Free The Wine-Dark Sea by Robert Aickman

sixty orders an hour. She disappeared.
    ‘Well, shut the door and keep the heat out.’
    The speaker, a middle-aged man wearing dirty tennis shoes, was seated the other side of a round wooden table from Mimi, who was stirring a cup of tea. There was no one else in the room, which was congested with depressing café furniture, and decorated with cigarette advertisements hanging askew on the walls.
    ‘You know what they say in New York?’ He had the accent of a north country businessman. His eyes never left Mimi’s large breasts distending her damp khaki shirt. ‘I used to live in New York. Ten years altogether.’
    Mimi said nothing. It was her habit to let the men do the talking. Margaret sat down beside her, laying her rucksack on the floor.
    ‘Hullo.’ His tone was cheekier than his intention.
    ‘Hullo,’ said Margaret neutrally.
    ‘Are you two friends?’
    ‘Yes.’
    His gaze returned to the buxomer, nakeder Mimi.
    ‘I was just telling your friend. You know what they say in New York?’
    ‘No,’ said Margaret. ‘I don’t think so. What do they say?’
    ‘It isn’t the heat. It’s the humidity.’
    He seemed still to be addressing Margaret, while staring at Mimi. Giving them a moment to follow what he evidently regarded as a difficult and penetrating observation, he continued , ‘The damp, you know. The moisture in the atmosphere . The atmosphere’s picking up moisture all the time. Sucking it out of the earth.’ He licked his lower lip. ‘This is nothing. Nothing to New York. I lived there for ten years. Beggars can’t be choosers, you know.’
    A door opened from behind and the taciturn woman brought Margaret’s coffee. The cup was discoloured round the edge, and the saucer, for some reason, bore a crimson smear.
    ‘One shilling.’
    Startled, Margaret produced a half-crown from a pocket of her shorts. The woman went away.
    ‘Nice place this,’ said the man. ‘You’ve got to pay for that these times.’
    Margaret lifted up her cup. The coffee was made from essence and stank.
    ‘What did I say? How’s that for a cup of coffee? I’d have one myself, if I hadn’t had three already.’
    ‘Are you staying here?’
    ‘I live here.’
    The woman returned with one and sixpence, then departed once more.
    ‘There’s no need for a gratuity.’
    ‘I see,’ said Margaret. ‘Is she the proprietress?’
    ‘It’s her own place.’
    ‘She seems silent.’ Immediately Margaret rather regretted this general conversational initiative.
    ‘She’s reason to be. It’s no gold mine, you know. I’m the only regular. Pretty well the only customer by and large.’
    ‘Why’s that? It’s a lovely country, and there’s not much competition from what we’ve seen.’
    ‘There’s none. Believe me. And it’s not a nice country. Believe me again.’
    ‘What’s wrong with it?’ This was Mimi, who had not spoken since Margaret had entered.
    ‘Why nothing really, sister, nothing really. Not for a little girl like you.’ Margaret noticed that he was one of the many men who classify women into those you talk to and those with whom words merely impede the way. ‘I was just kidding. I wouldn’t be here else. Now would I? Not living here.’
    ‘What’s wrong with the place?’
    Margaret was surprised by Mimi’s tone. She recollected that she had no knowledge of what had passed between the two of them while she had been combing her hair on the little hill.
    ‘You know what the locals say?’
    ‘We haven’t seen any locals,’ said Margaret.
    ‘Just so. That’s what I say. They don’t come up here. This is the Quiet Valley.’
    ‘Oh really,’ cried Margaret, not fully mistress of her motives all the same. ‘You got that name out of some Western.’
    But he only replied with unusual brevity, ‘They call it the Quiet Valley.’
    ‘Not a good place to start in business!’ said Margaret.
    ‘Couldn’t be worse. But she just didn’t know. She sank all she had in this place. She was a stranger