Devil By The Sea

by Nina Bawden

  The young moon shone like a pale ghost in the sky. He was lit with an unearthly radiance. She saw his hoof, his horns, the sad, beautiful face of a fallen angel. She was not in the least afraid. “I’ll come,” she said. “I promised I’d come, didn’t I, to see your bird?”

  Wally said, “But she’s only little. Nobody listened to her. She’s only nine.”

  The policeman had a round face like a balloon.

  “Now, now, son,” he said. “If you’re having me on, there’ll be trouble.” His voice was threatening but there was comfort in it.

  Wally shuffled his feet. “I’m not having you on, honest.” His pale face gleamed earnestly. “Please,” he said insistently, tugging at the uniformed arm, “please.” He choked back a small, childish sob.

  The policeman looked down at him. “You’re not so big yourself,” he said, smiling. In spite of his natural wariness where all boys were concerned, he was impressed by this one. Sharp-eyed, he saw the character behind the flabby cheeks, the unhealthy pallor. This was a brave boy and a good one.

  “Come along then,” he said kindly. “We’ll go along to the station, shall we? Don’t you run off, either,” he added in a grim voice. It was only a formal warning; he knew that Wally would not run away.

  They left the Fun Fair and came out on to the empty front. Beyond the string of fairy lights, the beach was dark.

  “We don’t know where they are,” said Wally suddenly. “It’ll be too late.” And in misery and dreadful shame, he began to cry like a baby.

  The man was going too fast. Hilary, clinging to his hand, was dragged along in his wake. When she stumbled on the shingle, her arm was nearly jerked out of its socket. She wanted to ask him to go slower but her breath was coming in great, panting gasps and she could not speak.

  There was a light wind blowing off the sea. Hilary’s feet were sore from the stones and the bruise on her knee was hurting her. They were walking some way away from the promenade and the darkness of the beach enclosed them. It seemed to Hilary that she and the man were quite alone, cut off completely from the world she knew.

  She was not, however, afraid of him. She even felt a strange sense of security in his presence. His hand was hard and firm and comforting. She had forgotten where they were going and why, but she trusted him completely.

  On their left, the lighted part of the promenade came to an end. The man stepped easily over the high, green breakwater, and helped Hilary up. She caught her toe on the slimy top and slipped, face downwards, on to the wet beach. Her face was cold against the cold stones, her heart pounded in her chest. She felt his gentle hands beneath her shoulders, he set her on her feet and she swayed against him.

  “I’m tired,” she complained.

  He muttered something beneath his breath. Then, with a swift movement, he swung her up into his arms. She lay inert, her head against the rough stuff of his coat. He staggered beneath her weight, slipping on the uneven beach. He coughed, a fearful, racking cough that Hilary felt throughout her body.

  “Put me down,” she said, full of concern for him. “I’m much too heavy for you.”

  He did not answer her but changed his direction and climbed awkwardly up the steep mound of shingle towards the promenade. He sat her on the concrete ledge and heaved himself up beside her, ducking beneath the bar.

  “You can walk now,” he said and, reaching down, clawed for her hand.

  She shook her head obstinately. “I’m tired,” she repeated almost angrily, “I want a little rest.”

  “No,” he said violently and jerked her to her feet. He was shivering, either from fear or cold or both. He glanced quickly over his shoulder. “You’re coming with me, d’you hear? You’re coming with me.”

  “Of course I’m coming,” said Hilary, annoyed. “But it’s a long way to your caravan. And my legs hurt. I’m tired.”

  He twined his fingers in her hair and forced her head backwards. Then he let her go and began to whimper gently. The tears flowed in silver streams down his dirty cheeks. “Poor Jim,” he blubbered, “no one loves poor Jim.”

  Hilary was fascinated by his tears. Her own eyes began to water in sympathy. “Don’t cry,” she said in an affected motherly tone. “It’s all right. I love you. Look, here’s my hanky.”

