by A. L. Barker
Pam might not be so wrong after all. The business with Soulsby was sheer kiddology, but this was how he had felt as he lay on his back in Clapham’s boat. Perhaps he should get a medical check-up.
Driving back to the hotel he caught glimpses of the Carrick Roads. A yacht race was in progress, white sails running before the wind, sun sparkling off blue water – a picture from the calendar he had pinned over the sluice in the shop and kept tally of the days till their holiday. As a holiday it was a write-off. But at least – at most – it had clarified the situation between himself and Pam.
There had been life before her, but would he want it again? In his single existence he had spent a lot of time bar-crawling, seeking ad hoc girls. From that angle, the choice was clear. He would be a fool to go back to random searching for a congenial partner.
I’ll take her away, he thought, I’ll ask no question, I’ll go along with whatever she wants. This place brings out the morbid streak, but she’s not the only one. There’s Olssen painting monsters, Mrs Clapham attacked by her own saucepan, the Soulsbys are trying to work miracles and a deaf woman heard wolves.
Perhaps it depended on what was meant by miracles, how you look at them, and where. You shouldn’t ask too much, a change of heart is a minor miracle.
The patrolman in the middle of the road seemed to be beckoning him on. He was waving his arms, his mouth opening, shouting. Antony slammed on his brakes, stalled the engine.
The patrolman, still waving his arms, ran to the car. He leaned in through the window.
‘What’s up?’ said Antony.
‘You can’t come any farther. Go back.’
‘Back where?’
‘Back!’
The patrolman was very young, he still had a boy’s fuzz on his cheek.
‘I’m going to Falmouth,’ said Antony.
‘Take the M road.’
‘Why should I? This is pleasanter.’
‘There’s a tree down, a great big tree …’ He looked queer, his face was greenish and dewy with sweat.
‘Don’t worry, there are plenty more trees.’
‘It’s across the road. On top of a car!’
‘Christ – is anyone hurt?’
The boy bit his lips, his jaw cracked. ‘Two women …’
Antony reversed and drove away. He pulled up when he saw a man leaning on his cottage gate. ‘What happened back there?’
‘The old oak came down. I warned them. That tree’s dangerous, I said, fixing to fall. I know, I said, owls, I said, have always lived in that tree. It’s not easy for them to find roosts to suit them nowadays, they wouldn’t go unless obliged to. They upped and left a week ago. That was a sign.’
‘What happened? The patrol said a car was involved.’
‘Built to last, those old cars were.’ The man made an ugly face. ‘This one won’t.’
‘Have they got the passengers out?’
‘I don’t reckon a flea could come out of that alive. They’re waiting for lifting gear. They wouldn’t let me near but I saw it under the tree.’
‘Saw what?’
‘An old bull-nosed Morris.’
Startled, Antony recalled a car parked alongside his at the Bellechasse. ‘What was it like?’
‘Like?’
‘What colour?’
‘Dark colour. It was pancaked, for God’s sake.’
Antony had a vision which he would far rather not have had. He trod on the accelerator, tyres squealing, shot away.
Watch it, he told himself, this is where we came in, this is what it’s good at, this place: intimidation, false alarms, jiggery-pokery. At a rough estimate there was more than one vintage Morris in Cornwall. He had seen another only yesterday, resprayed shocking pink. Any number of them – golden oldies, bull-nosed and cherished – were bouncing along Cornish lanes at this minute.
His was the only car when he parked behind the Bellechasse, everyone else was out, everyone except Pam – waiting for him.
He ran upstairs calling her name. In their room was a letter written on one of the ‘English Field Flower’ series of notelets he had given her at Christmas: ‘Nanty, I can’t stay here. Senga’s going back to London and is taking me. I’ll be waiting for you at home.’
Copyright
This ebook edition first published in 2014
by Faber & Faber Ltd
Bloomsbury House
74–77 Great Russell Street
London WC1B 3DA
All rights reserved
© A. L. Barker, 1999
Preface © Kate Jones, 2014
The right of A. L. Barker to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–0–571–30576–6
