Mrs Storrocks laughed. ‘There are times when I think I’m in a Chinese house.’
‘Off you go then,’ said Mary to the children. ‘Don’t go far out, and if it gets rough come in at once.’
‘When I was Gillian’s age,’ said Mrs Storrocks, ‘I could row from here to Dunroth and back before breakfast. Before breakfast,’ she repeated, and went out, almost dancing.
Alistair scowled after her. ‘Why can’t she row now?’ he asked.
‘No cheek,’ said his mother. When she had seen them out she went into the kitchen.
Alone in the room, Charlie watched the children go down to the beach. Alistair raced on ahead, Tom walked quickly, Gillian dawdled.
‘It must be buoyant,’ he muttered, ‘otherwise how in God’s name do we stay afloat?’
Turning to the table he began to clear it. He was on his way into the kitchen with a pile of dishes so high and precarious that carrying it was a test of faith. A cup fell and was smashed.
Mary ran through. ‘For God’s sake, Charlie,’ she screamed, ‘be more careful.’
He gaped down at the fragments. ‘It’s just a white breakfast cup, Mary, easily replaced.’
She turned her back and uttered moans either of threat or despair.
‘You think everything’s easily replaced,’ she said, and again he couldn’t be sure whether she was threatening or despairing.
When he crept round she hid her face in her apron.
‘I do think, Mary,’ he whispered, ‘there’s nothing broken between us that can’t be mended.’
‘I’ll go up and make the beds,’ she said. ‘You can clear up here if you want to.’
She rushed away. He knew she would lie on their bed and weep. They were not yet on an even keel.
The sink was filled with warm suddy water ready for the dishes. As he stood over it, aproned, with his sleeves rolled up, he lifted a saucer and, gently settling it on the water, watched it float; like faith, it was buoyant. Then he poured a little water into it, and a little more. Slowly it sank and soon could not be seen through the suds. Did faith too sink so readily, and disappear?
Taking advantage of Gillian’s aloofness, Alistair appointed himself captain. He it was who pushed least and bragged most in launching the boat; he was first in and seized the oars; and he ordered Tom and Gillian to sit together in the stern, but he did not insist when she stepped past him to sit by herself at the bow. His first few strokes were clumsy through eagerness and took the boat round in a circle, but soon, inspired by his own gasped encouragements, he was rowing steadily up the coast towards Towellan Pier.
‘We’ll not go all the way,’ he panted.
‘You couldn’t,’ said Gillian; she had her back to him and Tom, and gazed down into the water.
‘I could,’ he cried indignantly. ‘Easily. Couldn’t I, Tom?’
‘How does he know? He’s a stranger.’
‘He’s seeing me now, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, but he’s saying nothing, as usual. Suppose we bump into a basking shark?’
He laughed, but glanced about nervously. ‘There aren’t any.’
‘There were last year.’ She paused, staring down at the seaweed on the sunlit sandy seabed; there she saw a fish smaller than her little finger. ‘As big as elephants,’ she said.
‘So they were.’
‘Remember how you yelled to be put ashore, because there was one too near the boat?’
‘Oh, what a lie, Gillian! I didn’t yell.’
‘Howled then.’
‘And I didn’t howl either. She’s just making it up, Tom.’
‘Yes,’ she said, as if talking to the sea. ‘I just make things up.’
‘I wasn’t frightened really, Tom. But all the other boats were going ashore. Daddy said they weren’t dangerous, but Mummy wouldn’t believe him.’
Looking up, Gillian noticed somebody on the beach; he seemed to be keeping pace with them and waving. He was a boy, and boys often were friendly when they hoped for a favour, such as a row in the boat; but this seemed a boy different from the rest she had met at Towellan.
Tom wasn’t listening to Alistair’s account of the basking sharks. He had noticed Gillian’s interest in the boy on shore; and he had already recognised that boy as Peerie.
She turned round.
‘Who’s he waving to?’ she asked.
‘Who?’ Alistair twisted round. ‘He’ll just want into the boat. Maybe he thinks I’m a good rower.’
‘He’s shouting “Tom”,’ said Gillian.
