by A. L. Barker
‘He didn’t die of wounds: he contracted an obscure Eastern disease which dried him up, a sort of drought of the body fluids. At the funeral his comrades came to me and said he had been a good friend and a fine soldier. All he left was his medals. I don’t even know if he meant me to have them.’
‘Have you never thought perhaps they were all he had to leave? Courage is manifest in its immediate context, in the eye of the beholder; those medal discs are his only evidence to you and the rest of the world of the sacrifices he made and the dangers and hardships he endured. They constituted his life’s savings.’
‘I wanted something personal to remember him by!’
Piper adjusted his tone to one of gentle rebuke. ‘The strong man is silent; when he can’t express his deepest emotions he takes refuge in his masculinity.’
‘I never asked him for anything.’
‘He could not give, you could not ask. There were constraints on both sides. Do you condemn him because for all his bravery he feared to speak three small words: “I love you”?’
Face to face with Mildred Gascoigne and accustomed as he was to conducting his sessions on a paper-to-paper basis: ‘Write to The Listening Ear, enclosing an s.a.e….’ – he wondered if he had gone too far.
Her eyes filled, she sniffed – or was it a sob? The telephone rang.
‘Excuse me.’ He turned to it thankfully.
Sam said, ‘When are you coming back?’
‘Soon.’
‘I never knew why you went to that place.’
‘I can’t talk now.’
‘Someone with you? Is it that girl who was asking about you?’
‘There’s nobody here.’
Piper hung up. He looked round.
Mildred Gascoigne had gone. He sat for a long while idly turning the brass fly in his fingers, disliking it still. Now that he came to think, wasn’t his situation the same as hers? Neither of them had been capable of inspiring love where love was due. They had both made fools of themselves in the attempt. An act of charity would have saved her, but where had he, the counsellor of love, gone wrong? Discovering that he had not yet put away childish things was to have been the bond between himself and James. But it had become a barrier, with James – and Angela – on the other side.
*
On the day of the boat trip a fingering wind blew offshore. The creek built up into a series of travelling ribs and travelled out to sea: there was a business air, yet nothing doing.
‘Choppy,’ said Charlie.
Clapham, stepping out of his boat, wiped his boots with handfuls of grass. ‘This here’s bilge, collected while she’s been beached. I’ll have to pump her out.’
Charlie assumed that scales of lichen and green veining on the hull were evidence of different waters and conditions. He was impressed when Clapham boasted that he had converted the engine from a Ford car.
‘What did you do about the gearbox?’
‘Put a reversing propeller in its place.’
Charlie said thoughtfully, ‘Is there a market for car engines?’
‘Depends what you call a market. I got mine from a breaker.’
‘You had to pay?’
‘Fifty nicker. Why?’
‘Just curious to know what mine would fetch.’
‘Are you talking about the vehicle that’s been in Penweathers’ yard all week?’
‘Battery failure. That engine would drive the Queen Mary.’
‘I don’t advise you to try flogging it. There are plenty of good motors going for a song in the holiday season. Short of the ready, are you?’
Clapham sounded sympathetic but Charlie was taking no chances. ‘Idle curiosity. Like I might ask why you call your boat The Maid of Orleans.’
‘The previous owner’s choice.’ Clapham polished a brass rail on his sleeve. ‘I’ve a fair bit to do to her. Don’t want the ladies getting their frocks dirty, do we?’
In the event, it was Antony Wellington who got dirty. There was trouble between him and Pam. She pleaded with him not to go on the tour of the creeks, but suddenly he was determined that they both should go. They argued about it through every mealtime, even breakfast. At breakfast Pam took to whimpering and weeping; Antony was alternately red-necked and white-jawed. They did not exhaust the subject; it seemed that nothing else could engage their attention and when they were silent the air between them raged.
Soulsby said to Felicia, ‘It’s a boat-ride they’re debating, not the National Debt.’
