A Visit To Brighton by Alan Ryan

I'm quite an ordinary man, really, and dislike very much anything that disrupts the normal schedule or the carefully ordered plan of my life. I therefore found it very disturbing, initially, when my superior at the bank asked me to go down to Brighton for the weekend. Imagine conducting banking business on a weekend. And doing it outside the City, where it properly belongs. And in a frivolous place like Brighton, with its piers and its bathers and what people call amusements - works of the devil of idleness, I call them.

Although I was deeply disturbed at this extraordinary disruption in my life, I quickly acquiesced in my superior's wishes. My work from the bank in the department that deals with large funds and trusts is extremely important and often quite delicate, and some of my colleagues have, on occasion, been sent by the bank to tidy up the financial affairs of some careless client in the home counties, matters that sometimes I was aware required their presence overnight. The bank, of course, had never sent me on any of these jaunts. My superior, Mr. Fotheringill, knows very well my intense dislike for disruption and irregularity in any form, and in particular my dislike for travel. I seldom see any need to be away from the two poles of my existence - my office at the headquarters of the bank in the City, and my modest but comfortable flat in Notting Hill. That ride in the Underground twice daily is quite enough travel for me. Therefore, when Mr. Fotheringill personally requested, through his secretary, that I go down to Brighton to settle some matters of bank business with a valued client, I supposed at once - and rightly, I think - that the matter required my own sort of experience and expertise. Mr. Fotheringill is well aware of my fondness for order and propriety in all things, and no doubt it was those very penchants of mine that caused him to make this extraordinary request. I replied, through his secretary, that I was prepared to place myself fully at the service of the bank.

By the time I completed my work on Friday, I had quite succeeded in steeling myself for the unpleasantness to come. One has a responsibility to one's business, after all, and I knew that Mr. Fotheringill would appreciate my dedication. And besides, I had also worked out a scheme by which I could save the bank the expense of putting me up for a night and also spare myself the discomforts of staying at a hotel or bed-and-breakfast house. My brother Anthony lives in a small house on the outskirts of Brighton, with his wife and a daughter. He is engaged in some independent business of his own - repairing people's defective television sets, I believe it is. Imagine. At any rate, although I hadn't seen my brother since the occasion of our parents' death in a car smash three years ago, and although I must say I didn't care for his pale little wife, and although I absolutely cannot abide the presence of children around me, nevertheless it seemed more agreeable to stay there with them than to suffer the irritation of a bed-and-breakfast establishment. At the very least, I knew my morning bacon would not be burnt and I would not be spied upon by one of those greedy and often lascivious widows who maintain such places.

On Thursday, I searched out Anthony's number and rang him up. He was rather surprised, of course, but readily agreed that I should be a guest in his home. We never got on all that well as children, but I am, after all, his brother. Arrangements were made. I would have to go down from Victoria Station on Friday evening, despite the terrible crowds, as my business required a meeting with the client very early on Saturday morning.

I was, of course, looking forward to none of it other than the business part, but they do say the sea air is good for one, and also Brighton is reputed to have some quite attractive and neatly kept flower displays. I rather enjoy looking at flowers. So, I thought, perhaps the trip would be just bearable after all.

What extraordinary numbers of children run about loose in Victoria Station on a Friday evening. But then they are, really, no worse than their ill-mannered parents, who seem to take positive delight in shoving and jostling violently anyone unlucky enough to be in their path. The fifty-five minute ride from London to Brighton promised to be perfect torture.

I was among the first to board the train, though, and managed to obtain a place next the window. For a minute, I considered myself fortunate. I was hardly settled, however, before a rather unkempt-looking family, complete with several children and armloads of packages, attacked the seats around me. I pressed my lips tightly together and drew myself in, hoping to indicate clearly my wish to be left alone. There was for some minutes a frightful yelling and bustling about while they settled in three children and numerous bags and packages in the racks and on the floor at their feet. I closed my eyes and did not open them again until the train began moving.

It was halfway to Brighton when a thought struck me. Anthony and his wife would no doubt be expecting me to bring them some little present in exchange for their hospitality. Oh dear, I thought. I shall have to find some little thing when I arrive in Brighton. Perhaps something for the daughter. I understand that it is quite desirable, when there is a child involved, to select a present for it. I am not a generous man, as generosity is both impractical and seldom appreciated these days, but I do like to do things properly. Yes, I thought, I shall stop and purchase some inexpensive item for the child when I arrive in Brighton.

