Pitch dark and there was no means of telling the time. A soft summer wind soughed across the estuary.
He turned over and tried to go to sleep. Then a door banged and he sat up.
Silence had fallen again. He lay in bed and wished he was not such a baby, that such a waking in the middle of the night should make his heart beat faster.
Another door banged and there was the clatter of a pail. Then down in the very depths of the house, as if from the inmost recesses of its rickety old soul, someone began to sing:
‘They heard the Black Hunter! and dr-read shook each
mind;
Hearts sank that had never known fear-r;
They heard the Black Hunter’s dr-read voice in the
wind …’
It was a man’s voice, quavering and drunken. Another door banged. Then came the sound of feet on the stairs.
The attic was the only room on this floor; it was really built into the roof. But the feet were on the flight of stairs lower down.
All the same Anthony wished there had been some means of locking his door.
All the sounds in this house seemed to echo; due perhaps to the way in which it was built about the well of the staircase. Anthony could hear the over-careful feet stumble against one of the steps and the curse which followed.
‘Hearts sank that had never known fear-r. (Rot and blast the thing! Who left it lying about?)
‘They heard the Black Hunter’s dr-read voice in the
wind!
They heard his cursed hell-hounds run yelping behind!
An’ his steed thundered loud on the ear …’
Presently the drunken voice died away and silence reigned. In the distance the siren of a ship hooted. After a long time Anthony felt his muscles relax, and drowsiness crept quietly over him like an unreliable friend.
Later still he was awakened by hearing someone being violently sick.
Chapter Three
Daylight brought a more homely aspect to his new domicile. From his window he saw that the tide was out, and many of the little boats loafed on their elbows in the mud. Seagulls crossed and recrossed the sky, flying lonely and remote as a cloud, wings scarcely moving, or suddenly darting down and fighting in a screaming, undignified pack for some morsel which one of their number had found. Two lighted on the flat end of the roof immediately below the attic window and side-stepped warily along to the corner piece. In the distance a small tramp steamer moved lazily out to sea.
Last night he had not put the twelve pennies Uncle Joe had given him into his purse, and this morning when he came to put on his trousers they fell out of his pocket with a clatter and rolled in all directions about the room. One had rolled beneath the bed and he pulled away the strip of carpet to get at it. As he retrieved it he was surprised to see a cork embedded in the floorboards.
Interested, he lifted up the valance and wriggled further under the bed amid the dust and fluff. Then he took out his penknife and with very little difficulty was able to pull the cork out. He put his eye to the hole which resulted and found himself looking down into the room below.
A small room, with a desk and a filing cabinet and an armchair. There was a pile of letters on the desk and newspapers and magazines on a chair. Tacked to the door was a nautical calendar.
He was suddenly afraid of being surprised in this prying position; he felt that someone was just about to enter his bedroom and find him there; he thrust back the cork and replaced the carpet and hurriedly resumed dressing.
When he went downstairs it was still early but he found Aunt Madge up and swatting flies. She seemed to have a particular aversion for them, for there were six flypapers hung about the kitchen. She was dressed in a pink kimono with lace and frills and ruches and long sleeves of which the wide lace cuffs were stained with bacon grease. On her head was a pink lace cap.
She looked at him from above her chins and evidently recognised him.
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘ You slept? Fanny’s late. You could get … sticks for the fire.’
Under directions Anthony went out upon the stone-paved quay, which was directly accessible from the kitchen door, and found a pile of driftwood and an axe. He began to chop up the wood. This was a job to which he could bring some skill, for he had always done it at home, though with good stately logs to work on, not miserable chunks of deal and pine, many of them half rotten with worm. He came on one spar which split into pieces at the first stroke and he found it honeycombed inside like a model of the catacombs. This idea so interested him that he went down on his knees to trace the burro wings more closely; and he was still there when Patricia came out.
‘Good morning, Anthony. Did you sleep well? Have you got some sticks? Madge seems to be in one of her moods this morning.’
She was wearing a pretty black and white striped apron drawn in at the waist with a big bow at the back, over a simple high-necked blouse and dark skirt.
