by Rachel Hore
‘Jinx,’ Beatrice said severely, and they both looked at the dog, who opened his mouth in a teasing smile, thus dropping the ball, then snatching it up again, ready for a good chase.
Beatrice called him. He ignored her. The boy lunged towards the dog, which pranced further away. They spent several minutes, calling and coaxing, in Beatrice’s case, or sprinting and rugby tackling in the boy’s. The other boys watched, laughing, the large boy, Sturton, taking the chance to sprawl on the sand and mop his flushed face with a handkerchief. ‘Come on, you lummoxes,’ the fair-haired boy shouted to his friends. ‘Give us a hand.’
After several minutes Jinx allowed himself to be caught and the fair-haired boy wiped the ball carefully on his shorts before raising it in triumph.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Beatrice clipped the dog on the lead and said, ‘He’s got awful manners, hasn’t he? I hope he hasn’t spoilt your game.’
The boy gave Beatrice a mock bow. ‘The fault was ours, or more specifically, Sturton’s. He could bat for England, could Sturton, but his sixes would knock out the umpire.’
Beatrice hardly heard the sense of his words, so intent was she on the sound of his voice, and the warmth of his gaze. She imagined he must spend a lot of time on the playing-fields to be so sun-browned, and she marvelled that it made his eyes seem so blue.
He was putting out his hand now. ‘How do you do?’ he said. ‘Ashton. Rafe Ashton.’
Beatrice managed to get out her own name and shook his hand. It was as though a warm current passed between them.
‘See you around, Beatrice Marlow,’ he said. ‘Bye, Jinx-boy.’ And he was striding back to resume his game.
I’m already forgotten, Beatrice assumed, but as she led Jinx past the temptation of the spinning ball and towards the path to the harbour, Rafe gave her a smile that assured her otherwise.
‘Arlene Brooker has her sister’s boy staying,’ Mr Marlow remarked, reaching for the condiments. ‘Rafe Ashton. He’s sixteen – a nice-looking lad. I met him with Larry Sturton’s boy at the Brookers’ today. Turns out Rafe’s at Winchester with James.’ Beatrice’s father didn’t notice his daughter’s interest in this conversation. He began to eat in his usual irritating way, nibbling his food off the fork in fussy, catlike movements.
Delphine spread her napkin on her lap and began to sever fat from her chop. ‘Arlene Brooker has told me about Rafe and his older half-brother. A dreadful business. Her sister’s been widowed twice already and has married for a third time. They were in Paris with her last husband, but this one’s stationed in India, somewhere in the mountains – where would that be?’
‘Kashmir, I reckon,’ her husband said.
‘Yes, Kashmir, that was it. The boys used to stay with their grandfather in the school holidays, but do you remember Arlene telling us that he died at Easter? Gerald, the older boy, he’s at Sandhurst, but Arlene said she could take Rafe. I imagine he’ll be in Cornwall often.’
‘I think I saw him this morning,’ Beatrice plucked up the courage to say. ‘Playing cricket on the beach. And one of the other boys was definitely James Sturton.’
‘It’s a pity they’re all boys,’ said her mother. ‘It would be nice to have more girls for you to play with.’
‘I don’t mind, maman.’ She wasn’t keen on meeting strangers of either gender. But she thought she’d like to see something more of Rafe.
For the next few days she walked on the beach or up to the tennis club or shopped for her mother with a continuous sense of hope that she might see him.
The Brookers’ villa was up on the plateau near the tennis club, and Beatrice would walk past the house trying to appear as though she were not avidly looking for Rafe. One afternoon when she loitered, pretending to find early blackberries in the hedges, she was sure it was his voice she heard in the back garden, laughing and talking, though she could only make out the odd word of whatever adventure he was recounting.
It was three mornings after their first meeting that she saw him on the beach again, this time swimming. A wind had got up, and Rafe and James Sturton were surfing the waves with handheld boards. When he saw her he splashed his way to shore, where he rubbed his back vigorously with a towel as he asked her questions.
‘Do you live in Saint Florian?’
‘Yes.’
‘All the time or just the holidays?’
