by Ngaio Marsh
It was nine o’clock on a Saturday evening when the London train reached Dunlowman, where one changed for the Portcarrow bus. On alighting, Jenny, was confronted by several posters depicting a fanciful Green Lady, across whose image was superimposed a large notice advertising The Festival of the Spring. She had not recovered from this shock when she received a second one in the person of Patrick Ferrier. There he was, looking much the same after nearly two years, edging his way through the crowd, quite a largish one, that moved towards the barrier.
“Jenny!” he called. “Hi! I’ve come to meet you.”
“But it’s miles and miles!” Jenny cried, delighted to see him.
“A bagatelle. Hold on! Here I come.”
He reached her and seized her suitcases. “This is fun,” he said. “I’m so glad.”
Outside the station a number of people had collected under a sign that read Portcarrow Bus. Jenny watched them as she waited for Patrick to fetch his car. They looked, she thought, a singularly mixed bunch, and yet there was something about them — what was it? — that gave them an exclusive air, as if they belonged to some rather outlandish sect. The bus drew up, and as these people began to climb in, she saw that among them there was a girl wearing a steel brace on her leg. Further along the queue a man with an emaciated face and terrible eyes quietly waited his turn. There was a plain, heavy youth with a bandaged ear, and a woman who laughed repeatedly, it seemed without cause, and drew no response from her companion, an older woman, who kept her hand under the other’s forearm and looked ahead. They filed into the bus, and although there were no other outward signs of the element that united them, Jenny knew what it was.
Patrick drove up in a two-seater. He put her luggage into a boot that was about a quarter of the size of the bonnet, and in a moment they had shot away down the street.
“This is very handsome of you, Patrick,” Jenny said. “And what a car!”
“Isn’t she pleasant?”
“New, I imagine.”
“Yes. To celebrate. I’m eating my dinners, after all, Jenny. Do you remember?”
“Of course. I do congratulate you.”
“You may not be so polite when you see how it’s been achieved, however. Your wildest fantasies could scarcely match the present reality of the Island.”
“I did see the English papers in Paris, and your letters were fairly explicit.”
“Nevertheless you’re in for a shock, I promise you.”
“I expect I can take it.”
“Actually, I rather wondered if we ought to ask you.”
“It was sweet of your mama, and I’m delighted to come. Patrick, it’s wonderful to be back in England! When I saw the Battersea power station, I cried. For sheer pleasure.”
“You’ll probably roar like a bull when you see Portcarrow — and not for pleasure, either. You haven’t lost your susceptibility for places, I see.…By the way,” Patrick said after a pause, “you’ve arrived for a crisis.”
“What sort of crisis?”
“In the person of an old, old angry lady called Miss Emily Pride, who has inherited the Island from her sister (Winterbottom, deceased). She shares your views about exploiting the spring. You ought to get on like houses on fire.”
“What’s she going to do?”
“Shut up shop, unless the combined efforts of interested parties can steer her off. Everybody’s in a frightful taking-on about it. She arrives on Monday, breathing restoration and fury.”
“Like a wicked fairy godmother?”
“Very like. Probably flourishing a black umbrella and emitting sparks. She’s flying into a pretty solid wall of opposition. Of course,” Patrick said abruptly, “the whole thing has been fantastic. For some reason the initial story caught on. It was the silly season and the papers, as you may remember, played it up. Wally’s warts became big news. That led to the first lot of casual visitors. Mrs. Winterbottom’s men of business began to make interested noises, and the gold rush, to coin a phrase, set in. Since then it’s never looked back.”
They had passed through the suburbs of Dunlowman and were driving along a road that ran out towards the coast.
“It was nice getting your occasional letters,” Patrick said, presently. “Operative word, ‘occasional.’ ”
“And yours.”
“I’m glad you haven’t succumbed to the urge for black satin and menacing jewelry that seems to overtake so many girls who get jobs in France. But there’s a change, all the same.”
“You’re not going to suggest I’ve got a phony foreign accent?”
“No, indeed. You’ve got no accent at all.”
“And that, no doubt, makes the change. I expect having to speak French has cured it.”