I was, actually, the more I thought about it, rather pleased with the plan. Almost exactly a year ago, the manager of my block of flats went out of his way to let me know that his small daughter was anticipating a birthday, her sixth or seventh or something of the sort. The man had absolutely no shame and made it perfectly clear that a present would not be unwelcome. Naturally, I dislike being bullied, but the matter did have a practical aspect to it, which I readily perceived. In due course, the child was presented with a large picture book of horses. (It was, in fact, the work of one of the bank's clients who had made copies available to those of us on the staff who had served him well.) Thereafter, I noted a definitely new alacrity on the part of the manager in tending to matters of small repairs in my flat. Yes, the practical aspect must always be considered.

Fortunately, my mind was occupied with these thoughts for most of the time it took to travel to Brighton and I was spared having to think about the noisy family that had almost surrounded me with children and parcels. And I was pleased to note that the train came to a halt in the station at Brighton precisely at the appointed time.

Now there was another great hubbub and bustling about as my fellow passengers - who, I must say, seemed positively to be enjoying the commotion - all rushed to collect children and bundles and be among the first to detrain. I sank back into my seat and ignored the pushing and shoving crowds in the narrow corridor, determined to wait and be the last to exit. In particular, I ignored the noisy and confused departure of the family who had quite surrounded me on the journey.

When the noise had somewhat abated, having transferred itself to the milling crowds on the platform, I glanced about me. Only a few sensible persons like myself still remained. And like me, they were only now beginning to make their own, more dignified, departures. It was then that I saw the doll.

It lay on the floor near my right foot. Its hair, made of red wool yarn, lay spread out about its head. The eyes, embroidered in bright blue and outlined with black eyelashes, were wide open and stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. Soft pink stuffed arms stood straight out from its sides, as if it were about to be crucified. The legs were striped red and white, one stretched out, the other twisted up under the body, out of sight. It wore some sort of red dress affair with a white apron over it. Hardly thinking, I leaned forward to pick it up.

Just as my fingers touched it, however, I bethought myself and hesitated, then straightened slowly in my seat. My first thought had been to return the unsightly toy to its owners, obviously the family who had sat next to me all the way from London. But my second thought was a fear that they would return and accuse me of stealing the thing, and a staff member of a bank can't be too careful about the appearance of honesty. I glanced quickly out the window. Seeing the disorderly crowds on the platform, however, convinced me that Brighton and its unruly mobs had already swallowed up the family and its noisy children. They were gone for good and very likely would not even miss the doll for some while yet.

I looked back at the thing, which still lay on the floor where it had fallen. It was the kind of doll that is called, so I believe, Raggedy Ann. Certainly, I thought, its design and colors and costume suited that appellation. It appeared to be rather new, hardly soiled at all by its brief contact with the floor, and it was this realization that caused a new thought to enter my mind quite suddenly.

I shall give this doll to my brother's daughter, I decided. It is clearly impossible now to return it to its owner, and it makes no sense at all to leave it in the train only to be stolen by some anonymous thief. So my thoughts ran.

I was about to reach for the thing again when suddenly there was a new commotion in the corridor near the steps to the platform. Apparently some foolish person had fallen in his haste to leave the train and everything was being held up while he was attended to and removed from the way. There was nothing for it but patience. I picked up the doll to examine it more closely.

And the most extraordinary thing happened, or so I thought at the time, a thing quite shocking and unsettling. I was looking the doll over carefully to make certain there were no soils or stains that would make it unsuitable for a present. Beneath the apron and the piece of red cloth intended, I suppose, to suggest a dress, I found stitched onto the body a red heart with, spelled out right on it in white lettering, the words "I love you." I was quite taken aback for a moment, I must confess. How unusual and, somehow, disturbing. I can make no sense of it now, but for an instant - only an instant, of course - I had the horrified sensation that the doll was addressing those outrageous and appalling words to me. It was simply extraordinary, and the truth is that I reacted in a most extraordinary manner, staring fixedly into the doll's solemn face. And for a moment - it makes me shiver to recall it - I could have given my oath that the thing opened its eyes and stared deeply into mine, indeed into my very soul, while a tiny smile played briefly across its silly face. I really can't say what came over me, but I did feel in that one instant that there was some compelling force at work, some secret communication between the hideous thing and myself.

Good Lord, no wonder there are terrible crimes committed in the world when even so sane and sensible a man as I can be subject to such moments of madness, however spontaneous and brief they may be.

An instant later I returned to my senses, thrust the doll into my briefcase, which contained a change of shirt and underclothing for the next day as well as my papers, and stepped into the corridor, which was now clear at last. In the station, the crowds were rapidly dispersing and it was only minutes later that, resigned to my fate, I was out in Brighton itself.

