In the Time of Greenbloom

by Gabriel Fielding

  God, presumably, was everywhere; and though He was so far removed, higher even than the sun, upon His ears the longings and the self-accusations of the human mould upon the beach must fall intimately and urgently. He must care and if He did and could in some way cleanse the past, then it was a small price to pay to have to transmit one’s cries through the narrow effeminate ear of Father Delaura.

  He rolled over on to his stomach in the glazed surface of the sea and swam back to the beach.

  Audrey’s friend had arrived, he saw, as he passed the two girls and went into the tent he had hired. He glanced at the man with some interest as he passed but he saw only his back. He was squatting on his haunches facing them and John took in only the breadth of his shoulders beneath the close-cropped head, the full sharply creased trouser legs, and the blue suéde shoes.

  Inside the tent he listened eagerly hoping to discern above the flapping of the canvas the nuances of the new conversation. He thought of the stranger obscurely as a rival; a rival in more than the ordinary sense; someone whom he might himself be when he was older, someone equipped with all the perquisites at present denied him: self-assurance, a motor-car, leisure, and golden good looks.

  Drawing aside the curtain a little he peered out. The man was taking a photograph; whistling softly, he was peering down into the view-finder of an expensive camera and the two girls were posed casually together just in front of him: Sheila with her hands clasped in front of her ankles and Audrey leaning back on her outstretched arms with an enormous sun-hat flopping over her neck and shoulders. They were both very self-conscious, strained, and determined to seem unimpressed. They were making the ironic jokes people always make when they are confronted by a camera.

  The man himself was preoccupied, thoroughly enjoying himself, getting the utmost pleasure out of his advantage. John saw him stretch out a hand and grasp one of Audrey’s ankles to move it a little farther into the centre of his picture. He noted the flash of his blue eyes as he looked up at her and made some brief joke. The intimacy of the gesture both chilled and enraged him. Conceited fool! Why didn’t he get on with it? It was only a snapshot, no need to make such a to-do over it; but of course that was just what he wanted: to hold all their attention, flatter them, and from the moment of his arrival assert his male superiority and establish an intimacy to which they must respond.

  They were responding; the empty-headed little asses were laughing at him and with him, they were jostling each other and each of them was trying to steal the greater share of his attention.

  John closed the tent flap and started to dress. If he were quick he would be in good time to meet Peter. He would have a cigarette in the sun and then make his way to Bobby’s.

  The stranger had spoiled the afternoon: he was just the type of man he loathed most, experienced and cocky. Everything about him: the sharp crease in his flannels, the blue shoes and the golden hair led him to a sharper appreciation of his own inferiority. He was just the sort of man who would own a fast car and stay in luxury and leisure at South-Coast hotels picking up girls on the beach.

  Outside he heard a pause in the conversation and laughter, a pause that was filled in by the repetition of the man’s whistled tune, an idle speculative trill: three notes full of a sort of self-love and contentment, three notes curiously evocative, reminding him of something, of someone. He stiffened: the wind brushing the tent, the creaking of the framework, the continuous wash of the sea and the shouts of the swimmers receded. He was in a cave; it was dark, and through the darkness he heard the clatter of feet moving through water, was sensible of the pause and the silence which precedes communication and received once again with all of his hearing the notes of the whistle, the same vain lazy notes he had never heard repeated until this moment.

  All of her death, all of his love, all of his hatred, rose up within him black and choking so that for a moment he swayed within the airy greenness of the tent and put out his hands blindly before him seeking for some means of physical support against the dynamic of his emotion. He shook his head slowly from side to side hearing the measure of his own breathing so remotely that he seemed no longer to be within his body but to be watching it from afar with a completely detached compassion. And the day came back to him, once again he knew where he was and what had happened: Victoria’s murderer was at this moment sitting outside the tent in which he stood; only twelve paces away from him.

  He knew this with a greater certainty than if he had seen the man only yesterday in the full light of the sun. One upward glance of the eyes over the camera, the upward flash of the eyes above the torchlight; the set of the head upon the shoulders in the car, the blazered back and the close-cropped golden head he had seen as he came up from the beach; these things and many other paired apprehensions too numerous to be named had now been finally sealed and signed by the notes of the tune whistled over two years ago—and today.

  He stepped out of the tent on to the wide terrace of the pebbles and stood for a moment in the wind and sunshine. He did not know what he must do; he did not know what he would do; something of him lingered behind him in the tent, in the moment of realisation he had experienced within it. A part of him, an aspect of his sensibility, was divorced from the present in which he moved so that he felt himself to be ageless, living simultaneously now and in the past; and the knowledge gave him an extraordinary sense of power. Whatever he did it would be right; if he did nothing he would give himself no offence, if he confronted the man and turned him over to the Police who were still searching for him he would be no more than the passive instrument of a terrible justice. In himself, for the first time since he had grown up, he was nothing, need do nothing; and yet could do anything and be sure of doing right.

  He sat down unsteadily, his knees trembling as he bent them beneath him. With cold hands he sought for the packet of cigarettes he kept in his coat pocket and drawing one out placed it between his lips.

  Beside him the stranger got up.