“You must converse with Miss Pride. She is — or was, before she succeeded to the Winterbottom riches — a terrifically high-powered coach for chaps entering the Foreign Service. She’s got a network of little spokes all round her mouth from making those exacting noises that are required by the language.”
“You’ve seen her, then?”
“Once. She visited with her sister about a year ago, and left in a rage.”
“I suppose,” Jenny said after a pause, “this is really very serious, this crisis?”
“It’s hell,” he rejoined with surprising violence.
Jenny asked about Wally Trehern and was told that he had become a menace. “He doesn’t know where he is but he knows he’s the star-turn,” Patrick said. “People make little pilgrimages to his cottage, which has been tarted up in a sort of Peggotty-style kitsch. Seaweed round the door almost, and a boat in a bottle. Mrs. Trehern keeps herself to herself and the gin bottle, but Trehern is a new man. He exudes a kind of honest-tar sanctity, and sells Wally to the pilgrims.”
“You appall me.”
“I thought you’d better know the worst. What’s more, there’s a Second Anniversary Festival next Saturday, organized by Miss Cost. A choral processional to the spring, and Wally, dressed up like a wee fisher lad, reciting doggerel — if he can remember it, poor little devil.”
“Don’t!” Jenny exclaimed. “Not true!”
“True, I’m afraid.”
“But Patrick — about the cures? The people that come? What happens?”
Patrick waited for a moment. He then said, in a voice that held no overtones of irony: “I suppose, you know, it’s what always happens in these cases. Failure after failure, until one thinks the whole thing is an infamous racket and is bitterly ashamed of having any part of it. And then, for no apparent reason, one — perhaps two — perhaps a few more people do exactly what the others have done but go away without their warts or their migraine or their asthma or their chronic diarrhea. Their gratitude and sheer exuberance! You can’t think what it’s like, Jenny. So then, of course, one diddles oneself — or is it diddling? — into imagining these cases wipe out all the others, and all the ballyhoo, and my fees, and this car, and Miss Cost’s Gifte Shoppe. She really has called it that, you know. She sold her former establishment, and set up another on the Island. She sells tiny plastic models of the Green Lady and pamphlets she’s written herself, as well as handwoven jerkins and other novelties that I haven’t the face to enumerate. Are you sorry you came?”
“I don’t think so. And your mother? What does she think?”
“Who knows?” Patrick said, simply. “She has a gift for detachment, my mama.”
“And Dr. Mayne?”
“Why he?” Patrick said sharply, and then: “Sorry. Why not? Bob Mayne’s nursing home is now quite large, and invariably full.”
Feeling she had blundered, Jenny said: “And the Rector? How on earth has he reacted?”
“With doctrinal legerdemain. No official recognition on the one hand. Proper acknowledgments in the right quarter on the other. Jolly sensible of him, in my view.”
Presently they swept up the downs that lay behind the coastline, turned into a steep lane and were, suddenly, on the cliffs above Portcarrow.
/> The first thing that Jenny noticed was a red neon sign glaring up through the dusk: Boy-and-Lobster. The tide was almost full, and the sign was shiftingly reflected in dark water. Next, she saw that a string of coloured lights connected the Island with the village, and that the village itself must now extend along the foreshore for some distance. Lamps and windows, following the convolutions of bay and headland, suggested a necklace that had been carelessly thrown down on some night-blue material. She supposed that in a way the effect must be called pretty. There were several cars parked along the cliffs, with people in them making love or merely staring out to sea. A large, prefabricated multiple garage had been built at the roadside. There was also a café.
“There you have it,” Patrick said. “We may as well take the plunge.”
They did so literally, down a precipitous and narrow descent. That at least had not changed, nor at first sight had the village itself. There was the old post office shop, and, farther along, the Portcarrow Arms with a new coat of paint. “This is now referred to as the Old Part,” said Patrick. “Elsewhere there’s a rash of boarding establishments and a multiple store. Trehern, by the way, is Ye Ancient Ferryman. I’ll put you down with your suitcases at the jetty, dig him out of the pub and park the car. O.K.?”