It took only one enquiry and a few minutes to find a shop that could do up the doll with wrappings as a present. They did it quite inexpensively, too. And I was glad that I had not permitted Anthony to meet me at the train, as he had wanted. I dislike being a bother. With the doll suitably done up, then, I arrived at the house some little while later.

Suffice it to say that they provided an adequate dinner, declared themselves pleased to see me, made every effort to maintain a conversation, enquired about my health and my work and so on, and the child - her name, I believe, was Emily and she was nine years old or thereabouts - was made to thank me properly for the doll. This was, I sensed at once, an evil-minded child, the sort that needs constant prompting in the matter of social graces. I noticed that she played rather perfunctorily with the doll for a short while, then left it dumped ignominiously in a corner while she went on to other pastimes that apparently amused her more. I really don't understand what people see in children, especially nasty-minded ones like this Emily. She really was quite an unpleasant young thing. I saw her several times glancing at me across the dinner table with what was clearly a deep resentment at something. It may be that she fancied I wasn't enjoying my dinner - and in truth I was not, preferring rather to be at home alone - but certainly her manners were inexcusable and her attitude toward me rude in the extreme. Lord knows, I wanted to be there as little as that unmannerly child wanted me.

After dinner, Anthony and his wife offered me a cordial. I seldom taste such things, of course, but on this occasion I thought perhaps the indulgence could be excused. I doubted that it would seriously impair the clarity of my thoughts at my meeting in the morning, and perhaps it would help slightly to ease the discomfort of my present situation. This blasted child was making me extremely uncomfortable.

The cordial was to be served at a small table set up on the tiny bit of grass in front of the house. Anthony referred to it as "the yard," a term I assume he picked up from the countless American tourists who come to Brighton in the summer and make it even more unlivable than it is ordinarily during the rest of the year. Sighing with resignation, I followed him and his wife outside. No sooner were we seated around the tiny table with our glasses in front of us (and the hint of a very cool breeze threatening to give us all dreadful colds if we stayed outside very long) than I saw lying on the grass the very doll I had earlier presented to their child. It lay on the grass, abandoned, discarded and totally forgotten by this unpleasant niece of mine and, for all I knew, savagely trampled upon while her elders were still inside the house and out of sight. Even in the now dimming light of evening, I could plainly see a large green grass stain on the otherwise clean white material of the doll's apron. How ungrateful this child is, I thought. How very ill-mannered, thoughtless, and ungrateful.

My brother noticed the look upon my face and his gaze followed the line of my sight. Directly he saw the doll, he glanced across at his wife and, to his credit, gave her a look that clearly said he thought she might have trained the child better. Then he called to his daughter, who was now amusing herself in the house.

She came and stood in the doorway, gazing in sullen silence at her father while he reprimanded her sternly for leaving her toys about in general, and for leaving her lovely new present lying about so carelessly in the yard. Pick it up and take it inside at once, he told her sharply. The child mumbled something under her breath, I am sure, before stomping across the grass and glaring unpleasantly at me. At me, who had done nothing but bring her a present. This awful child somehow held me responsible for her father's having to correct her. She scooped up the doll, grabbed it by one pink foot and, I swear, dragged it cruelly across the grass, bumping its head sharply - and quite deliberately, I am certain, and for my especial irritation - on the front doorstep before disappearing inside.

What a little beast, I thought. What a perfect little beast.

My brother, his boring little wife and I had barely finished our cordials before the evening grew quite dark and the cool breeze absolutely chilly. At that point, I declared myself rather tired from my trip and suffering from a severe headache. And, I explained, I had a very early appointment in the morning that required my full abilities. I needed a good night's sleep, I told them, and wished to retire for the evening. They urged me to stay up with them for a while longer. There were some delightful programmes on the telly, so they said, and at that I insisted all the more strongly that I really must retire. Indeed, I thought I really was beginning to feel the onset of a headache. Finally they yielded, and my brother showed me to their extra bedroom where I was to sleep.

On the way we passed the child, Emily, who was now playing on the floor with a book and some crayons. She looked up and glanced first at me and then at her father.

Is he going to bed? she asked, referring to me.

Yes, her father replied, and you're going next.

He's older than I am, Emily said, and he has to go to bed first. And she laughed. Laughed right at me.

Emily, say good-night, her father told her.

She said good-night, still laughing.

It was all I could do to squeeze out a good-night myself.

Beast, I thought again. The little beast.

