The Mammoth Book of Dracula (57 page)

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JAN EDWARDS

A Taste of Culture

JAN EDWARDS, born near Billingshurst in the Sussex Downs, moved to London in her teens where she worked as bookseller for the Man Booker Prize instigator, Martin Goff.

She had many jobs from stable girl to horticulturist via motorcycle sales before qualifying as the first female Master Locksmith in Britain. She later returned to school to earn a BA in English Literature.

She is a past chairperson of both the British Fantasy Society and the annual FantasyCon. Her short fiction, poetry, interviews and reviews have appeared in publications as varied as
Dark Valentine, New Horizons, Starburst, Visionary Tongue
and
Kennels and Cats Monthly.
The author lives near the Peak District National Park with her husband, Peter, and the obligatory cats.

Dracula gradually becomes accustomed to his new surroundings ...

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HE WAS HUNGRY. But the first stand, crudely painted in garish colours, proclaimed its contents to be “Earth Friendly”. He averted his eyes. This was England. Roasting oxen and warmed bread—that’s how it used be at English country fayres when he had visited them in years past. Now it was all lentils and tofu and other vegetarian creeds that offended him deeply.

He shrugged lightly and moved around the gathering’s perimeter to gauge the extent of delicacies on offer. Darkness had only just fallen and he was in no hurry—happy to feel, if not part of the crowd, then at least in contact with life; not merely humanity, but life itself: and the music that rose all around him, so vibrant, so invasive with its rapid, heartbeat rhythm. It pleased him greatly. These modern sounds were unfamiliar to him, but then every generation renewed the angst of misunderstood youth through its Art. It was part of the mystique of life.

He moved on, admiring the scenes before him. People, and so many of them in such a small place, and so varied. His stomach muttered discontent, reminding him he had to fill the void before he could think of doing anything else. What would a fayre have to offer other than sweetmeats doled out for infants and would-be infants alike?

He could see any number of options. Chinese? No. He had never found them satisfying. Italian? Maybe not—even the smell of garlic gave him indigestion.

A tall black woman brushed passed him, her cinnamon-scent lingering with him as she walked away. He paused, rotating slowly to follow her progress, until she vanished into the crowd. He’d follow if she were alone—the bulky lad trailing behind her could be a stranger; but somehow he doubted it.

The lights on a ride close by him so stung his eyes with their flaring intensity that he had to raise a hand to block the worst of the glare. Maybe he was getting too old for all this frivolity. Perhaps he would skip all this noise and settle for a liquid supper, like in the old days when life was so much simpler. There was an inn on the far side of the green. Quiet in comparison to this melee, but suitable. He’d find something there. But a companion? He never drank alone. It was not civilized.

He cast around for an easier option, and almost blundered into a burger-stand. He shuddered at an abomination surpassing tinned spaghetti and, reeling away from the hideous stench, quite literally stumbled into a small, lone figure huddled in the shelter of the vehicle, borrowing warmth from the occupant’s vile trade.

Engrossed in the contents of her purse, the young woman was unaware of his presence until she looked up, face flushed under the fairground lights. She was an open invitation. Wide deep green eyes, and soft flawless skin made more tempting with its painted-on beauty. And a neck that arched in slender elegance as she looked up into his own dark eyes.

“Oh! Pardon, Monsieur.” Her voice was low, but oddly childlike in her surprise at his sudden appearance.

He bowed low, and smiled, anticipating a treat he hadn’t thought to find in Britain’s rural wilderness. It didn’t matter where on this earth he found himself, it would always be hard to beat a good French red.

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R. CHETWYND-HAYES

Rudolph

RONALD HENRY GLYNN CHETWYND-HAYES (1919-2001) was born in Isleworth, West London. Known as “Britain’s Prince of Chill”, his first book was
The Man from the Bomb,
a science fiction novel published in 1959 by Badger Books. His subsequent novels include
The Dark Man
(aka
And Love Survived), The Brats, The Partaker: A Novel of Fantasy, The King’s Ghost, The Curse of the Snake God, Kepple
and
The Psychic Detective,
while his short fiction was collected in
The Unbidden, Cold Terror, The Elemental, Terror by Night, The Night Ghouls, The Monster Club, A Quiver of Ghosts, Tales from the Dark Lands, The House of Dracula, Dracula’s Children, Shudders and Shivers, The Vampire Stories of R. Chetwynd-Hayes
(aka
Looking for Something to Suck), Phantoms and Fiends
and
Frights and Fancies,
amongst other titles.