There was nobody about down by the jetty. The incoming tide slapped quietly against wet pylons and whispered and dragged along the foreshore. The dank smell of it was pleasant and familiar. Jenny looked across the narrow gap to the Island. There was a lamp, now, at the Island’s landing, and a group of men stood by it. Their voices sounded clear and tranquil. She saw that the coloured lights were strung on metal poles mounted in concrete, round whose bases seawater eddied and slopped, only just covering the causeway.
Patrick returned, and with him Trehern — who was effusive in salutations and wore a peaked cap with boy-and-lobster on it.
“There’s a motor launch,” Patrick said, pointing to it, “for the peak hours. But we’ll row over, shall we?” He led the way down the jetty to where a smart dinghy was tied up. She was called, inevitably, The Pixie.
“There were lots of people in the bus,” said Jenny.
“I expect so,” he rejoined, helping her into the dinghy. “For the Festival, you know.”
“Ar, the por souls!” Trehern ejaculated. “May the Heavenly Powers bring them release from afflictions!”
“Cast off,” said Patrick.
The gurgle of water and rhythmic clunk of oars in their rowlocks carried Jenny back to the days when she and Patrick used to visit their little bay.
“It’s a warm, still night, isn’t it?” she said.
“Isn’t it?” Patrick agreed. He was beside her in the stern. He slipped his arm round her. “Do you know,” he said in her ear, “it’s extraordinarily pleasant to see you again?”
Jenny could smell the Harris tweed of his coat. She glanced at him. He was staring straight ahead. It was very dark, but she fancied he was smiling.
She felt that she must ask Trehern about Wally, and did so.
“He be pretty clever, Miss, thank you. You’ll see a powerful change in our little lad, no doubt, him having been the innocent means of joy and thanksgiving to them as seeked for it.”
Jenny could find nothing better to say than: “Yes, indeed.”
“Not that he be puffed up by his exclusive state, however,” Trehern added. “Meek as a mouse but all glorious within. That’s our Wally.”
Patrick gave Jenny a violent squeeze.
They pulled into the Island’s landing jetty and went ashore. Trehern begged Jenny to visit her late pupil at the cottage, and wished them an unctious “Good night.”
Jenny looked about her. Within the sphere of light cast by the wharf lamp appeared a shopwindow which had been injected into a pre-existing cottage front. It was crowded with small, indistinguishable objects. “Yes,” Patrick said. “That’s Miss Cost. Don’t dwell on it.”
It was not until they had climbed the steps, which had been widened and re-graded, and came face-to-face with the Boy-and-Lobster, that the full extent of the alterations could be seen. The old pub had been smartened but not altered. At either end of it, however, there now projected large two-storied wings which completely dwarfed the original structure. There was a new and important entrance, and a “lounge” into which undrawn curtains admitted a view of quite an assemblage of guests, some reading, others playing cards or writing letters. In the background was a ping-pong table and, beyond that, a bar.
Patrick said, “There you have it.”
They were about to turn away when someone came out of the main entrance and moved uncertainly towards them. He was dressed in a sort of Victorian smock over long trousers, and there was a jellybag cap on his head. He had grown much taller. Jenny didn’t recognize him at first, but as he shambled into a patch of light she saw his face.
“Costume,” Patrick said, “by Maison Cost.”
“Wally!” she cried. “It’s Wally.”
He gave her a sly look and knuckled his forehead. “Evening, evening,” he said. His voice was still unbroken. He held out his hands. “I’m Wally,” he said. “Look. All gone.”
“Wally, do you remember me? Miss Williams? Do you?”
His mouth widened in a grin. “No,” he said.
“Your teacher.”
“One lady give me five bob, she done. One lady done.”
“You mustn’t ask for tips,” Patrick said.
Wally laughed. “I never,” he said, and looked at Jenny. “You come and see me. At Wally’s place.”
“Are you at school, still?”
“At school. I’m in the Fustivell.” He showed her his hands again, gave one of his old squawks and suddenly ran off.
“Never mind,” Patrick said. “Come along. Never mind, Jenny.”