They went down to the jetty hand in hand, lover-like. Mildred, watching from her window, was glad they had resolved their difference. But when the time came for Antony to help Pam into the boat it was obvious that his hold was a grip of iron, not love. He pulled her across the jetty crying, ‘Come and look, sweetheart!’ He leaned into the boat and turned, holding up a sheet of plastic. ‘See this, folks? Under water it looks like a big tadpole, no legs, no arms, no face, like an embryo before it’s legal. Isn’t that right, Pam?’
‘Leave it be!’ roared Clapham. ‘It’s to keep the ladies’ shoes clean.’
Cuddling the plastic, Antony stepped over the side, slipped and slid feet first into the bottom of the boat. Clapham, who was urging Pam on board, effed into her ear; Charlie went to Antony’s assistance; Senga and the Soulsbys watched from the jetty.
Flat on his back, Antony groaned. ‘What did I tread on?’
‘Guano,’ said Soulsby.
Clapham fumed. ‘I spent all morning scrubbing off the muck and those bloody skuas did a slash-round as soon as my back was turned.’
Senga said, ‘They eat other birds.’
Pam approached, looked into the boat and shuddered.
Charlie held out a helping hand to Antony. ‘Oops-a-daisy.’
‘I can’t – I can’t move!’
Pam got into the boat beside him and tried to lift his head.
‘Leave me alone!’
‘Let him find his feet, he’ll get himself up,’ said Soulsby.
‘I can’t! I’ve broken my back!’
‘Oh God!’ Pam covered her face.
‘I’ll take your shoulders,’ said Clapham.
‘I tell you I can’t move!’ His voice rose to a scream. ‘I’m paralysed!’
Clapham shifted a coil of rope. ‘You sat down arsy-versy. No bones broken. The deck’s clear.’
Antony closed his eyes, murmured ‘Paralysed’, lingering on each syllable.
‘He can’t be – can he?’ moaned Pam, still hiding her face.
‘Tickle the soles of his feet,’ suggested Senga, ‘and you’ll find out.’
‘Try sitting up,’ said Charlie.
Antony whimpered. Felicia Soulsby said to her husband, ‘See if you can help.’
‘Me?’
‘It’s the least you can do!’
‘If he’s caused real damage it’s best not to move him.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘Maybe I should start the engine,’ said Clapham. ‘To encourage him.’
Antony screamed, ‘For God’s sake – you want to kill me?’
Pam burst into tears. Mrs Soulsby poked her husband between his shoulder-blades. ‘George!’
Soulsby stepped into the boat. His manner was that of a man reminded of a scruple he would prefer to forget. Antony opened his eyes: Soulsby stooped and looked into them. He seemed uncertain what to do next, or whether he should do anything at all.
Charlie said, ‘We should call an ambulance,’ and Pam moaned.
Antony cried, ‘Don’t touch me!’
Soulsby unfastened the collar of Antony’s shirt. Antony stopped turning his head from side to side and lay still.
‘George!’
Soulsby slipped a hand under Antony’s neck. Everyone waited. A bird with a malevolent eye flew down and perched on the gunwale. When Clapham lunged at it, it flew away, throwing them a honk of derision. Antony reached for Soulsby’s hand and pulled himself to
his feet. He stood looking round in a baffled sort of way. ‘Lot of fuss about nothing.’
Pam cried, ‘You scared us to death!’
‘I pull a muscle and she talks about death!’
Senga said, ‘Can’t we up anchor or cast off or something?’
Mrs Soulsby demanded of her husband, ‘Now do you believe me?’
‘No.’
‘When proof has been vouchsafed? What more do you want?’
‘I don’t want.’
‘That makes it right? How utterly selfish! You spare no thought to suffering humanity – you could give life—’
‘How often have we been through this? Do I have to tell you again, it’s a fluke. Fluky!’
‘After what’s happened?’
‘Nothing happened.’
‘I just don’t understand. You’re a thinking man, and caring, but you won’t acknowledge this power. Don’t you realise it isn’t yours to withhold or bestow, you’re merely the instrument—’
‘Bollix.’ Soulsby went and sat in the stern.