In 1976, Chetwynd-Hayes ghost-edited and wrote almost all of the one-shot magazine
Ghoul.
He also edited the anthologies
Cornish Tales of Terror, Scottish Tales of Terror
(as “Angus Campbell”),
Welsh Tales of Terror, Tales of Terror from Outer Space, Gaslight Tales of Terror
and
Doomed to the Night,
twelve volumes of
The Fontana Book of Great Ghost Stories
and six volumes of
The Armada Monster Book
series for children.

The author of two film novelizations,
Dominique
and
The Awakening
(the latter based on Bram Stoker’s
The Jewel of Seven Stars),
his own stories have been adapted for the screen in
From Beyond the Grave
and
The Monster Club
(in which the author was portrayed by actor John Carradine), and have been translated into numerous languages around the world.

In 1989 Chetwynd-Hayes was presented with Life Achievement Awards by both the Horror Writers Association and the British Fantasy Society.

Sometimes even a vampire needs someone to look after him ...

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SINCE YOU INSIST on my telling all—as the saying goes—I’ll start from the beginning. Yes, I think that’s best. Someone should know what’s going on, even if I can’t believe half of it myself. But I’ve got to, seeing as how most of what I’m going to tell you happened to me. Me, Laura Benfield, who at thirty-seven years and three months, lived quite comfortably on a small income my mother had left me, together with the house.

Then I did a part-time job, nothing strenuous you understand, for I’m not all that strong, just addressing envelopes for a mail-order firm three days a week. Then that bastard Michel Adler came into my life and lit a bomb under me.

What? No, I don’t mean literally. For God’s sake! But it would have been kinder if he had. Handsome bastard he was. Looked like Errol Flynn in
Captain Blood
that I saw on telly twice. And charm! He could bring the birds down from the trees and worms out of the ground and get ‘em to play hop-scotch together.

I met him at the Byfleet Social Club when I was sweating on a full house at bingo. I was just one number missing—legs eleven it was, but of course with my luck a cow from Tyburn Avenue got it. Not legs eleven, but five and three, fifty-three, which filled her house for her.

Then I hears this voice, all soft and gentlemanly like, say:

“Damn bad luck, old dear,” and turning I sees him for the first time.

You know I went right weak at the knees, there and then, me who normally would never talk to a strange man. He had grey eyes, the sort that sort of twinkle and seem to be full of mischief. Know what I mean?

Well, not to make mincemeat out of a cold sausage, when he suggested we have coffee in the club room, I accepted like a shot and made sure Maud Perkins saw me hanging on to the arm of this sexpot, although when we were seated side by side near a ruddy great mirror that some sadistic bastard had stuck on the wall so that it took in the entire room, I began to ask myself where the catch was.

I mean, every woman there from sixteen to eighty was giving him the what-about-it-sign and I—let’s be honest—had nothing bedwise to offer. There again they do say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so I thought maybe my eye was missing out on some of my beauty. Any road that was the only explanation I could think of, for boy, did he give me the treatment.

After pouring coffee down me, he suggests dinner in some quiet restaurant wouldn’t be out of place, he having not eaten since breakfast, due to being run off his feet by business commitments. It seemed that he had popped in the bingo club to unwind, for hearing numbers shouted out over a loud speaker had a relaxing effect on him. He also said it was the play of my features that directed his attention to me, suggesting as they did I had a beautiful soul, which was reflected in my eyes.

No one has ever talked to me like that before and although you may think I’m a silly ‘apporth to be taken in by stuff like that, just you remember that in every plain, dull woman, there’s a beautiful, interesting one trying to get out. And he knew how to order a good dinner and wines with names I couldn’t even pronounce, and when he left the waiter two pounds as a tip, I thought he must really be on the top shelf spondulicks-wise.

Then he took me home and I felt awful about inviting him in, for the place hasn’t seen a decorator’s brush since my mum died and truth to tell, I’m no great dab at housework. But he—Michel—only laughed and said the house had character and personally he had no time for your spotless and everything in its place living unit, where it was impossible for anyone to feel comfortable.

Well, I had nothing in the house in the booze line, except for a few bottles of brown ale and I couldn’t offer him that after all the wine and liqueurs he’d lashed out for on me. But he said he’d just as soon have a cup of tea, which he made, after telling me to sit down and put me feet up.