  “I think I’ll risk it,” he said; and if his voice had changed it had changed only in the way that recollections become more like themselves when the need to recall them is banished by the actuality of the thing recalled.

  “Are you coming in with me, Audrey?”

  “No, we’ll watch. Once is enough for me.”

  “Come on! I’ll teach you the back-stroke.”

  “Not today please, Desmond! Just look at me, I’ve got goose-flesh as it is; it’s this horrible wind.” She blinked up at him in the bright sunlight. “I told you to come early, you’ve missed your chance now.”

  “My chance of what?” He was stooping and running his hand over her brown back.

  “Swimming with me of course. What else?”

  His hand lingered on the full curve of her shoulder muscle; John saw the thumb and index finger contract until their knuckles blanched.

  “OW! You pinched me!”

  “Did it hurt?”

  Even from where he was John could see that her eyes had moistened in response to the pain, that pleasure hung briefly in the laxity of her mouth.

  “You don’t know your own strength,” she said with aggrievement. “I’ll have a bruise there for the rest of the Summer.”

  “A souvenir!”

  His swimming-trunks swinging from his idle hand he moved off towards their tent. John got up and walked after him. He felt nothing; he felt as though he were floating in the strong wind which blew from the sea, as though he were being impelled weightlessly over the pebbles. In front of the door of the tent he put out a hand and touched the blue sleeve of the man’s blazer and he turned round very sharply.

  “Excuse me! Could you give me a light please?”

  There was a flash of teeth above the brown chin

  “Certainly!” The cigarette-lighter was proffered; the flame licked the top of his trembling cigarette, but he did not draw on it.

  “Do you remember me?” he asked.

  The little cap extinguished the flame and the ligh
ter was abruptly withdrawn.

  “No—I don’t think so. Ought I to?”

  John removed the unlighted cigarette from between his lips.

  “Do you remember the caves?”

  “Caves?” The smile had gone but the teeth still showed.

  “Yes, the caves. Victoria! The murder!”

  You’re crazy. What caves?”

  ‘You know,” said John. “You murdered her in the caves. She was a young girl. Don’t you remember? You strangled a girl called Victoria Blount in the Stump Cross Caves in Yorkshire two years ago. The Police are still looking for you. I’m John Blaydon and because I was with her just before you did it, I know it was you. You’ll have to come to the Police with me straight away.”

  The man put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Look! I think you’d better see a doctor—you’ve had too much sun.”

  “No,” said John. “I knew it was you when you whistled. Please don’t make it difficult for me. Don’t you see? I’m not making a mistake: I don’t want to do this—because it’s too late now, it can’t do any good for anyone; but if I don’t do it, the way things have happened, I shall never be sure. If I hadn’t moved, if I’d let you go, I know it would have been all right; but I didn’t let you go, so you will have to come with me; you’ll have to give yourself up.”

  He moved in front of the entrance to the tent. Beyond the man’s shoulder he was aware of the attention of the girls; they had turned round and were watching, trying to overhear; but he knew that they couldn’t because he and the man were both talking so intimately.

  “Get out of the way, son!”

  “No! You’ll have to come to the Police with me. If I’ve made a mistake, if you think I’ve made a mistake, why don’t you come? It will only take a minute or two.”

  “You silly little sod! Get out of my way I tell you.”

  A hand grasped him by the lapels and he was thrust to one side with horrible violence. The stranger disappeared inside the tent.

  John stepped forward to the entrance.

  “All right! I’ll send the girls for the Police and I’ll wait here until they come. I’m sorry but I can’t let you go—not now.”

  There was no answer from inside the tent, he watched the nooses of the cords which fastened the flaps being drawn slowly tight from the inside and made his way back to the girls.

  “Whatever’s the matter?” asked Audrey. She turned to Sheila. “He looks queer, doesn’t he?”

  “He looks all right. What were you talking about to Desmond? Did you want him to light your cigarette?”

  “He’s stolen my wallet,” said John, lying with immediate inspiration. “I saw it in his pocket and he won’t give it back to me. I want one of you to go and get a policeman—there’s one on duty on the promenade. If you don’t mind I’ll wait here while you get him so that your friend can’t escape.”

  They looked at him with astonishment.

  “Your wallet? Are you sure?” asked Sheila.

  “Of course I’m sure.” He was impatient. “Do you think I want a scene! For heaven’s sake hurry up and get a policeman—please. It has all my month’s pocket money in it: five pounds—”

  “But he can’t have stolen your wallet. He’s never been near your tent.”

  “How do you know?” he asked. “You haven’t been with him all the time. He might have taken it from the back of the tent on his way to the beach. He was late getting here, wasn’t he? He’s a stranger—you’ve never met him before, have you? It would be easy to dodge down below the edge of the promenade and put a hand under the tent. And anyway, my wallet’s in his pocket.”

  Sheila got up.

  “It could be! You did only meet him yesterday, Aud, and there has been a lot of pocket picking this summer. Anyway, if one of us is going to go for the police it’d better be me because I’ve got my clothes on.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Audrey. “There’s three of us to one of him. We don’t want our names in the Worthing Gazette. I’ll soon see about this.” She ran over to the tent and they followed her.