The offshore wind dropped, leaving a flat sea with navy-blue cloud shadows. Holding to the bank, Clapham made for the headland. They passed a series of narrow valleys brimming with pink and purple rhododendrons: hidden water-courses emerged from the chaparral to form pools fringed with yellow irises. There was a gradually increasing concourse of pines on the slopes, and inland on level terrain a solid wedge of oak and beech with a dark underpinning of yews.
‘Pretty, eh?’ said Clapham. ‘I told Miss Gee she’d be missing a treat. She said she couldn’t trust herself on the sea.’
As they drew level with the headland the temper of the water changed. Instead of a succession of travelling ribs it piled into combers, white-topped, slapping the hull.
‘We’re running into a storm,’ said Felicia.
‘Something big’s come into the bay and we’re meeting the swell. If there’s a blow coming we’ll soon know. The Devil’s Tooth they call the Point. Many a boat it’s chewed up.’ Clapham spun the wheel jollily. ‘Hundreds of wounded from the Peninsular Wars were drowned hereabouts.’
Soulsby said, ‘I read somewhere that gun-decks in the British Navy were painted red to lessen the shock of seeing so much bloodshed.’
‘George, you should be resting. It’s always the same after one of your sessions.’ Felicia turned to address the company. ‘My husband has a gift. He denies it, but you can all bear witness that it exists.’
‘Just forget it,’ said Soulsby.
The boat rolled gracefully, presenting first to port, then to starboard, and finishing with its prow in the air like a playful dolphin.
‘She loves a romp,’ said Clapham.
They watched him spinning the wheel with what they hoped was competence. Charlie and Senga were thrown together. Antony rushed to the side and leaned over.
‘I don’t mind this.’ Senga settled into Charlie’s arms.
He took the opportunity of looking closely at her pigmentation. ‘I think I’d like to paint you.’
‘Why?’
‘To find out about you.’
‘There are other ways.’
‘It would be my way.’
‘What did you find out about your wife?’
‘If a painting’s any good when it’s finished I’ll have learned something about myself as well as the sitter.’
She said soberly, ‘Promise you’ll tell me what you’ve learned.’
Charlie shook his head. ‘If it doesn’t work out I won’t have learned anything and neither of us will want to look at it.’
Uttering a maritime shout, Clapham steered into open water. The wind smacked the boat on its beam, precipitating it towards the shoreline which bristled with rocks. ‘Gunwallow ahoy!’
Felicia Soulsby was pitched forward to a suppliant position on her knees.
‘I’ve been sick,’ announced Antony Wellington.
Clapham left the wheel to look over the side. ‘Sardines are rising to the bait.’
The boat made for the rocks. Felicia screamed, ‘Water’s coming in!’ and they all saw the gunge on the bottom boards rapidly thinning to a soupy wash.
Clapham said, ‘She’s carvel-built, it takes her a day or two to tighten up.’
‘The boat’s leaking, we don’t have two hours, let alone two days—’ Soulsby dropped his hand on the wheel beside Clapham’s. ‘Turn around.’
‘We’ll all be drowned!’
‘There’s no cause for alarm, ladies—’
‘We paid to see the creeks,’ said Charlie.
‘Get us back to the jetty!’
Clapham looked round at them for confirmation. ‘Is that what you want?’
‘If you don’t,’ said Soulsby, ‘this tub’s going to take us down to the oceanbed.’
*
Clapham said ‘The wife put you up a picnic tea to have on the headland watching the yacht races.’
‘No headland, no picnic,’ said Soulsby.
‘She won’t be best pleased if you take it back untouched.’
‘I guess not,’ said Mrs Soulsby.
‘Have it here, on the jetty. You can still see the yachts.’
‘There’s nowhere to sit.’
‘There’s grass.’
‘I’d rather not,’ said Pam Wellington.
Clapham said, ‘There’s a nice flat tree stump, the ladies can sit on that.’
‘I don’t care where I sit,’ said Senga. ‘If there’s tea, let’s have it.’
‘Not here.’ Pam turned away. ‘Tony – this is where I saw it – in the boat—’
‘It’s where you made a fool of yourself.’
‘I think we should open Mrs Clapham’s lovely picnic,’ said Felicia. ‘We don’t want her to think we didn’t bother.’