‘Look at this,’ he said. ‘ Isn’t it pretty? What’s made it like this?’
‘Barnacles. Haven’t you ever seen them?’
‘No.’
‘They’re big black worms with heads like mussel-shells and long ferny red tongues. The sort of thing you see in a nightmare. But Madge’Il start reading you a sermon if she doesn’t get her fire soon.’
Breakfast was a feminine meal. Neither Perry nor Joe put in an appearance. Little Fanny arrived down red-eyed and weary as the meal was about to begin, and Anthony saw what Aunt Madge’s sermon was like when directed at someone else.
She did not show any signs of anger. Seated in immobile serenity with a cup of tea steered unerringly from time to time to the plump little opening from which emerged so much sound, she talked on and on at Fanny in a pained rather hoarse voice with majesty and persistence. Sometimes she put an H in front of a word to give extra emphasis. Having said what she had to say, she shook her earrings, adjusted her pince-nez, and started anew. Finally Fanny burst into tears and went breakfastless to brush out the upper restaurant.
At this Aunt Madge turned up her eyes as if in surprise at a rebuff, and poured herself another cup of tea. She had a peculiar habit of putting her eyes away under her small lids as if she were withdrawing them for inner consultation.
‘Girls,’ she said to nobody. ‘Difficult. Can’t reason with. Hi try to be patient, to lead …
Anthony was kept busy all the morning. Uncle Joe appeared, wizened and sallow, about eleven, Uncle Perry, dark-eyed and plump-faced and laughing, an hour later. Before lunch Anthony went shopping with Patricia. When it was done she hired a landau and took the boy along the sea front, past the new houses shining in the sun. The ride was in the best possible style. Pat prudently dismissed the landau a hundred yards or so from JOE VEAL’S and they reached home in time for the midday meal.
Mrs Veal clearly suspected that they had been up to no good; she went round and round the subject while she was dishing out the stew, but they gave her no satisfaction. Finally Uncle Perry diverted her by launching into a long account of what had happened to him once in the Barbados, and Patricia caught her cousin’s eye and winked.
The Barbados story went on indefinitely. At least, thought Anthony, Aunt Madge can cook. I shan’t starve in this house. ‘Yes,’ he said to Uncle Perry, with his mouth full. ‘No,’ he said, taking another piece of home-made bread to wipe up the gravy. And, ‘Fancy,’ he said, leaning back and wondering if the pudding would be as good.
‘Fanny,’ said Aunt Madge, and waved an ostentatious hand. ‘See, if Mr Veal …’ She smoothed down the geometrical frills of her yellow silk blouse and adjusted her pince-nez to look at Patricia. ‘Hubby called this morning.’
For the first time Anthony saw the girl’s face lose its soft contours; colour moved across her neck and cheeks.
‘What did he want?’ Her voice was brittle and calm.
‘Wanted to see you, of course. I told him you weren’t … Pity, I think.’ She glanced at the plate Fanny had brought back. ‘Mr Veal hasn�
��t eaten …’
‘Mr Veal says he don’t want any pudding, mum. An’ he says two Roast Porks have gone upstairs, an’ these are the plates.’
‘I’ll do them,’ said Pat, rising. It seemed as if she welcomed the opportunity of movement.
Anthony was served with steaming hot lemon pudding with treacle sauce. For the moment he could not touch it.
Patricia returned to the table. ‘If he thinks I’m going back,’ she said, still in the same brittle voice, ‘he’s mistaken.’
Anthony slowly moved his eyes to her left hand. On the third finger there was a gold ring.
‘Think you ought,’ said Mrs Veal. ‘Marriage vows. Taking these things lightly.’
Patricia poured herself some water. ‘It’s my own life, and I – don’t want to live it with him. Why should I always go on paying for one mistake?’
‘Hi don’t approve.’ Anthony suddenly found himself under Mrs Veal’s gaze. Her pince-nez had slipped a little and her eyes were looking over the top like unmuzzled guns. ‘Not eating pudding. Young boys not saucy.’