‘I live here all the time,’ she told him. ‘Do you remember the first house you come to when you walk back that way?’ She pointed to the dunes and he looked and nodded. ‘That’s where I live. It’s called The Rowans.’ She was surprised at how easy she found him to talk to.
‘Do you know the Brookers, my uncle and aunt?’ he asked, pulling the towel around his shoulders.
‘Yes, I think you met my father recently,’ she replied. ‘He plays bridge with your uncle.’
‘That was your father? What a coincidence.’ He laughed.
‘I’m sorry you can’t go home,’ she told him.
‘Don’t be. It’s not bad here, and I’m hoping to see my mother at Christmas if my stepfather gets some leave. I haven’t seen her for a year.’
He looked wistful so she said quickly, ‘I hope you do.’ She did feel sorry for him, separated from his family, but his thoughts had already moved on.
‘I say, do you play tennis?’ he said, his face brightening, and when Beatrice nodded, ‘We must make up a foursome. Sturton’s got a sister who plays, don’t you, Sturton?’
‘What’s that?’ James Sturton had waded out of the sea and now stood puffing beside them, like a friendly walrus.
‘Tennis. Your sister and Beatrice here. We must do it. I’ll send you a note.’ He was shivering with cold and excitement, his eyes full of light and happiness. And yet, there was a vulnerability there, too – she’d seen it. Something in the twist of his smile. She wanted to tell him it was all right, everything was all right. Because she could see it hadn’t always been so for him.
The next morning she’d arranged with old Harry to ride Cloud, and it was as she was pulling on her riding boots that an envelope slipped through the letterbox. She beat Jinx to snatch it from the mat, read her name and wrenched open the front door in time to see Rafe’s retreating back. He was dressed in shorts and an old shirt, with a towel draped over his shoulder. ‘Rafe,’ she called, and he turned, his sensitive face breaking into a smile when he saw her. He glanced at her boots and breeches.
‘You’re going riding?’ he asked, unnecessarily, bending to rub Jinx’s rough coat, and when she nodded, said, ‘Let me know if you can play tennis.’
‘Wait a moment,’ she said, scrabbling open the envelope. ‘Tomorrow afternoon? Um,’ she said, trying to be offhand like Angie, ‘yes, thank you, I can.’
‘See you up there,’ he said. He looked at his watch and the sun flashed on the metal. ‘Must hurry. We’ve bought an old canoe.’ His eyes gleamed with humour. ‘Sturton’ll probably scalp me if I don’t show to help him carry it.’ He pulled the gate shut and she heard his whistle as he passed back down the lane.
Beatrice stood on the doorstep, listening to the whistle and the wail of gulls, feeling the sun on her face. It shone from a cerulean sky. The air was warm and thick as honey. Time slowed. Whatever happens, she told herself, I must always remember this moment. She’d pin it in her memory like one of her butterflies. Take it out to look at, if she needed to remind herself what pure happiness was.
On the way up the cliff path, half an hour later, she turned to look down on the beach. Two boyish figures were struggling to launch a cumbersome canoe in the surf. She watched, laughing, as one gained a seat and the other scrambled in, only for a wave to strike them broadside, capsizing the craft. There was a rush to rescue the paddles before they tried again. Then they were afloat, and coursing through the waves onto calmer water. She turned and laboured on up the path, larksong heralding her ascent.
Harry had got Cloud saddled and ready for her. She thanked him, but refused the offer of his company. ‘I
’m fine with him now. He knows me.’
Harry grunted, but Beatrice knew he wouldn’t let her go if he wasn’t sure. She mounted Cloud and he shortened the stirrups for her and remarked, ‘Don’t go too hard in this heat, he won’t like it.’
‘Of course I won’t, Harry. Don’t worry.’ He stood back and she set off at a walk, out of the stableyard, down the lane, heading for the meadows on the brow of the cliff. Cloud, his flanks quickly damp with sweat, was reluctant even to break into a trot, but she urged him on. Away from the shelter of the trees the afternoon sun beat down. She wouldn’t ride for long. She turned along the cliffs, above the sea, where there was the slightest of breezes.