‘There’s two thermoses,’ said Clapham, ‘cucumber and paté sandwiches and a batch of tarts made this morning.’
‘Is that Mr Eashing over by the shrubbery? He might like to join us.’
‘He’s asleep, having a sweet dream.’ Senga unstrapped the picnic basket. ‘Gather round everyone.’
‘Are you planning to paint the view?’ Wallington said to Charlie.
‘It’s too well connected. Boats showing their bottoms, woolly white clouds and blue water. Needs to be disrupted. By a figure. Or a tree.’
Clapham said, ‘I had to take the tree down. It blocked the view. First thing people ask is can they see the sea from the windows. Pity. Bit of history that tree was. A jerry pilot came down in it and got strung up by his parachute.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Died, like a fly on flypaper,’ Clapham said cheerfully. ‘Best thing he could have done. He’d have been lynched if he’d been found.’
Pam Wallington jumped up and ran. Mrs Soulsby, who was proffering a cup of tea, received most of it down her skirt. Antony Wallington ran after his wife.
Felicia dabbed at her dress. Soulsby took out his handkerchief but she waved him aside. ‘Go and help the old man.’
‘What old man?’
Tight-lipped, she pointed to where Eashing, slumped in his chair, had spread his hands open on his knees as though begging. ‘He needs help right now.’
‘He’s sleeping like a baby.’ Soulsby would like to be doing the same.
‘Did you ever see a baby adopt that posture?’
‘Want me to go and sit him up?’
‘What I want, what I have always wanted from you, George, is for you to share my concern.’
Eashing was leaning sideways, head and shoulders, lacking support, hung over the arms of his chair. His weight, displaced, threatened to tip the chair: its onside wheels were dug deep into crumbling earth.
‘Help him George – you must!’ Soulsby stirred. Felicia cried, ‘Hurry!’
Soulsby took a reluctant step, but quickened his pace when Eashing’s chair canted visibly and Eashing started to slide out of it. Soulsby was in time to take him by the shoulders and haul him and the chair
upright. Eashing awoke to find the big man pinning him down. Panicking, he struck at Soulsby’s hands.
‘Hold still.’ Soulsby leaned on him. Eashing cried out, beat his fists on Soulsby’s chest. Felicia ran to them.
‘Relax! You’re safe – my husband has saved you. You were having a bad dream.’
‘I was having a beautiful dream. I dreamed I was running through a cornfield, through the ripening corn.’ Eashing cried, ‘I was running!’
Felicia said sensibly, ‘That would be bad for the corn. The farmer would not be pleased.’
‘I can’t run!’
‘Have you tried?’
‘I assure you, madam, for as many times as I have tried, I have failed.’
‘Try now.’
‘Why?’
‘My husband has touched you and he has healing in his hands.’
‘Felicia!’
She stopped over Eashing, her sparkling spectacles closing in on him. He lifted a finger to them. ‘Don’t they deflect your vision?’
‘What?’
‘I am wondering if these pretty rhinestones distort as well as decorate. I hope not.’
Felicia frowned. ‘I don’t find my spectacles distorting. But I urge you not to dismiss my husband’s gift without giving it a trial.’
A moderate man, with no wish to be more, Soulsby often asked himself how come he had married a woman who had a rapport with supernature. She didn’t know when to stop. It was the one thing calculated to worry him. He had strong qualms about what she was trying to do.
Felicia told Eashing, ‘You weren’t there when Mr Wallington fell getting into that dreadful boat and injured his back. George healed it with a touch. Your dream – why not try to realise it?’ She held out her hands. ‘Rise up and walk!’
‘I won’t be responsible,’ said Soulsby.
‘In Tunbridge Wells we witnessed a miraculous event.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t keep bringing that up!’
‘It’s there, George, it’s always there. The unknown quantity.’
‘Nothing was proved. It antagonised people, they didn’t understand and they weren’t happy—’
‘I am happy, I am relieved, I am reassured, I am eternally grateful for my lack of understanding. Have you thought what it would be like if we understood? If we knew what goes on?’