  She slipped her hand cosily into his and they began to walk towards the Downs, the man’s shoulders bowed and shaking. A middle-aged couple, emerging from a side street, glanced at them curiously and hesitated before they passed on. Hilary was quite happy now they were walking slowly and her legs no longer ached. She began to sing a tuneless little song under her breath.

  They came to the beginning of one of the tarmac paths that wound up over the Downs. Behind them, someone shouted and turning, Hilary saw a policeman pounding along the promenade towards them.

  The man dropped Hilary’s hand and began to run.

  The police station was hot and steamy. White lights flared smokily against a white ceiling. The walls were painted bottle-green.

  The chair Hilary was sitting on was too high for her and her feet began to prickle with pins and needles. Someone gave her a cup of tea in a thick, white mug. A lady policeman with hairs on her chin and a stiff, dark moustache, wiped her face with a flannel and clicked her tongue sympathetically when she saw the cut on her knee. She kept saying, “There, there, it’s all right now, poor little girl.”

  Hilary edged away from the kind, fussing hands. Her head ached and she felt a little sick. From time to time, she closed her eyes.

  Then Wally was there. She saw his face, on her own level, white and fat and curiously unfamiliar without his spectacles. She said, “But you can’t see without your glasses,” and he put his face close to hers and said, “Shut up, can’t you?” His voice was cross but he took her hand all the same and held it tightly. The two children sat side by side, waiting, and the man leaned against the opposite wall and stared at them. He looked tired and ill and beaten; beneath the lank, long hair, his face was like a skull. Hilary thought: poor old man, why don’t they give him a chair?

  There was a long interval. From time to time, the door opened and the room was chilled by a draught of cold air. Hilary dozed, her head lolling against the green wall. She saw her mother come into the room with a policeman.

  “Darling,” said Alice in a husky voice. “My own darling little girl.” She looked ugly and quite old. She was wearing an old raincoat flung on in haste over her sweater and skirt. “Tell me what happened,” she said. “Tell Mummy.”

  “I was going to see his bird,” said Hilary, enduring her embrace. She was tired and confused; she did not understand what they wanted her to say. She had tried to explain about the man before and no one had listened or seemed to care. Now she did not want to talk about him.

  Alice stood up and said something to the policeman behind the desk. He said, “Yes, I’m afraid we must know, Mrs. Bray.”

  Alice knelt down again, her skirt sweeping the dusty floor. She said in a low awful voice, “Now, darling, you must be careful and tell me the truth. Did he touch you anywhere?”

  Hilary was aware that this was an unpleasant question: the tone of her mother’s voice, the breathing silence in the room, told her her so.

  “He held my hand,” she said, ashamed although she did not know why.

  “He didn’t hurt you?”

  She shook her head. “I was going to see his bird. I promised I’d go.” She remembered that she had broken this promise once before. She felt weak and tearful.

  Alice’s back shielded her from the rest of the room. There was a murmur of voices. Wally had gone from her side and she heard his voice, talking to the policeman. Then Alice spoke, the man behind his desk answered her. Hilary closed her eyes. The room seemed very far away, on the other side of a glass wall. Someone said, “The Devil—well, I never did,” and there was a ripple of laughter. Looking up, Hilary saw Alice’s hot, angry face, the skin stretched tight over her cheekbones. “She’s not a liar,” she said. “Sh
e doesn’t tell lies.” Her voice sounded sad and helpless and for the first time Hilary was sorry for her. It was quite a new feeling, strange and disturbing like the small, hard swelling she had recently discovered round her nipples. It made her want to cry.

  There was a hum of voices. Wally’s pale, accusing face swam in front of Hilary. “You told me he was the Devil,” he said. “You told me.”

  “Well, he isn’t,” she said, flatly and rudely. “Aren’t you silly? Can’t you see he hasn’t any horns, he hasn’t got a tail?”

  She was not quite sure how or why she had reached this new certainty. She only knew, quite clearly, that the man, with his poor, pale face and dirty clothes was not, and never had been, the Devil. It now seemed faintly embarrassing that she had believed any such thing. Her fears were far off and forgotten, she dismissed them as if they had never existed.

