“Say, ‘Ow’, Dear,” urged Mrs Forrester brightly; and Meg longed for a camera to record the expression of horror, incredulity, and affronted dignity which came over Cedric’s face as he realised what was expected of him.
“Go on, Dear, just to please the little boy. Of course we know you’re not really frightened,” continued Mrs Forrester encouragingly; and there was a moment of tense silence, broken only by Sharkey’s imperious hisses, grown a little hoarse for this, his seventh victim.
And suddenly there came a scream; a scream so different from the dutiful “Ow’s” that had preceded it that even Sharkey fell to the ground, limp and voiceless. For a second no one could move.
But only for a second. Then the moment relaxed. Peter—perversely—began to howl; and Mildred—for it was she who had screamed—flopped down on the caravan steps, panting and apologising.
“I’m so sorry—my nerves!” she explained, fanning herself with a wisp of chiffon. “It—I—I thought … I couldn’t see the little chap, you see, I just saw you all crowding round—I didn’t know what had happened. I’m so sorry … silly of me….”
Still gasping, she now nevertheless managed to extract a mirror from her handbag and to pat her hair to rights. Shortly afterwards she was sufficiently recovered to allow herself to be installed in a deckchair with Captain Cockerill attentive on one side and Freddy on the other. Meanwhile Meg and Isabel made the tea, while Mrs Forrester, bubbling with eagerness to help, planted herself foursquare in front of the cupboard where the crockery was kept and told them how difficult it was about Cedric.
There wasn’t enough milk, of course; and even such cups as they possessed were inaccessible until Mrs Forrester should reach a point in her troubles where it wouldn’t seem heartless to interrupt and ask her to move away from the cupboard. Isabel grew more and more fussed; and Meg’s offer to go and borrow milk from Mrs Hutchins only made matters worse. Milk, it appeared, had already been borrowed from Mrs Hutchins once this week; and sugar too; and half a packet of detergent. True, all these articles had been returned, but all the same, Isabel couldn’t face the idea of borrowing anything more.
“She’ll think I’m so incompetent,” she explained dolefully; and was in no way consoled by Captain Cockerill’s encouraging account of a village in Tibet where cattle roamed wild in the streets and you could catch a cow and milk it whenever you pleased.
But strong, milkless tea can be refreshing. An hour later, in much better spirits, Meg was setting off with the others in the direction of the Sea View Hotel. Mildred had stopped sulking, and had even seconded—though a trifle perfunctorily—Freddy’s pressing invitation to Meg to return with them to the hotel for dinner. In fact everyone seemed more cheerful now, particularly Captain Cockerill, who had, he announced, discovered a short cut to the hotel which would save them at least ten minutes.
Well, he couldn’t say he hadn’t been warned. First, laughingly, by the ladies; and then, gravely and at length, by Cedric, who even stopped dead in the street to draw a map illustrating conclusively the complete and absolute wrong ness of Captain Cockerill’s every supposition.
And, of course, Cedric was right. Half an hour later, wandering disconsolately on the outskirts of the town, they all admitted it, Captain Cockerill positively beating his breast with a mixture of gallantry, remorse, and determination to convince everyone that the whole thing was rather fun, actually.
Further wanderings brought them to an area still remote from their destination, but nevertheless recognisable: the amusement ground which they had passed through a few days earlier on that wet and windy walk.
It presented a very different aspect now, warmed into blaring vitality by the long day’s sunshine, and jammed with holiday-makers. The fortune-teller’s booth—Meg was relieved to note—was awaited by a queue many yards long, so there was little fear that Mildred would be tempted once again to essay her future. Nevertheless, just in case any such notion should strike her, Meg tried to get the party to quicken its pace; whereupon, to her annoyance, Captain Cockerill hung back.
“Who’s for a bit of fun?” he enquired, a little wistfully; and Meg seized his arm in no uncertain fashion.
“Come on!” she said, “We’ll be late for dinner as it is. Besides, we saw everything last time.”