They listened. ‘Tom! Tom!’ shouted Peerie, as he stumbled along the shore.
‘So it is you,’ she said. ‘Is he a friend of yours?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t seem very sure.’ Then, to Alistair’s annoyance, she became the keen-eyed sharp-voiced skipper. ‘Row nearer the shore,’ she ordered. ‘Make for those rocks.’
He obeyed, pointing out how to row near rocks needed skill and nerve.
Gillian was watching Peerie keenly, as if he was some aborigine whom the expedition was seeing for the first time.
‘Is he human?’ she asked. ‘Or is he a kind of seal?’
Eager to meet the boat, Peerie was creeping out to it over green slimy rocks.
‘Watch him fall in,’ said Gillian. ‘Isn’t he a freak?’
Peerie wore his coloured jockey cap and his jeans with the cowboys. His face, twisted in sycophantic grimaces, was tear- stained and sorrowful. Crouched on the rock, with the sea lapping about him, he was like some sea-creature dressed up to do tricks.
Gillian reached out and manoeuvred the boat between two rocks, where it rested. An oar could have touched Peerie.
He grinned at Tom in shame and entreaty.
‘I’ll see if he understands English,’ said Gillian. ‘Hello. Who are you?’
Embarrassed and puzzled, he looked to Tom for guidance. Left to himself, he did what he always dangerously did, fell back on the truth. ‘George Whitehouse,’ he replied. ‘But my nickname’s Peerie.’
‘Peerie? A peerie’s a top.’ Then she saw the resemblance and laughed. ‘It’s a good nickname,’ she said. ‘Did Tom give it to you?’
Again he appealed to Tom. ‘I don’t know,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve had it a long time.’
‘But you’ve known Tom a long time, haven’t you?’
‘For years. Sure that’s right, Tom?’
‘Tom says he doesn’t know you.’
In his consternation Peerie put one hand on his heart and held the other up to heaven.
‘Do you come from Glasgow?’ asked Gillian.
He nodded. Although he kept answering her it was Tom he looked at all the time. Tom did not look away always, but it was when he looked at him that Peerie felt most denied.
‘Do you live beside Tom?’ asked Gillian. ‘In the place called Donaldson’s Court?’
He pleaded with her. ‘Aye, up the next close. Whit’s wrang wi’ Tom? Has he got a sore throat? Can he no’ speak?’
‘Oh, he can speak all right. But he doesn’t know you, so why should he speak to you?’
‘But he does know me. I was talking to him last night, me and Chick.’
‘Chick? Who’s he? Is he another one of your gang?’
Peerie nodded.
‘What does your gang do? Does it break into shops, or does it just lift things from counters?’
Peerie realised her friendliness was a trap.
‘I’m no’ going to say onything,’ he muttered.
‘But if Tom won’t talk to you, you should be pleased that I do.’
‘Tom,’ he cried. ‘I’ve got to talk to you. You ken who it’s aboot.’
‘Chick?’ asked Gillian.
‘I’m no’ talking to you.’
‘You might as well, for Tom’s not hearing a word you say.’
‘He is. He’s no’ deef. It’s just because you’re here. If you werenae here he’d talk to me. Sure that’s right, Tom?’
‘W
here are you staying in Towellan?’ asked Gillian.
Again her friendly tone tempted him. ‘In a tent.’
‘Where have you got it pitched?’
He waved in the direction of Dunroth.
‘How long have you been here?’
‘We just came yesterday.’
‘Was it all arranged between you and Tom?’
That arrangement was proof of his friendship with Tom; he could not deny it.
‘I see,’ she murmured, smiling and paddling her hand in the water.
Alistair was bored. ‘I came out to row,’ he muttered.
Gillian kept smiling and paddling. Peerie kept appealing in vain to Tom.
‘Should I push her out, Gillian?’ whispered Alistair.
‘Unless Tom has something to say to his friend,’ she said.
Alistair looked at Tom uneasily; he did not like that queer silence. ‘Nobody wants to say anything,’ he said, ‘so I think we’ll go.’
Gillian helped him to push the boat out.
