Miss Frayle adjusted her glasses and stared at the milling scene on beach and promenade. Erica had seen it all before, of course, but she was admitting how she never failed to get a kick from watching the Southend holiday scene. The day-trippers from London in their paper hats spilling from the motor-coaches and the excursion-trains to swamp the promenade and beaches, amusement arcades, winkle-shops and ice-cream stalls with their exuberant presence.
Just for a day the invaders had shaken the dust of the city off their feet; they were loosening up, letting their hair down. No one took any notice. Everyone was doing it. Having themselves a good time: men, women and children.
Miss Frayle found it all quite overwhelming. She had seen nothing like it anywhere before. The coaches and cars along the seafront drive, the throngs of people on the promenade and around the pier entrance; men in open neck shirts with red, sun-scorched faces, women in gay cotton frocks with peeling sun-tanned arms, girls in shorts and handkerchief tops with slim brown legs and shoulders eating candy-floss, children in swimsuits, devouring ice-creams or lollipops. The motley of noise and colour made a deep contrast to the solitude of Dormouse Creek.
Privately, Miss Frayle had to confess she preferred the latter by a long way. Above the sound of the laughing, rowdy throng sounded the enticing calls of the boatmen along the beach. Numerous pleasure-boats of varying sizes lay alongside their mobile gang-planks awaiting the tide, while their skippers called out descriptive invitations to sail across the bay or round the pier.
And the pier really was something to sail around. Stretching way out into the estuary of the Thames, its tip almost lost in the hazy dazzle of sun on water. Like a long bridge across a calm sea, flowing with traffic, human and mechanical. Alongside the narrow electric railway, holiday-makers marched, some outward bound and others moving shore-wards. It seemed a long long way to the end and Miss Frayle was not surprised to learn from Erica that it was the longest pleasure pier in the world.
Miss Frayle’s fascinated gaze wandered over the beach to her left in the direction of Thorpe Bay. “There’s the Kursaal,” Erica said. “We must see that, unless you might like to take a trip on the pier first. How about riding to the end, having a snack lunch and taking in the Kursaal this afternoon?”
“I’m in your hands,” Miss Frayle said. She realized
Erica was determined in no uncertain style to kill the time they had to spend waiting for Jim Rayner to emerge from his conference. There was nothing she could do except join in.
As they walked towards the pier entrance, Miss Frayle could not help marvelling at the adaptable creature which Erica was. Only yesterday in the elegant atmosphere of Paris, and now here she was all ready to join in the blatant fun and amusement of boisterous Southend.
On the pier Erica led Miss Frayle towards the miniature railway-station. They bought the tickets and went down the steps to the wooden platform. A model train stood waiting and they climbed into one of the observation cars. The train soon filled up and within a few minutes, it moved off out of the station, up on to the top level of the pier.
As it clanged slowly out over the sea, Miss Frayle watched the crowded shore recede with its background of shops and stalls, the cliff behind and its great hotel lording it over all. Erica picked out the Kursaal for her, and then her attention moved further along, following the sweep of the bay towards Shoeburyness, where motor-boats and small sailing-yachts dotted the water. Way out to sea in the deep water, ocean-going steamers passed, some outward bound, others heading up the Thames for London.
On the other side of the train, beyond the rail separating the track from the footway, streams of people mooched along, or sat resting half-way on their journey. Here and there a man stood patiently guarding his fishing-rod, waiting for its alarm-bell to ring and signify a bite. Even in the train the trip seemed quite a distance, but eventually they were slowing to a stop in the seaward terminus.
Erica led the way towards the large cluster of buildings on the pier-head. Suddenly her attention was arrested by a speed-boat.
“Come on,” she said. Taking Miss Frayle’s arm she was propelling her towards a queue at the top of some steps. “If you haven’t been out in a speed-boat before, here’s your chance.”
Before Miss Frayle realized it, she was allowing herself to be attached to the queue, Erica beside her. Down the steps they went as one boat was pulling away and another came alongside. Miss Frayle heard the motor roar and saw the departing boat lift its flared bows while the stern and the passengers in it disappeared from view behind the twin towers of spray. Miss Frayle turned to Erica anxiously.
“I don’t know whether I shall like it,” she said.
Erica was laughing excitedly. “It’s madly exhilarating, give you a marvellous appetite for lunch.”
It was too late to back out, anyway, Miss Frayle decided. They were moving down the steps urged on by those behind, and then she was being helped into the front cockpit of the boat.
“More fun at the back, actually,” Erica said as they took their places. “But you do get a bit wet, and you can’t see much for spray.”
Miss Frayle eyed two giggling girls and a joking young man in the stem, and noticed they had been provided with an oil-skin. She felt thankful to be in the front. Taking on and discharging customers was a slick operation, and almost before Miss Frayle could worry about what was ahead of her they were moving gently away from the landing-stage.
A sudden roar behind her back, the foredeck suddenly leapt in the air, and they were droning across the smooth surface of the sea. Shouts and hysterical laughter from behind, and Miss Frayle glanced round, surprised to find herself looking down on the stern, which seemed a long way down, where the water bubbled and frothed in great feathers of spray about the laughing girls and young man.
