What it Doesn't Say on Trip Advisor

It was one of those hotels full of character that made Alison Henderson feel a sudden surge of yearning for the nearest Travelodge or Premier Inn – except she had a suspicion that the nearest Travelodge or Premier Inn was probably at least 50 miles away. She had half-expected it not to look quite how it did on its website – hotels never did, any more than they ever had in brochures, even when there was an actual photograph and not an artist’s impression. 

     But she hadn’t expected it to be – well, quite like the Hotel Beauregard. She spoke enough French (not that the hotel was in France) to know that they could have been done under the trades descriptions act. There was nothing particularly beau about the regard, at least not from her window at the front on the second floor. The website spoke about the delightful rear walled garden. Perhaps she should have specified a room overlooking that, but they were dearer, and she was only there for two nights and would be out most of the time the next day when she went for her interview for the job at the university.

     Now come on, she thought, putting on the kettle that she thought at first wasn’t going to work but finally let out a peevish reluctant wheeze. It’s clean. Well, she hadn’t brought along those little strips to check that some people did, or at least on TV shows, but perhaps it was as well. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. There were no dried on coffee grains in the mug, nor hairs in the shower, nor stains on the sheet. If the window didn’t exactly gleam and glisten, it wasn’t grimy either, and didn’t obscure the view down onto the mobile phone repair shop and the garage called Kev’s Kar Krafts, and the place selling takeaway pizza and kebabs. Alison was not averse to a pizza or a kebab, but there was something about the smell of them second hand that rather took away her appetite. She shut the window, which was stiff and didn’t quite fit, but at least didn’t appear to put her hand in mortal danger, and wondered quite why they had felt the need to leave it wide open on a cool and blustery day. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her …..

     It might not get 5 star reviews on Trip Advisor, she told herself, wishing she had checked in advance but deciding it was probably as well not to check just yet, but it’s hardly the Bates Motel. The lady on the reception desk, whose name badge said Mrs Dalkeith, but who said “Call me Olive” appeared harmless enough, and not too  irritated to be dragged away from the joys of Celebrity Cook-Off to see to Alison. It’s a repeat, thought Alison, I’ve seen that one, and I know who wins. I could tell her, but I won’t be that mean. 

     Mind you, Olive seemed to be watching the Fish Tank as much as she was watching Celebrity Cook-Off. The inhabitants of the Fish Tank seemed to be as contented as one could reasonably expect fish to be, and the water was clear enough, though the little pink bridge and the plastic imitation seaweed had seen better days. “The pump needs fixing,” said Olive, as she took out Alison’s keys.

     It was hard to know quite how to respond to such a remark. “Oh, right,” she said, “Hope you get it fixed soon.” It wasn’t a lie. She had never wholly seen the appeal of keeping fish, but had no wish for them to find a premature – well, watery grave!

     Olive led the way up the stairs, which were slightly steep but hardly constituted a deathtrap, and along the corridor. It was one of those corridors that was actually light enough, and even had a window halfway along it, but somehow seemed to be dim, with the old-fashioned filament light bulbs in their pleated beige shades somehow making it darker rather than lighter. The grey carpet with a pattern of some kind of geometric shape unknown to Euclid was a bit threadbare, but Alison had seen worse. Had the same pattern been on the stair carpet? No, there hadn’t been a stair carpet, though she was pretty sure her heels had caught on the fittings that suggested there once had been. 

     There was a key for her room, and a key to the front door. Olive told her there was only someone at the front desk until 5, and “Of course you must come and go as you please.” She also told her there was a “knack” to the key of her room, involving a bit of jiggling and twisting it just at the right angle. Alison wondered if she’d just had beginner’s luck. Olive looked dutifully, if not dramatically impressed, said, “Come down if you need anything – before 5, that is,” and returned to Celebrity Cook-Off and the Fish Tank with the faulty pump.

     Alison put the couple of books she had brought with her down on the top of the chest of drawers, wondering how many people ever actually used them as a chest of drawers. One of them had a handle missing and one of the legs was propped up with part of an old phone directory. 

     She switched the TV on, and established that reception wasn’t brilliant, but to be fair, Olive’s set behind the reception desk was no better. 

     The duvet was, like the sheet, clean, but in shades of orange and brown that may have been advertised as “autumnal” but didn’t quite succeed, and clashed something rotten with the pink and lime green pillow cases. Alison didn’t bother plumping up the pillows. She was no expert on such matters, but recognised pillows that it would be impossible to plump. They would refuse to be coaxed out of their hollow fibre flatness.

     Perhaps I should have coughed up the extra £7.50 for the view of the rear walled garden, thought Alison. But not with enough interest to go downstairs and ask Olive if she could change rooms, which she rather suspected would be easy enough. It did not seem that the Hotel Beauregard was exactly stuffed to the seams.