“We didn’t though,” protested the reluctant Captain. “They’ve got the Dodgems now. And the snake-juggler—that’s gone, they’ve got the Sleeping Beauty there instead.” He pointed to the tent next to the fortune-teller—almost the very spot from which Meg most wanted to distract attention.
“Come on!” she repeated. “It’s probably the same woman, anyway. Don’t you remember how sleepy she looked? They’ve probably just taken the snake away and put up a new label. Do let’s get on. I’m starving.”
Since this was very much the opinion of the rest of the company, Captain Cockerill was over-ruled. They reached the Sea View Hotel only a little late for dinner, and the first thing they encountered—indeed almost fell over—was Cedric, stretched out as usual on the floor with his patience cards. He had, he explained politely, got back in thirteen minutes, whereas they had taken an hour and a quarter by their short cut.
“‘He was always right, and now he’s dead right’—that’s what they’ll put on your tombstone, my lad,” quoted Freddy; and he and Meg escaped from the room while Cedric was still explaining gravely that he wouldn’t have a tombstone as he intended to be cremated.
CHAPTER XVI
IT WAS NEARLY nine o’clock, but Meg still could not bring herself to leave the comfortable, brightly lit lounge of the Sea View Hotel and set off into the twilight to walk to the cottage. It occurred to her that perhaps she had been a little hasty in rejecting out of hand Mildred’s offer of her own room at the hotel. After all, if Mildred really had meant it, and really did intend to find somewhere else for herself …?
But she abandoned the idea at once. Mildred was always impulsive. It was most improbable that the offer represented anything more than a passing whim—by now she had probably forgotten that she had ever made it. Anyway, it was impossible to ask her about it tonight as she had gone out immediately after dinner—probably to the pictures, which would keep her out till eleven at least.
Meg leaned back in her seat, and peered behind the heavy curtains which had already been drawn across the french windows. The dusk was deepening. Even if she started now, it would be quite dark by the time she came out on to the cliff path, with two miles of solitary walking ahead of her.
But it was silly to feel nervous. And in any case, she reflected, with the comfortable arrogance of youth, something was sure to turn up. Captain Cockerill would offer to see her home. Or (dare she hope it?) Freddy would do so. Or someone with a car. Something. Meg yawned. She couldn’t be bothered to worry about it just yet, anyway; and she turned her attention back to the conversation going on around her.
It was still about the fire. The electric fire that Freddy had switched on automatically before settling into his armchair, and that Miss Carver had as automatically switched off again as she came into the room five minutes later.
If it had been the management that had switched it off, Freddy would probably have accepted it with a shrug as one of the eccentricities of British hotel keeping (Meg sometimes suspected that Freddy must have travelled very little, so certain was he that British hotels were the worst in the world). But for a fellow-guest, a supposed ally, to display such pro-management sympathies, roused him to protest.
“Hi!” he expostulated, and Miss Carver turned on him a polite but chilly smile.
“A fire!” she ejaculated, but still politely. “In August!”
Freddy didn’t see the point.
“I like a fire,” he explained. “Whether it’s cold or not. It cheers things up, don’t you think?”
Miss Carver didn’t.
“Not in August,” she repeated. “Not even in September. The first of October, that’s the day to start fires. My dear Mother always
had the fires lit on the first of October. How we used to look forward to it, we children! Coming in from our afternoon walk and finding a fire in the nursery!”
The old lady’s eyes were bright with memory; and, glancing up, Meg had a sudden vision of a solemn little girl, her hair tied back with a big ribbon, staring entranced at the first fire of the season. But had that moment of ecstasy been dearly bought by the long chilly discipline of fireless September evenings? Or cheaply—worth every bit of it a thousand times? Meg realised, with a little shock, that she belonged to a generation that would never know.
But Miss Carver was back in the present now, her neat little feet firmly planted on the carpet of the Sea View lounge, and her eye still fixed accusingly on Freddy, though the subject of her discourse had changed.