I slept only fitfully. I am not accustomed to being in a strange bed, in a strange house, surrounded by strange people. It made me uneasy and uncomfortable and I tossed and turned for what seemed most of the night. I was, in fact, all the more uncomfortable as I anticipated being tired for my meeting in the morning, and this too served to keep me awake even longer. And that awful child of my brother's had played a large part in upsetting me further. What an ill-mannered, ungrateful little thing. A perfect beast.

Consequently, when I roused myself from fitful, uneasy sleep in the morning, I was totally unprepared for the chaos I found.

What a mistake it was to come here in the first place, I thought. Outside my room there was a great coming and going of heavy feet and, as I listened silently at the inside of my door, I thought I even heard the sound of sobbing and crying. What could be going on? I wondered. Good heavens, what new method have they thought of to plague me in my brief stay in this house? I waited a little longer for the confusion to die down, but of course it did not. When I consulted my watch, I found that now I should have time for only a hurried cup of tea if I were to be in time for my appointment. And I certainly had no intention of keeping a valued client of the bank waiting. There was nothing for it but to go out and, I thought bitterly, be satisfied with gulping down a cup of undoubtedly tepid tea before having to dash. I shall be fortunate, I thought, if I don't incur the additional expense and inconvenience of having to hire a taxi.

The sobbing came from the kitchen where, of necessity, I had to go. My brother stood near the table with his hands on the shoulders of his wife. It appeared that he was trying to calm her. The awful child, I noted with relief, was nowhere to be seen. Whatever it was that had caused so much disturbance this early in the morning, it fully occupied the minds of my hosts. The fact is, they barely greeted me.

Some moments later, my brother rallied a little from his seeming distraction, at least enough to address me and offer me the cup of tea I was longing for. As he did so, he glanced quickly at his still sobbing wife and, without mincing words, I must say, told me plainly what had happened. The wife shot me a look of what can only be described as hatred, but I made a point of ignoring it. Good Lord. It seems that the awful child, Emily, took to bed with her last night the doll that I had brought. And it seems further that, during the night, she managed somehow to smother herself with the thing. At any rate, she was found in bed this morning with the doll pressed tight up against her face. She was quite dead already, and the efforts of the constables and the doctor who were hastily summoned were inadequate to revive her. Quite, quite dead.

Now I will admit that for just the briefest of moments I recalled the earlier incident in the train when I could have sworn that the doll had a life and mind of its own and had actually smiled at me. Indeed, I even felt the tiniest hint of perspiration on my forehead and an alarming, if momentary, shortness of breath. Could there be a connection? I wondered fleetingly. But the thought passed almost as quickly as it had come. It was nonsense, of course, perfect nonsense.

All in all, it was a thoroughly unpleasant way to be greeted upon awakening. And me in Brighton on a weekend. And of course, when I finally tasted it, the tea was cold.

I could hardly make my way out of there fast enough. My briefcase was packed already with my clothes and papers, so there was nothing else to do but take my leave as quickly as possible. My brother walked out to the door with me - I'm certain he was hurrying me along - and I thanked him as best I could for putting me up. At the door, however, he held me back a moment.

Here, he said, his eyes avoiding my gaze. We appreciate this, really we do, he said, but please do take it away with you. My wife wouldn't be able to stand the sight of it, you know. Nor I, he added, although I had all I could do to make out what he was saying. With his other hand, he pressed into mine the doll I had brought for the now dead child.

A moment later I was hurrying down the street, and arrived at the corner, it almost goes without saying, just in time to see my bus roar away without me. Will it never end? I asked myself.

I quickly stuffed the doll into my briefcase and waited impatiently on the sidewalk for an empty taxicab to come along. Happily, it was only a few minutes until one did. Only then, settled in the taxi and knowing that at least I would be in time for my meeting, was I able to relax at all.

The meeting, to my further relief, went smoothly and I was able to uphold my bank's deserved reputation for efficient and discreet service to its clients. I came away feeling more at ease than I had at any time since leaving London the evening before.

Now, in the train heading back up to London, I have been thinking again about the doll. What shall I do with it? Really, it seems such a shame to throw it away, especially after all the trouble of carting it about like this. What is the practical solution? What practical use might the thing be?

And of course the answer came to me just now. The manager of my block of flats has been hinting recently that his daughter's birthday is coming round again. She is to be eight or nine or some such age. A wretched child, actually, frequently making quite a great deal of noise in the hallway near the door of my flat. But of course she must have a present, mustn't she, or the manager will be slow to take care of my repairs in future; that has been made quite clear to me already. Well, that's it, then. I shall save the doll and give it to this wretched child for a birthday present.

Yes, that is what I shall do. That is precisely what I shall do.