As it moved away Peerie began to weep. He made to jump on to another rock further out and slithered into the water, up to his waist.
Those in the boat weren’t sure which way he would start wading.
‘If he’s not careful,’ said Alistair, ‘he’ll get drowned.’
Disconsolately, Peerie turned and waded ashore.
‘Silly ass,’ commented Alistair, now rowing strongly again.
Gillian sat straight and stared past her brother at Tom.
‘Do you know what I hate most of all?’ she asked.
Alistair liked such games. ‘In the whole world?’
‘Yes, in the whole world.’
‘Scrambled eggs?’ he suggested, with a chuckle.
‘Don’t be stupid. Something important.’
He could think of nothing more important than food, except perhaps blisters, for there was one forming on his right palm.
‘I give in,’ he said.
‘A traitor. Somebody who says he doesn’t know his friends.’
Alistair understood; he gave Tom a comradely smile; they were both sufferers from Gillian’s criticisms.
‘If I’d been Tom,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t have wanted to talk to him. He was a silly ass. I could have had a cap like yon, only mummy wouldn’t let me.’
‘What’s the matter with your right hand?’ asked Gillian. ‘You’re not rowing straight.’
‘I’ve got a blister.’ He paused in his rowing to look at it; it was big enough to justify squint rowing, indeed it justified letting someone else row for a change. ‘It’s a big one, a whopper.’
‘Let Tom row,’ she said.
He agreed eagerly. Compared with Gillian’s his own rowing would not have looked much, but compared with Tom’s it would look excellent.
‘Careful when you’re changing places,’ she said.
‘Do you want to row?’ asked Alistair.
Tom nodded. ‘I’ll try,’ he said. But the reason was that he would have his back to Gillian.
~
As they went up to the house after they had beached the boat, Gillian asked Tom casually: ‘Do you want us to say nothing about meeting your friend Peerie?’
He moved his head.
‘What does that mean?’ she asked and, laughing, ran across to where the putters had been left lying on the grass. ‘I’m going to have a game of putting before dinner.’
‘I can’t,’ said Alistair, holding up his right hand with a handkerchief wrapped round it. ‘I’m going in to see if dinner’s ready.’
He ran into the house, with his injured hand ready to show. He would tell his mother about it, and about Peerie.
‘What about you?’ asked Gillian, of Tom. ‘Do you want to play?’
He shook his head.
‘I forgot you can’t speak,’ she said, and putted the ball towards the first hole. It was a good shot, and she was in in two. When she looked up she saw Tom watching her as if he was about to speak. So strongly did she get that impression that she waited; but when he remained silent, she laughed, and went on with her game.
Alistair found his mother in the dining-room setting the table.
‘Well, did you have a nice row?’ she asked.
He made his bandaged hand conspicuous. ‘Oh yes, thanks.’
‘What’s the matter with your hand?’
‘Oh, it’s just a blister.’
‘Let me see it.’
Tenderly he removed the handkerchief. She glanced and smiled.
‘You’ll not die,’ she said, and went on with her work.
‘It’s jolly sore.’
‘Where’s Gillian?’
‘She’s putting.’ He picked an apple from the bowl on the sideboard.
‘Not before your dinner.’
He grumbled as he put it down. ‘When will it be ready?’
‘It won’t be long. Did you reach the pier?’
‘Nearly.’
‘Did you see anything interesting on your voyage?’
‘No. Oh yes, lots of things: a dead jellyfish as big as a parasol; a bald man in swimming; and we met a friend of Tom’s.’
She paused, on the point of placing a fork on the table. ‘A friend of Tom’s?’
‘Well, he said he was, but Tom said he wasn’t. It was a lot of nonsense really. Tom wouldn’t talk to him. Gillian did, though. She asked him lots of things.’
‘Where was this?’
‘He was on the beach and he shouted to us.’ He laughed. ‘You should have seen the way he was dressed, Mummy. He had a jockey’s cap all coloured, like the kind you wouldn’t let me have; and he had yellow cowboys on his trousers. He had a big funny head. Gillian said he was a freak. He’s staying in a tent. He said they had a gang that stole things from shops.’