  “Desmond!” she called and they waited. “Can you come out a minute? It’s Audrey, there’s been a misunderstanding—”

  There was no answer, and Audrey turned to John.

  “He must be very annoyed,” she said, “and I don’t wonder. But if you’re quite sure—?”

  “I am.”

  “Well then you’d better go in. If he starts any trouble we can soon get help.”

  John undid the fastenings and pulled aside the flap of the tent.

  “Come out!”

  They peered in: the tent was empty. The canvas at the back had been neatly divided by a sharp knife and through the rent, vibrating coarsely in the wind, they could see the legs and feet of people passing on the promenade directly behind.

  “Well, if that doesn’t beat everything!”

  It was Sheila who had spoken, and with a strange concerted impulse, a desire to ascertain what was already quite certain, they followed her as she stepped in to the barren rectangle.

  “I told you I didn’t like the look of him from the very first.”

  Audrey bit her lip. “It’s a Corporation tent!” she said. “We’ll have to pay for it.”

  “That’s nothing! What about this boy’s wallet and the five pounds? Now we shall be in the papers.”

  They stepped out into the sunshine again. They felt isolated, quite separate from everyone else on the beach, disposed to take some positive action but quite unsure of its nature. They noticed little things about one another’s faces and mannerisms. They were both embarrassed and indifferent.

  Sheila was the first to speak. “It just shows,” she said.

  “It shows what?” asked Audrey keenly.

  “My type indeed! I wouldn’t have taken up with him, introductions or no introductions. He couldn’t even look us in the eyes when he was talking; and I don’t wonder.”

  Audrey opened a beach bag and taking out a packet of cigarettes lighted one.

  “Well you made enough fuss of him when he was here taking the photographs. You even wanted him to take one of you by yourself.” She hurried into the tent again as though she were seeking a hiding-place where she would be safe from Sheila’s reply. They heard her voice:

  “I wonder if he’s pinched anything else—I left my handbag in here.”

  “Oh there you are Bowden!” Behind them someone had spoken and John turned guiltily.

  It was Peter, immaculate in white flannels, his pink face glowing with tennis and disapproval.

  “There’s been a theft,” said Sheila.

  “A theft? What of?”

  “Oh nothing,” said John quickly. “I’m sorry I was late—I’ll explain on the way back.”

  Sheila was looking at Peter with interest.

  “Are you a friend of his?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Well, he’s had his pocket picked. We were all lying here on the beach and a man friend of my friend Audrey’s joined us; he was a stranger really—”

  “He wasn’t,” said Audrey emerging from the tent. “I was introduced to him last night at the Imperial—”

  Sheila frowned at her, smiled at Peter and went on: “All right then—he was a friend of Audrey’s and he joined us about half an hour ago and somehow managed to steal your friend’s wallet.” She turned to John. “You saw it in his pocket didn’t you, and it had five pounds in it.”

  “Five pounds. Are you sure, Bowden?”

  “Yes—just about; but look here! oughtn’t we to be going? The Old Man said we had to be there at five.” He wanted time to think behind the lies he had been forced to tell.

  “Quite!” This was Peter’s latest expression. He had picked it up from the other cashiers at the Bank. “But I don’t think we ought to leave things like this. Five pounds sterling is the dickens of a lot. Mr Victor will be very worried if we don’t do something about it. Have you reported it to the Police?”

 
“No.” It was Sheila again and John was beginning to feel like a Punch and Judy operator who finds that his puppets have come to life and are involving him in terrible difficulties with the audience. “That’s just what I was going to say.” She paused for effect and smiled up at Peter. “Perhaps we ought to introduce ourselves? I’ve seen you before of course but I don’t expect you remember me. I sometimes come to the tennis club with a friend of mine for tea—my name’s Sheila Miller. If you like I’ll come with you to the Police Station.”

  Peter coughed. John wondered why he always made him think of Three Men in a Boat. He realised that thoughts so trivial, so minimally caustic, should not arise at such a time; but he had observed before that when people were subjected to stress they very frequently had recourse to trifles. He had heard of people endangering their lives by searching for collar studs on sinking liners. Peter was still apologising.

  “—Kind of you Miss Miller; but I think I ought to discuss it with Bowden here first. You see, in a way I am his senior—little difficult to explain just now. Thank you for all you’ve done though—er, when did this man disappear? Did he say he was going—make some excuse or something?”

  “No,” said Sheila. “He only said he was going to have a bathe so we offered to lend him our tent and he went in there to change and never came out again.” She twitched aside the tent flap. “You can see what he did. He just cut open the back with a razor or something and went straight out on to the promenade. By now he’ll have packed up his bags at the hotel and be off in his car somewhere else.”

  “The Imperial’s only two minutes walk from here.”

  “Exactly,” said John. “That’s why I didn’t want to waste any more time.” He did not want to mention the word ‘Confession’. “I think the best thing we can do is to keep our appointment and I’ll report the whole thing to Mr Victor when we get in.”

  He moved away eagerly and saw that the action had had the desired effect on Peter, who, torn between embarrassment and politeness was standing hesitantly in front of the two girls.