The world vibrated with a long rumble of thunder. The pony hesitated and his ears switched back. Beatrice glanced up, whispering calming words, and was surprised to see that the horizon ahead was vanishing into a dark haze. As she gazed out to sea, she saw black clouds rolling towards them across the water, yet still, immediately below, the sea sparkled in sunlight. Soon, she noticed the birds fell silent. A draught of cool air began to blow, and on it floated a faint scent of rain. As she watched, the brightness leached from the sea below, leaving it dull as liquid lead. Horse and rider toiled along the wide band of cliff behind the trees bordering Carlyon, and as they passed the secret steps down to the second cove, she realized a storm was coming – coming swiftly, too. They’d ride as far as the next promontory, she decided, then turn in time to gain home before it reached them.
They plodded on, the pony sluggish, Beatrice watching the dark haze surge nearer, inking out the sky, cloaking the sea. White light flashed. A splash of rain struck her cheek, then another. The goal was reached and she wheeled the horse round. Nose to home, he grew more eager, breaking into a trot. Even so, by the time they reached the turning back to the stable, a stinging wind was blowing. She pulled up and took a final look out at the swelling sea. There was a sailing boat, flying before the wind, heading round the point to St Florian harbour. Further out, a small rowing dinghy inched towards the shore. She watched it for a moment, thinking it had better hurry, then came another great roar of thunder. Cloud reared in alarm, then charged forward in a wild gallop, ignoring his rider’s instructions, sensible only of stable and safety.
Beatrice dropped the reins then hurled herself forward, throwing her arms round his neck, gasping at him to stop. Some instinct told her to kick off the stirrups, so that when, finally, she fell, it was cleanly and into a yielding if prickly hedge. There she was caught, scratched and weeping, till bit by bit she worked herself free. The rain started in earnest now, great drops slapping her face and bare forearms, and the whole countryside vanished in thick mist that lit up and thundered. As she stumbled towards the stable she thought, Poor old Rafe and James Sturton on the beach, having to lug that great canoe back home . . . and then, with a stab of almost physical pain, she made the connection.
It was still sinking in, this realization, when a huge figure formed out of the mist ahead. For a moment she was terrified, then saw it was Harry, enveloped in oilskins.
‘Thank God you’re safe, miz,’ he cried, reaching her and seizing her shoulders, his breath coming in great gasps. ‘Your face. Are you all right?’ She touched her cheek and blood and rain flowed down her fingers.
‘Just scratches,’ she said above the noise of the storm. ‘From the hedge. Is . . .?’
‘Cloud’s safely in his stable. I was that worried – you could have fallen anywhere. Run with me now or you’ll catch your death.’
‘Harry, no.’ Her teeth were chattering. ‘The beach. You’ve got to come. Trouble. A friend of mine. There’s another boy, too.’ She wasn’t making sense.
‘You’re soaked through, Miss Beatrice.’
‘I don’t care. We’ve got to hurry. They’re out in a boat. They won’t get back in time.’
She stared into his weathered, rain-blurred face and he saw her urgency. ‘Wait a moment,’ he cried, and disappeared back into the mist. When he returned, long minutes later, he carried a second oilskin and a coil of rope.
The beach was deserted. The sea, good-tempered such a short time before, was a raging beast. They heard its angry roar, then, running down the beach, met huge waves that dashed the shore, clawing up towards the dunes. Beatrice stared into the tumult, and uselessly cried, ‘Rafe!’ but could see nothing through the rain and spray.
Moments passed, then Harry gave a shout and rushed into the waves, where she saw him clutch at something. It flipped up in his grasp and she saw its large solid shape – like a coffin, she thought. It was the canoe. He had it, now, wrestled it into the shallows and levered it upright. It was empty – what else did she expect? She helped him drag it out onto the sand.
‘We’ll find them, miz,’ Harry said, and strode back into the sea. Together they waded up and down the shoreline, searching and calling, then he turned and said, ‘You must go for help. The nearest house.’
She did not like to leave, but knew she must. She stared one last time through the stormy waves. The rain seemed to be lessening now, and an ethereal gold light suffused the air. The worst of the storm was passing. Then the light caught something in the water, a brief flash of silver and a long pale shape in a breaking wave and it was gone. The wave crashed and there the shape was again. With a cry she rushed towards it.