  “Besides,” she said crossly, “if he was the Devil, the policeman wouldn’t have been able to catch him, would he?”

  The actual circumstances of the man’s arrest, which she had witnessed, had shocked her deeply and aroused in her the strong, sentimental loyalties of childhood. The man was her friend, he had been going to show her his bird and the policeman had knocked him down. She had forgotten that she had ever feared him.

  “I never thought he was,” said Wally indignantly. “You didn’t half tell me a lot of lies, didn’t you?”

  He was hurt and angry. He had made what his mother would call “an exhibition of himself” and it was all Hilary’s fault. He hated her.

  “Oh, no, I didn’t,” she said in a clear, cross voice. “I told you he took Poppet away and he did. I saw him.”

  Suddenly there was silence. Everyone turned and looked at the two children. Hilary saw there was a new man in the room, one who had not been there earlier on. He was an old man, not a policeman. He was not wearing a uniform.

  Someone said, “It was all in the newspapers.”

  “She read the paper,” said Alice wearily. “I hoped she hadn’t understood.”

  “This was something she didn’t read in the newspaper,” said the man in ordinary clothes. He came towards Hilary and crouched in front of her chair. “Hilary, will you come and talk to me?” he asked.

  He had a nice face with blue, bristly marks on his chin. He smelt of cigars.

  “All right,” she said and stood up. The man was standing against the wall. There was a clear space all round him as if nobody wanted to be near him. He looked very sad and very lonely.

  The new man took Hilary’s hand and led her into a small quiet room. There was a desk and a bowl fire and a small rug in front of the desk. He sat her in a swivel chair and leaned on the desk, looking down at her.

  “Hilary,” he asked her, “do you tell lies?”

  “Sometimes,” she admitted cautiously.

  “Big ones or little ones?”

  “Only little ones.” She was shocked. “People who tell big lies go to hell.”

  “Oh—we can’t be sure of that, you know,” he said quickly and kindly. “We can only be sure that they’ll get into some kind of trouble sooner or later.” His face crinkled as he smiled at her until his skin was covered with tiny lines like the outside of a nut. “You mustn’t tell me even a little lie, now, because it is important. Why were you frightened of the man?”

  “I don’t know.” She considered. “I thought he was the Devil. But he’s not, is he, he’s just a poor, old man?” A faint, very faint anxiety clouded her eyes.

  “Yes, he’s just a poor old man.” He had stopped smiling now and his face was suddenly very sad. Hilary thought she had never seen anyone look so sad. “Whatever they tell you later on,” he said, “you’ll remember that, won’t you?”

  Hilary wondered what he was talking about. She said, “I don’t expect they’ll want to talk about him. They never wanted to listen, after all. I expect they were too busy. People usually are.” She spoke in a flat, thoughtful voice, her eyes fixed on her dangling feet.

  “I’m not busy now,” he said.

  She looked at him, without interest, and frowned. “I promised to see his bird, you know. It’s wrong to break a promise, just as wrong as it is to tell lies. Can I go and see his bird to-morrow?” She spoke urgently, as if this were very important to her, and looked at him.

  “I don’t know. Sometimes promises have to be broken.” He saw the rebellion in her eyes and added hastily, not wishing to upset her now, “Perhaps you can go. We’ll see.”

  He saw that she accepted this, not because she believed him but because she had suddenly grown old enough to know that she had no alternative: she could despair, or she could allow herself to be soothed by a consolation that did not console. He also saw, fingering the bristles on his chin, that she was not really interested in him, nor in what he had to say to her. She was absorbed in a world of new discoveries: that other people are not to be relied upon; that promises can be broken; loyalty abandoned; the world that is also childhood’s end. Then his expression changed. He was not concerned with the child, she was not his business. His voice became crisp and clear.

  “Come now,” he said. “Tell me how you knew the little girl was called Poppet.”

  And in a calm, disinterested voice, because the entire episode had ceased to have any meaning for her, she told him.