     I might have been better plumping for the Cutler’s Arms instead, she thought. But Alison had a prejudice against pubs with rooms that she admitted herself was probably entirely irrational. It was fine if a hotel had a bar – the website had claimed that the Beauregard had one, though she had seen no evidence of it. But though she was no teetotaller (and indeed was beginning to wonder about making a trip to the convenience store she had glanced by craning her neck next door to the Mobile Phone Repair Shop in pursuit of some cheap red) she didn’t like the odour of stale beer that somehow seemed to linger around even the nicest of pubs with rooms, and though she was no keeper of early hours and reasonably tolerant on noise, she had a quite ridiculous aversion to the noises of what her Uncle Len, a Publican, had called “Chucking Out Time” even though she was close to him, and his pub didn’t even have rooms, and he would have been the first to take anyone disrupting the neighbourhood to task.

     Still, there was no point to dwelling on such things. She concentrated her mind on the interview. Belatedly she took her interview outfit out of her overnight bag and lamenting the lack of a wardrobe and coathanger, laid it flat on the floor. It should be fine. She favoured clothing that needed little or no ironing, even for such occasions, but non-iron her not, she decided her dark blue skirt and soft cream three quarter sleeve top, with the option to put on what the shopping channel she’d purchased it on called a coatigan, which was a silly word but a useful garment, and the powder blue colour brought the top and skirt together nicely. They had her CV and a reference, but she rehearsed possible questions they might ask, coming up with better answers than the rather more truthful combination of “because it pays more than my current job” and “because I’d be nearer to where my parents live and Dad isn’t so well.” The latter might win her a sympathetic nod but likely not a lecturing position.

     She phoned her parents, mentally thanking the inventors of the mobile phone for sparing her either to use a public phone or the hotel’s own. They chatted a while and they wished her good luck, and she did not wait for them to ask or hint to tell them that she would make a detour and drop in on them on her way home.

     She went to refill the kettle, and discovered that this was an impossible task as no water came from the tap. Investigation revealed that the bathroom was similarly deprived. And it was after five, well after five.

     And what am I supposed to do NOW, she thought. She could go to the convenience store and tote back a 5 litre bottle of water, but she shouldn’t be expected to, and anyway, what about showering? And – well – flushing! 

     Right, thought Alison. I’m going down to reception and there’s bound to be a number to contact in case of emergency that Olive forgot to give me, either in genuine oversight or accidentally on purpose. Okay, so this is borderline unpleasant and certainly one heck of a nuisance, but what if there was a fire? Or a gas leak? Or an intruder? Or – well, anything! She put on the interview coatigan over her somewhat travel weary sweater to give her more of the air of someone meaning business, unlocked the door (she had to jiggle a bit, but still seemed to have the knack) and set off down the corridor. It hadn’t improved with keeping, but it did seem to be longer.

     Much longer. And higher. And in a curious way she couldn’t quite explain, lighter and darker at the same time. Rather than the threadbare carpet, her feet were on polished bare boards, and she felt compelled to try to walk quietly, though she didn’t know why. It was plainly one of those buildings that was bigger inside than it looked from the outside. Now within limits that was fair enough, but she had to admit that those limits had been long traversed. She began to wonder if she had accidentally trespassed into a neighbouring building. In her childhood she’d lived herself in a house where it was possible to do that through the cellars but doing it on an upstairs landing was another matter. It was no longer flanked by bedroom doors, but by some wall-hangings in a shimmery material that appeared to change colour or to be several colours at once.

     The corridor seemed endless, but no, there was a room at the end of it. Instinct told Alison it was not another bedroom, nor yet the entry to another building (and most certainly not another dimension, she told herself, firmly, not even in the absence of a wardrobe) but some kind of conference room. The website hadn’t said the hotel had one, but that didn’t mean it didn’t. Maybe it wasn’t open to the general public and the local council met there. Or something like that.

     Anyway, a meeting was evidently in progress. A speaker was in full spate. “My brothers and sisters, we know that the time is near,” It was Olive’s voice! “The signs have already started to appear, and are multiplying.”

     Oh, my God, thought Alison, she’s in some kind of crackpot cult and they meet here. I KNEW there was something weird about this place. 

     “Indeed,” a male voice agreed, “We were warned of rioting in a quiet and tranquil place, arising for no logical reason, and that prophesy was fulfilled.”

     They ARE nuts, Alison thought. But then she also thought that only a couple of days back there had been reports on the news about serious civil unrest in one of those “chocolate box pretty” towns, nobody had been killed, thank goodness, but there were injuries, and property damage, and politicians making solemn speeches, and nobody could work out any reason for the aberrance of the idyll.

     “And the water supply is beginning to fail us,” said Olive, “At the moment, it has been restored and has returned. But we know that won’t happen forever.”

     “A time of trials is indeed upon us,” another woman said. “But we have been promised that there will be relief and reward at the end of it.”

     Promised by WHOM, wondered Alison, finding the way that the light was pulsing inside and around the wall-hanging oddly hypnotic. Did the corridor carry on on the other side of the room or the hall, or whatever it was, where they were all talking nonsense, because, of course, it was nonsense. Perhaps they still have rooms at the Cutler’s Arms. All at once, the thought of the smell of stale beer and the noise of chucking out time had a distinct appeal, even if it meant losing the money she’d paid for the room here.