He took her in by the old door, now marked private, and here everything was familiar. “The visitors don’t use this,” he said. “There’s an office and reception desk in the new building. You’re en famille, Jenny. We’ve put you in my room. I hope you don’t mind.”
“But what about you?”
“I’m all right. There’s an emergency bolt-hole.”
“Jenny!” said Mrs. Barrimore, coming into the little hall. “How lovely!”
She was much more smartly dressed than she used to be, and looked, Jenny thought, very beautiful. They kissed warmly. “I’m so glad,” Mrs. Barrimore said. “I’m so very glad.”
Her hand trembled on Jenny’s arm and, inexplicably, there was a blur of tears in her eyes. Jenny was astounded.
“Patrick will show you where you are, and there’s supper in the old dining-room. I–I’m busy at the moment. There’s a sort of meeting. Patrick will explain,” she said hurriedly. “I hope I shan’t be long. You can’t think how pleased we are, can she, Patrick?”
“She hasn’t an inkling,” he said. “I forgot about the emergency meeting, Jenny. It’s to discuss strategy and Miss Pride. How’s it going, Mama?”
“I don’t know. Not very well. I don’t know.”
She hesitated, winding her fingers together in the old way. Patrick gave her a kiss. “Don’t give it a thought,” he said. “What is it they say in Jenny’s antipodes—‘She’ll be right’? She’ll be right, Mama, never you fear.”
But when his mother had left them, Jenny thought for a moment he looked very troubled.
In the old bar-parlour Major Barrimore, with Miss Pride’s letter in his hand and his double Scotch on the chimneypiece, stood on the hearthrug and surveyed his meeting. It consisted of the Rector, Dr. Mayne, Miss Cost and Mr. Ives Nankivell, who was the newly created Mayor of Portcarrow, and also its leading butcher. He was an undersized man with a look of perpetual astonishment.
“No,” Major Barrimore was saying, “apart from yourselves I haven’t told anyone. Fewer people know about it, the better. Hope you all agree.”
“From the tone of her letter,” Dr. Mayne said, “the whole village’ll know by this tim
e next week.”
“Wicked!” Miss Cost cried out in a trembling voice. “That’s what she must be. A wicked woman. Or mad,” she added, as an afterthought. “Both, I expect.”
The men received this uneasily.
“How, may I inquire, Major, did you frame your reply?” the Mayor asked.
“Took a few days to decide,” said Major Barrimore, “and sent a wire: accommodation reserved will be glad to discuss matter outlined in your letter.”
“Very proper.”
“Thing is, as I said when I told you about it: we ought to arrive at some sort of agreement among ourselves. She gives your names as the people she wants to see. Well, we’ve all had a week to think it over. What’s our line going to be? Better be consistent, hadn’t we?”
“But can we be consistent?” the Rector asked. “I think you all know my views. I’ve never attempted to disguise them. In the pulpit or anywhere else.”
“But you don’t,” said Miss Cost, who alone had heard the Rector from the pulpit, “you don’t deny the truth of the cures, now do you?”
“No,” he said. “I thank God for them, but I deplore the — excessive publicity.”
“Naow, naow, naow,” said the Mayor excitedly. “Didn’t we ought to take a wider view? Didn’t we ought to think of the community as a whole? In my opinion, sir, the remarkable properties of our spring has brought nothing but good to Portcarrow — nothing but good. And didn’t the public at large ought to be made aware of the benefits we offer? I say it did and it ought which is what it has and should continue to be.”
“Jolly good, Mr. Mayor,” said Barrimore. “Hear, hear!”
“Hear!” said Miss Cost.
“Would she sell?” Dr. Mayne asked suddenly.
“I don’t think she would, Bob.”
“Ah well, naow,” said the Mayor, “naow! Suppose — and mind, gentlemen, I speak unofficially. Private — But, suppose she would. There might be a possibility that the borough itself would be interested. As a spec—” He caught himself up and looked sideways at the Rector. “As a civic duty. Or maybe a select group of right-minded residents…”
Dr. Mayne said drily: “They’d find themselves competing in pretty hot company, I fancy, if the Island came on the open market.”