He hastened to eat several mouthfuls. Hours he had been in Pat’s company and never noticed that ring. It shouldn’t have made any difference, but in fact just at the moment it seemed as if nothing would ever be the same again. He was suffering the shock of broken puppy dreams.
‘Three weeks,’ said Aunt Madge. ‘No time. After a good trial…’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said, “Good morning, Mrs Veal,” he said, “I want to see Patricia.” Into the kitchen quite sudden. The pork. Almost burned. “Marriage vows,” I said. “ Mr Harris, I don’t approve. Made in the sight of God.” ’
‘You’d no business to take his side against me,’ Patricia said quietly. ‘You shouldn’t have given him encouragement.’
‘There, there,’ said Uncle Perry. ‘It isn’t as if anyone was going to make you go back.’
‘I don’t see why they should try,’ Pat said mutinously.
‘More pudding, Perry,’ said Aunt Madge. ‘Manners at the table …’ Her chins went up and down as she ate some cheese. ‘Those flies. In from the river.’
‘Marriage should be like it is in the Pacific Islands,’ said Uncle Perry. ‘If you fancy someone there you just have a tribal dance.’ He laughed infectiously.
‘Perry … Please.’
Uncle Perry winked at Anthony and pushed his lank black hair away from his brow. It was the second wink Anthony had received that meal, but he no longer felt in a mood to appreciate them. When Patricia pushed the cheese across to him he refused it. He felt terribly uncomfortable and his cheeks were burning. When at last he could get away he went straight out to the woodpile and spent all the afternoon in the hot sun chopping firewood.
Presently Uncle Perry came out and sat on a mooring stone and watched him, and after a while began to talk.
Perry Veal was a good story-teller with an eye for picturesque detail and the slightly suggestive phrase. In spite of himself Anthony at last laid down his axe and sat beside the dark man listening with his ears and blue eyes open wide. More than half the allusions were lost on him, but that made his interest all the more intent. Here before him was a man who knew everything in the world that was worth knowing, and the boy would have given a lot to have understood all the sly nods and oblique references which as often as not made up the point of a story. He felt as some men do when an after-dinner speaker persists in concluding all his bawdy stories in French.
But he learned much, and in the process temporarily forgot the tragedy of this afternoon when the sweet green shoot of his first romantic attachment had been broken off and trampled in the dust. He remembered it again only when Uncle Perry lit his short black ‘nose-warmer’ and began to tell a story of a friend of his who had married a native queen in Patagonia.
‘Four feet six broad she was, boy; handsome arms and shoulders; a fine figure of a woman. Well, there’s not much a native queen don’t know about marriage, you can take it from me.’ He drew at his pipe with a wet sucking noise, then spat over the side.
‘Cousin Pat never told me she was married,’ Anthony blurted out, committing the impropriety of interrupting his uncle in full spate. ‘When was she married? What’s her husband? Don’t they get on?’
‘Eh? What’s that?’ Perry’s winking dark eyes grew vague. He took his pipe from his mouth and stared at it, then knocked out the contents upon the palm of his hand. This black half-burned tobacco he rolled again into a ball between his palms and thrust it back into the bowl of his pipe. Then he blew away the ash, took a little fresh tobacco and pushed it down on top of the old. He struck a match and the wet sucking process began afresh. ‘Pat. Oh, Pat.’ He laughed. ‘She’s fickle, boy. A little filly who doesn’t know what she really wants, see?’ He nodded and sucked and his black hair fell across his brow. ‘At that age, boy, they’re nervous. Not properly broken in, as you might say; mettlesome. First touch of the bridle and they’re up and away. But she’s tasted flesh. She’ll go back one day. Once they’ve tasted flesh, they always go back to it. That’s what the tiger does, boy. In Madras; when I was in Madras in ’91 –’
‘Who is he, her husband?’ the boy persisted. ‘Have you seen him?’
‘Seen him? Of course I’ve seen him. He’s a lawyer from Penryn. They were only married in April. Couple of little budgerigars inching up to each other on the same twig. Sweet, they were. Little love birds. Then they were married. She went to live in Penryn. Handsome house, money no object. Eating off silver. Then of a sudden she comes home all of a sweat, nostrils quivering. “Go back?” she say. “Not I!” ’ Uncle Perry’s pipe had gone out again. ‘ Little filly … Wants breaking in, that’s all. She’ll go back.’