     But it all had an awful fascination and she wanted to carry on listening. She told herself she wanted to, and was perfectly capable of beating a retreat down that corridor and back to the other corridor, and into her room with the key that needed the knack, where she could gather her things together and throw herself on the mercy of the Cutler’s Arms. Which sounded vaguely sinister in itself.

     “You wished to speak, Kevin?” asked Olive.  Kevin? Would that be the owner of Kev’s Kar Krafts? 

     “I did. We all remember what was said about the strange sparks and gases that would be a sign of what is to come, emerging and leaping from the bed of the earth and hindering our earthly voyages. “ There was something odd about someone called Kev referring to earthly voyages, mused Alison, berating herself for being an intellectual snob. “Well, three times yesterday and five times today someone has come into the garage about precisely that, unable to understand it. I’ve used such skills as I have to do a makeshift repair, but we all know it’s going to come back and spread around the land.”

     “I think the fire from the sky will come next,” said the man who had spoken first. At least, Alison thought it was. She was trying to visualise them, wondering if they were wearing ordinary clothes, or some kind of robes or the like. “And then the pupils will begin to question their masters. We must be ready.”

     I’ve heard enough, thought Alison, wanting to hear more. And not wanting to hear more. She moved just to convince herself she could, went back up the corridor just to make sure her way wasn’t barred. 

     Like a film reel run in reverse, the corridor became the other corridor, and there were rooms along it again. She went back into her own, and phoned the Cutler’s Arms. They were full! “I’m so sorry, love,” a pleasant-sounding man said, “Normally it would be no problem, this time of year, but we’re hosting a real ale festival. Why not try the Beauregard?” Of course she did not tell him that was precisely where she was, just thanked him and hung up. I could sleep in my car or drive the fifty miles or whatever to the nearest Travelodge or Premier Inn, she thought. But then she told herself she was being ridiculous, and also reluctantly admitted to herself that she wasn’t quite mentally ready to see if her car engine was letting out strange sparks and gases. Her heart pounding, she turned the tap on. An obliging gush of water came out, and all was well in the bathroom, too.

     She spent a restless night, and, relieved she hadn’t ordered breakfast, made herself a mug of coffee and set out far earlier than she needed to, ridiculously early, as her interview wasn’t until nine. It was still dark, and was raining, but there was something vaguely reassuring about that darkness and that rain. Halfway to the campus there was a drive-in McDonalds, and never one to despise the Golden Arches, she had a sausage Mc Muffin, making sure her parka was well-zipped across her interview outfit to avoid spillages and transfer of sausage smell. Of course she had another coffee too. Say what you liked about McDonalds, if you didn’t mind Styrofoam cups, they made decent coffee. 

     She realised that there was something of a stir in the car park, and swallowing the last mouthful of her Mc Muffin and thinking that there was nothing like an infusion of carbs and caffeine to chase away the cobwebs, she went to see what all the fuss was about. “Oh, that’s spectacular!” someone exclaimed. “I’ve heard about fireballs, but never seen one.” Neither had Alison, except on TV, and she knew some people mistook them for UFOs, and surely the logical explanation was that they were fireballs.

     Except that this time there was nothing logical about that explanation at all. Or was there? The free firework display over, everyone returned to their cars, and went on their way. 

     She was still early arriving at the campus, and wondered if yet another coffee was really wise, either for her bladder or her nerves. Retreating to the bathroom, she combed her hair, gargled with a mouthwash that didn’t overpower anyone, and took the deep breaths that everyone said worked wonders if you were under stress.

     She saw that there was a pile of A5 fliers on, of all things, the baby changing table. Well, nothing unusual about that. No matter how green the students (and the lecturers came to that) thought they were, nowhere was as much paper used, or wasted, depending on how you saw it, as on a university campus.

     Never able to resist printed matter, she picked one up. “The time has come to say enough is enough. Because we are younger than they are and don’t yet have their letters after our names they think we are worthy of no respect, and feed us their establishment nonsense and dismiss anything that contradicts their orthodoxy. ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.”

     Somehow, she must have given a halfway decent interview on autopilot, and was offered the job. She supposed she would never forget that strangeness at the Beauregard, and after, but had begun to compartmentalise it and rationalise it.

     More importantly, her father was doing so much better! Even his doctor, a cautious and kind man, had to admit that though he was not out of the woods, the prognosis was far rosier than it had been a few weeks ago.

     “I didn’t intend telling the doc, though he’s a great bloke,” her Dad said, “But a bit – well, conventional. Mind you, until a few weeks ago so was I, then someone advised this therapist to me. I still can’t work out how she does it but it’s as if my strength is coming back!”

     “Well, don’t knock it if it works,” Alison said, squeezing his hand.

     “She’s coming round later on today!”

     Alison wasn’t really sure she was that keen to meet her, but it would have been churlish to object. She recognised her at once, as their eyes met. Olive said, “So nice to meet you, dear – but we’ve met before, haven’t we?”

     Alison heard. “You have been down the corridor. That is a one-way journey. You are ours.”