“What I really came in for,” she was saying, “was to ask if anyone, by any chance, had seen my hat box?”
Her eye held Freddy for another moment, and then roved round the room, settling a little uncertainly on Meg.
“A hat box,” she repeated; and then, as if doubtful whether girls of Meg’s generation could be expected to know what hats were, she elucidated: “A light circular box with a flat top. Fawn coloured. I fancy I left it in the hall. Stupid of me, of course, but if anyone has seen it …?”
Here Mrs Forrester abandoned for a moment the unrewarding task of telling Cedric to go to bed—a task which had occupied her with few interruptions ever since dinner —and plunged eagerly into the conversation.
“I saw it,” she declared proudly. “I’m almost sure I did—this morning. In the porch. Where they keep the deckchairs when it’s raining. Only it wasn’t raining this morning, of course,” she added, with muddled accuracy, and an anxious glance towards the floor. But Cedric had at last obeyed her instruction—or, more likely, had finished his game—for he had already gathered up his cards and was moving with silent dignity towards the door. She continued, with noticeably more confidence as the likelihood of contradiction vanished into the hall:
“A sort of pale brown one, was it? With ‘E.C.’ on the lid?”
“That’s right! That’s right! But in the porch? I’m sure I didn’t leave it in the porch. Besides, it’s not there now, I’ve just been looking.”
“Well, that’s where I saw it.” Mrs. Forrester was positive. “This morning. Just as we were setting out for the picnic.” With sudden inspiration she turned on Freddy.
“You were with me. We started out together. Didn’t you notice it too?”
Freddy shook his head. He seemed, for once, to be making no attempt to think of a witty answer; and anyway, Captain Cockerill was now adding his contribution:
“I know what must have happened,” he declared, expanding with potential helpfulness. “Those people who left this morning—the Liverpool lot—they must have taken it by accident, with their own luggage, They had it all piled up out there, you know. If I can be of any service …?”
What sort of service he could be in such a case was clear to no one, least of all to himself. Miss Carver sensibly concentrated on the first part of his speech.
“Oh dear! Dear me! How very tiresome! However, they will no doubt have discovered their mistake by now, and will be having the box returned to me without delay.”
Miss Carver’s voice did not falter as she voiced this optimistic supposition. Perhaps she felt that by taking it for granted, she would somehow to be able to instil into that loud-laughing, jazz-loving troop far away in Liverpool some of that punctilious courtesy which had made life run so smoothly in her own youth. She hesitated, cast one more warning look first at Freddy and then at the electric fire, and left the room.
As soon as she had gone, Meg got to her feet.
“I really must go,” she announced. “I’ve three miles to walk, and it’s getting dark.”
It worked; though to Meg’s disappointment it was Captain Cockerill, not Freddy, who leaped to his feet.
“My dear young lady … couldn’t think of allowing it … a pleasure to escort you….”
Meg was about graciously to close with this offer—after all, it was better than nothing—when she became aware of Freddy at her side.
“I’m taking her,” he said with finality. “It’s all arranged.” And pulling her by the arm he hurried her across the lounge —now that Cedric had gone to bed it was possible to do this without pitching headlong—and out into the hall.
Here he turned to her and grimaced.
“Shades of my great-grandmother!” he exclaimed. “How do you make me do it? Three miles! It’ll kill me!”
With which prediction he proceeded to hurry her out of the hotel and along the glittering streets at a pace which soon made her protest.
“I’m the one who’s being killed, not you!” she gasped, laughing and clinging to his arm.
He slackened his pace a little, and grinned round at her with goblin gaiety.
“I can’t help it!” he cried, giving a little skip as if to illustrate his mood. “It’s the moonlight. It seems to get into my blood, and makes me want to run, and run, and run to the ends of the earth. Doesn’t it get into your blood, too?”
He was dragging her along at a run now, laughing, and his laughter sounded high and wild as they came out on to the open cliff. Meg felt for an odd moment that it was her weight alone, clinging to his arm, that prevented him from floating off the earth altogether.