At that moment they heard the subject under discussion calling them to tea. Anthony felt he had that afternoon become an adult. Never before had he been admitted to the confidences of a man. He was tremendously grateful to Uncle Perry for being treated as an equal. The enormous mysteries of life bulked large in the hot June sun. All the same he felt that Perry had gone over the mark in his talk of Patricia. As he sat at tea with the family all his admiration for the charm and prettiness of the girl filled him afresh.
The evening passed much as the previous one had done. Feeling more at home, the boy began to make himself useful, and during the evening rush hour his quick legs were a help. Recovering from the shock of dinner time he set himself whenever possible to help Patricia. The fleeting smiles that she gave him were sufficient reward. She was not so vivacious as the previous evening, and it was evident to the boy that her husband’s visit had upset her.
The fact that the unknown man was a lawyer made Anthony think of someone like Mr Parks, who was thin and grey-bearded and dry and talked through his nose. The idea that this beautiful fresh young girl should have tied herself for life to such a creature, covered with the dust of the law, appalled him. For the first time in his life his inquiring mind turned upon the subject of divorce. He resolved to ask Uncle Perry. Uncle Perry would be sure to know not only all about divorce in this country but also in Asia, Africa and the South Sea Islands.
Anthony decided to stay up later tonight to see all that there was to be seen, but by nine o’clock he could hardly keep his eyes open. He had slept badly last night and had been up very early two mornings together. So after a struggle nature had its way; he wished the kitchen staff good night and climbed the stairs to bed even before the old man with the one leg had begun to play his accordion.
Dead tired, he slept much better. Once or twice he was conscious of shouts and music. Then after what seemed a century of sleep he heard again the drunken voice singing as it climbed the stairs to bed.
No song of a ghostly rider tonight. This time it was about, a lady called Aluetta.
Chapter Four
The next day was a Sunday, and even Smoky Joe’s was compelled to remain closed. Shortly after breakfast Joe himself appeared in an old frock coat with a grey woollen muffl
er wound round his throat and a straw hat in his hand. He beckoned to Anthony.
‘Can you row?’
Anthony shook his head. ‘I rowed on a lake once, that’s all.’
‘Never mind. You’ll soon learn. I want you to row me out to a ship in the roads. It’s a nice morning. You’ll enjoy it.’
Anthony was of the same opinion. He rushed upstairs for his cap and joined his uncle on the quay. Joe was pulling in a small dinghy by its painter, and Aunt Madge with folded arms was watching.
‘Currents,’ she observed didactically. ‘No experience. Tide is going out. You should send over …’
‘Fiddlesticks,’ said Joe, breathing heavily with the effort. ‘Anybody can row. And I haven’t forgotten how. Here, boy, down this ladder and jump in.’
Swelling with responability, Anthony climbed down the iron ladder attached to the quay and got into the boat. After a moment Joe joined him.
‘Cold wind on the water,’ said Mrs Veal to the doorpost. ‘ No coat …’
This remark was ignored until they drew jerkily away from the land; then Joe said:
‘Women. They coddle you. Your aunt wants to make a baby of me. See that she doesn’t make one of you.’
It occurred to Anthony, straggling, with the oars; that his aunt had taken no noticeable step in that direction so far. So he just smiled, showing his good regular teeth, and nodded. When they were about a hundred yards out Uncle Joe pointed over the boy’s shoulder.
‘See that barquentine. No, there, letting go her heads’ls. That’s where you’re to row me.’
Anthony caught a crab in his effort to do two things at the same time, and operations were suspended while Joe gave him one or two lessons. Anthony thought how thin and old and dry his uncle looked in the morning light. After each sentence his moustache clamped down like a trap door from which nothing more must be allowed to escape. His small eyes were like gimlets in the sun, glinting as they turned to stare about the bay.
The Forgotten Story Page 3