She struggled, was sucked down across sand and stones, pain, darkness, then up again, her lungs bursting. As she lurched to her feet, whooping for air, she was struck by something softly solid, felt cloth and hair against her skin. She grabbed at the body and, wrapping her arms around it, held on for dear life. Crying to Harry for help, she braced herself, digging her feet into the shifting sand. Harry reached her now and with the help of a following wave, they heaved the body onto the beach. It was shrouded in water, a lifeless thing. Harry rolled it onto its back and she gave a howl. It was Rafe.
Harry knew what to do. He felt for a pulse then tipped back the boy’s head and bent to breathe air into his mouth, again and again. Nothing happened for a long time, then suddenly Rafe lurched forward and began to retch. Beatrice helped Harry to turn him onto his side, where he lay coughing and sobbing. The grey limbs were flushing faintly now and his eyes fluttered open. She knelt to stroke his face, crying, ‘Rafe, Rafe, come on, it’s all right,’ and he rolled onto his front, confused and terrified.
She felt Harry’s hand on her shoulder. ‘Leave him. He’ll be all right. Go for help, now. I’ll find the other one.’ And this time she rose, shivering, and ran back up the beach, through the slackening rain.
Chapter 8
They searched for James Sturton until nightfall, returning again at dawn. It was his father who found his body, washed up by the tide. It was unimaginably awful. He was sixteen, their only son.
When she heard the news, Beatrice fled upstairs and wept on her bed until, bruised and exhausted from her ordeal, she fell into a troubled sleep. Around two in the afternoon she was woken by her mother to be told that Mrs Brooker, Rafe’s aunt, had telephoned. Rafe had been asking for her.
‘I can’t go,’ Beatrice said, burying her head in her pillow.
‘Béatrice, you must.’ Delphine came to sit on her daughter’s bed, and softly stroked her hair. ‘Sometimes we must do things we don’t want to, because it is our duty. And you, who have been so brave in rescuing the boy, must go to help him now.’
She helped Beatrice up from the bed, washed the girl’s scratched face and brushed her hair as though she were little again, then found her a fresh dress from the wardrobe.
‘Do you need me to come with you?’ she asked, as Beatrice opened the front door, but Beatrice shook her head and stepped out into appalling bright sunshine. She walked to the Brookers’ house as though in a trance, aware that only yesterday she’d have been at a high pitch of excitement to be invited there. Not today. The summer blazed on all around, but a page had been turned in their sunny lives, and the story had gone dark.
‘Ah, our young heroine,’
Mrs Brooker said when she opened the door. ‘Rafe will be so happy to see you, dear.’ She was a good ten years younger than her burly husband, elegant and bony like a greyhound. ‘He’s taking it very hard. Seems to think the whole thing’s his fault for some reason. He’s out in the garden. Supposed to be resting, of course.’
Rafe was sitting hunched up on a bench, tossing an old tennis ball from hand to hand. When he saw Beatrice he stood, pocketing the ball and drawing his forearm across his eyes. She saw at once that he’d been crying. His face was blotched and puffy and he had a bruise on his forehead, but seemed otherwise uninjured. ‘The doctor said he’d be right as rain,’ Mrs Brooker said, twisting the rings on her manicured hands. ‘Now I expect some lemonade will make everybody feel better. And Cook’s made a chocolate cake to die for . . . Oh, silly me!’ She saw Rafe’s disbelieving face, and turned and hurried into the house.
‘She means to be kind,’ he said. He sat down again, pulled out the tennis ball and turned it in his hands. ‘I must thank you, Beatrice. They all said you’ve been a brick. Saved my life and all that. What can I say?’
‘You don’t need to say anything,’ she said, sitting next to him. ‘It was Harry who knew what to do.’
‘Poor old Sturton.’ His voice ended in a squeak and his face screwed up, his shoulders shook and he began to sob. Beatrice put out a hand and touched his arm. To her surprise he turned towards her and she found herself pulling him into her embrace and he was crying noisily into her neck. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered between sobs. ‘I’m so sorry. I wish my mother was here.’
For a minute or two they sat like that, she stroking his hair as her mother had stroked hers, immensely moved. He must feel so alone. She didn’t imagine Mrs Brooker to be much use, and the Colonel was nowhere to be seen. Rafe needed her. No one had really needed her before, not even Angelina.