“It might,” she answered him, “if it was moonlight. Actually, it’s the lights from the pier.”
But Freddy only laughed the more; and now something of his mood began to pump through Meg’s heart and lungs. She was out of breath no more; Freddy’s hand, clasping hers, seemed to lift her with an enchanted lightness across the dim turf; and the turf itself was springy beneath her feet. Faster and faster they sped across the night, and the wind was in Meg’s hair.
“We are the souls of two lovers who have leaped from Lover’s Leap!” cried Freddy, the words flying away behind them; and Meg could only cry in answer: “We are, we are!”
But now they were in the lane leading to the cottage, and a sudden change came over them both. Or did it only come over Freddy, while Meg’s mood, so closely linked with his, merely followed in his wake? She did not know; she was aware only of a sudden deflation of spirits; a sudden realisation of tiredness; a sense of caution and doubt. She wished they had not shouted so loudly, so carelessly across the empty fields. The echoes of their shouts seemed to go on … and on … and on, breaking into the silence that would have been so much wiser, so much safer a thing.
And now they were nearing the cottage, and for the first time Meg, a disembodied spirit no longer, realised the awkwardness of the situation she had created by allowing Freddy to escort her back like this. Was he expecting her to invite him in? And if so—what then? Even the most stolid and unenterprising of men, with the most honourable of intentions, might reasonably hesitate before leaving a young woman alone in so desolate a spot; and Freddy was neither stolid nor unenterprising; and God alone knew what, if any, were his intentions. Meg felt herself blushing hotly in the darkness as it occurred to her that Freddy might think she had manoeuvred the whole thing on purpose to place them both in just this situation.
But before she had formed any coherent decision as to what attitude she ought—or, indeed, wished—to adopt, the matter was taken out of her hands. For there was a light in the cottage window. Standing there at the gate, her hand already on the latch, Meg stared at the light, for a moment quite at a loss. And then, even as she stared, the light slowly and deliberately went out.
For a full minute Freddy and Meg stood side by side in the darkness, hearing only each other’s breathing. Then Meg became aware that Freddy was waiting for her to speak first—to give some explanation of it all. But she had none to give; and, after all, it was Freddy who finally broke the silence.
“They’ve run out of shillings,” he declared; and at the sympathetic gravity with which he propounded this anticlimax, Meg found
her tenseness resolving into hysterical giggles.
“They can’t have—it’s oil,” she spluttered; and then, recovering her composure: “It must be Mildred—though why on earth she should have come here tonight—let’s go and see.”
She pushed open the gate, and waited for Freddy to lead the way into the darkness; but he hung back.
“You go first,” he said. “You know the way through this jungle better than I do.” And Meg in the darkness could hear him brushing some unwelcome leaf or insect off some part of his person.
“All right. But it’s just straight on, actually,” said Meg, stepping boldly forward—and crashing straight into some hard, inexplicable obstacle.
“Ouch! Have you a torch? Bother!” Meg was simultaneously rubbing her shin with one hand and trying to identify the invisible object with the other.
“It’s a—a sort of barrow, or something,” she reported. “We’d better go round it. It doesn’t matter trampling the beds—they’re only weeds.”
She began to push through the tangled undergrowth to the right, with Freddy close behind her. So close, indeed, that when she stopped dead, with a quick gasp of dismay, he pushed right into her. For a horrible moment she toppled, clutching at his coat; then she righted herself, stepped back, and looked again for what she thought she had seen.
Yes, she had seen it—or perhaps not seen so much as heard —sensed it; felt a sort of dank, echoing emptiness in the very air. For there in front of her lay the black, gaping hole of the well-shaft—so black in the surrounding darkness that even now she could scarcely believe in the miracle—the sixth sense—call it what you will—that had saved her.
Freddy was beside her now. He, she remembered, didn’t know about the well, and in a hurried whisper—somehow it seemed necessary, after such an escape, to talk in whispers —she explained the situation to him.
Uncle Paul Page 14
