, a look so withering that for days afterwards he resolutely avoided her. Holed up in his room he stared out the window at Brocton Island, wishing its beast had come and snatched him away in his sleep: would it be a full moon tonight?
Reflexively his tongue had circled his mouth, tracing first the fronts then the backs of his tiny teeth, sliding up the smooth skin of his cheeks, probing his greasy tasting palate, for no matter how many times he brushed his teeth he couldn’t banish the creamy coating that brought back waves of queasiness.
Aunty Pat had said no more about his transgression back then, perhaps deeming her young nephew’s gastric suffering punishment enough. And to Edgar’s immense relief and eternal gratitude it seemed she declined to report his antics to his father for the incident was never mentioned back at home.
Edgar leant his forehead against the cool windowpane, the cloudless sky perfectly reminiscent of his summer days here as a child though Brocton did receive its fair share of rain. Roughing his tongue over the roof of his mouth he willed the phantom taste of decades-old whipped cream to leave him.
Since that inglorious day all those years ago Edgar’s fate, each time he returned here, was to be treated to profiteroles the night before his departure. There was no perverse malice in it on Pat’s part, he was sure; In her mind serving his favourite chocolate covered treats as a parting gift was a way of letting him know there were no hard feelings. At first he’d been too young to articulate why he’d binged the way he had, what he’d hoped to gain by making himself ill that day, and then as the years rolled by he was too ashamed to admit his flawed infantile logic.
And so Edgar had become trapped in an awful annual ritual whereby Aunty Pat would present him with a pyramid of profiteroles and he’d pretend to be hugely grateful, forcing the sickly sweet spheres down one after the other until his plate was clean and his stomach protesting. It was, in the most gut-churning way possible, a perpetual punishment that fit the crime.
Pulling his forehead back from the glass pane Edgar chuckled to himself mirthlessly. When he’d first read of Sisyphus’ plight in the Underworld it was an image of a man fated to push a gigantic profiterole, not a boulder, up a steep hill for all eternity that danced through his childish brain. Oh boy, he hoped profiteroles weren’t on the menu for the gala dinner tomorrow night!
The sound of rattling pipes echoed down the landing, snapping him from his reminiscence. Isabel had gone to freshen up but the sound of the bathroom door being unlocked told him she’d be back at any moment. Despite all the work to be done and half of Kembleford turning up he still hoped to make this an enjoyable break, and standing here getting all knotted up in the past wasn’t the best way to go about that.
Taking a deep breath he squared his shoulders and raised his chin, Isabel’s footsteps clip-clopping towards their room.
He’d been just a boy when he’d taught himself to adopt his sunny ‘seaside mode’, if now he had to slip the mask back on from time to time when the grey clouds of gloom descended then so be it: ‘Husband mode’, that’s what he’d call it.
“Flick the switch Edgar”, he told himself stiffly, “Don’t let her see you like this. Smile, for her sake.”
The door creaked open behind him and without a word Isabel joined him by the window, her arms snaking around his waist, her warm cheek resting lightly against his chest. Winding his arm around her shoulder he splayed his hand across her back.
Gazing out the window together, the calm shimmering sea lapping the shore, a gentle wave of contentment washed over Edgar. There was no need for pretence, to flick a switch, he realised, not when Isabel was right here beside him. Happiness was no longer something to be feigned, but something that came naturally, something to appreciate, enjoy.
The smile that broke at first in Edgar’s heart soon spread across his face. He’d never really feared the Beast of Brocton but now, with Isabel’s support, perhaps there were other demons he’d finally find the courage to slay.