‘Alistair, you and Gillian haven’t made this up between you?’
‘No, Mummy. Ask Gillian.’
‘And Tom just sat in the boat and said nothing?’
‘That’s right. He didn’t say a single word. What’s for the dinner, Mum? I’m hungry.’
Quietly his mother finished the arrangement of the cutlery.
‘Alistair, I want you to go and tell Gillian to come.’
‘Has she to help?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’ll be mad, because she’ll be in the middle of a game.’ He departed, pleased to get this small revenge for her teasing him about his fear of the basking sharks.
‘Charlie,’ called Mary.
‘Yes, dear,’ came his voice from the kitchen.
‘Come here a minute.’
He came in, still wearing his apron and carrying a fork in his hand; he had been testing the potatoes with it.
‘Another five minutes should see them ready,’ he said. ‘Was that Ferdinand Magellan I heard returned?’
‘Yes.’
‘Safe and sound?’
‘Except for a blister on his hand. But he brought strange news.’
‘Can you return from new worlds without strange news?’
‘It’s about Tom.’
‘Oh.’
‘It may just be some of Alistair’s nonsense,’ said Mary. ‘I’ve sent out for Gillian. But whatever it is, Charlie, we’re going to discuss it like sane people.’
‘Like man and wife, I hope.’
‘Like sane people. Alistair says that when they were out in the boat they met a friend of Tom’s from Glasgow. From Alistair’s description a queer-looking creature.’
‘He must have been. Was he squatted on a rock, out in the sea, like a seal?’
‘Are you making a fool of me, Charlie?’
‘No, no. But you must admit out in a rowing boat’s a funny place to meet anybody.’
‘Funny or not,’ she yelled, ‘they met him. And do you know what he told them? He told them he was a member of a gang that stole things from shops.’
He had switched on his surrender smile, but it now became agitated. ‘First they meet him in the sea, and then
, gratutiously, he confesses he’s one of a gang of thieves. Now be fair, Mary. Doesn’t it sound like something out of one of Alistair’s storybooks?’
‘It was your son who said it, Charlie. Is he a liar, too, like your daughter?’
‘Well, Mary, Gillian did admit she lied, or as I prefer to call it, romanced.’
‘Don’t give it any of your fancy names. Lied. But did she? Did she?’
‘It was yourself who told me, Mary.’
‘But has it never occurred to you that she might have decided to lie about it for your sake?’
‘You mean, she did see him steal?’
‘Yes, that’s what I mean.’
‘She accused him, and then falsely withdrew her accusation?’
‘You’re beginning to see what’s been blazing in your eyes.’
‘You must admit, Mary, I did think of it.’
‘And I’ve thought of nothing else.’
‘But you’ve not been sure, Mary?’
‘How could I be, when every night she sticks to her story?’
There was a knock at the door, and Gillian came in, cool and grave.
‘Alistair said you wanted me to help, Mummy.’
‘What we want you to do, Gillian, is to tell us the truth about this queer story Alistair’s brought home about meeting a friend of Tom’s.’
Gillian nodded, and spoke with pedantic precision. ‘We were out in the boat when a boy shouted “Tom”. Tom said he didn’t know him, but we rowed over to him; he came to meet us very anxiously. He said his name was Peerie; I forget his other name. His head was shaped like a peerie. He was dressed in a coloured cap and blue jeans with yellow cowboys sewn on to them. He wasn’t very intelligent. He said he came from Donaldson’s Court. He’s living in a tent along the Dunroth road, with somebody else called Chick. He said that their coming here to stay in the tent was arranged before Tom came to stay with us. Tom didn’t speak to him once, though he was desperate to get Tom to speak to him. He said he wanted to tell Tom something about Chick. That was all, Mummy.’
‘Are you sure?’
Gillian reflected. ‘I think so.’
‘According to Alistair, he said he was a member of a gang that stole things from shops. Did he?’
Gillian judicially shook her head. ‘No. He said he was a member of a gang, but he didn’t admit they stole things from shops.’
The Changeling Page 14