Miss Frayle turned back to the salt-caked windscreen. All she could see was the high point of the bows. But Erica was right. The ride was exhilarating. Only when they weaved about, bouncing over their own wash, did her stomach turn right over. The excitement was of short duration. Soon they were heading back to the pier, the boat dropped on an even keel and came alongside the landing-stage.
Erica said when they were on the top deck of the pier again. “Give you a kick?”
Miss Frayle wiped the spray off her glasses.
“It was rather fun,” she said. “Though I’m glad it was before lunch, definitely.”
They walked as far as the long sun-deck watching the passengers embarking on the Clacton steamer. Holidaymakers lined the rails as she drew away, waving excitedly at those on the pier as though they were about to voyage to the other side of the globe. Amused by the complete abandon of the snoozers in the deck-chairs, by the patience of the fishermen on the lower decks and by the seagulls diving raucously over the children munching cakes or sandwiches, Miss Frayle and Erica made their way to the restaurant.
Following a quick snack, they caught the train back to the shore. The morning had gone so quickly, there was little time left before they would be meeting Jim Rayner again, and Erica was anxious to sample as much as she could of entertainment offered by the Kursaal.
Off the pier they turned towards Thorpe Bay, forcing their way through the jostling crowds on the esplanade. The tide was right up now and children dashed in and out of the water with delighted squeals, or built sand-castles on the few inches of remaining beach. Miss Frayle couldn’t remember when she had seen a beach so crowded before. There was hardly room to move between sprawled bodies, deck-chairs and picnic-baskets.
The sight of outstretched figures all shapes and sizes, drying off in their swimsuits, varying in complexion from white to lobster-red and from red to brown reminded Miss Frayle to take care that she didn’t catch the sun. She was the type who peeled. Brunette Erica, on the other hand, wasn’t likely to suffer. Her skin showed a faint tan already without going through the painful process which in the past had been Miss Frayle’s fate.
They crossed to the further pavement
, even more crowded than the esplanade, with shops and stalls purveying rock and postcards, whelks and walking-sticks, ice-cream parlours and stalls with great mounds of candy floss, all besieged by children and adults alike. The fortune-teller, the gimmick boy, the balloon man, the novelty stall, all were doing a roaring trade.
Miss Frayle found the way to the Kursaal harder going than window-shopping in Oxford Street, and inside the Kursaal gates she and Erica paused to get their breath.
“We’ll certainly need a holiday after this,” Erica said. “Thank heavens we can recuperate on the Moya.”
Miss Frayle eyed the chairplanes, the roundabouts and the dive-bomber beyond. Her ears were assailed with raucous shouts, hysterical screams of laughter. “I’m not going on anything,” she said firmly. “That speed-boat was enough for one day.”
Erica laughed, and they walked side-by-side into the heart of the funfair.
The same bustle, the same crowds, the same children with ice-cream cornets, clinging to parental hands, only the noise was worse. Now they were in the thick of it Miss Frayle decided it was one great hurdy-gurdy of music, guffaws and grinding metal, the exhortations of the barkers and stall-holders.
She stared at the aeroplanes circling over her head until she was dizzy; how anyone could retain consciousness in the dive-bomber? There was the crack of air-rifles, the rattle of skittles and coconut-shies, the swings and the water-chute. Less nerve-racking was the entertainment offered by the hoop-la, the darts and rolling the penny.
It was near a fortune-teller’s tent that Erica stopped, her sudden grip on Miss Frayle’s arm was so fierce that Miss Frayle turned to her in alarm.
“What is it?” Anxiously she followed the other’s gaze riveted on a man who was approaching.
Erica seemed too stunned to answer. Miss Frayle stared at the man. He wore a light, rather flashy-looking suit, a dark shirt and a light tie. She thought the face under the pearl grey hat might be vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place it. He turned away and was lost in the milling throng. “You saw him,” Erica whispered.
“Yes,” Miss Frayle said, frowning. “But —”
“It’s him, the man whose photo’s in the paper.”
Miss Frayle eyed her incredulously. “You mean, the man —? But — it can’t be, he’s dead.”
Erica was gasping, as if she had been running. “I know it’s him,” she said. “It’s Johnny Destiny.”
As she spoke she began moving in the direction the man had taken, Miss Frayle, completely at a loss, tagging after her.
Chapter Thirteen
DEAF TO THE noise about him, oblivious of the mob, he mooched around the sideshows, his attention concentrated on the object of his search, that which had attracted him like a magnet to this boisterous, rumbustious carnival beneath the blazing afternoon sun.
He paused for a moment by a rifle range watching the mugs take aim. One man reminded him slightly of the man yesterday. The thin mouth beneath the light snap-brim cracked in a faint, inward smile. It was okay so many people did have some superficial resemblance to one another. Or maybe he should have been forced to lay low for a while to grow a moustache.
Seeing yourself staring out of the newsprint, like he had seen himself this morning had rated as quite a shock with him. Especially when the story that went with your mug reported you dead. That was what made him feel he was in the clear. The cold fact there in black and white and his passport-photo. It was a million to one chance he’d be spotted. It was psychological. Plus that it wasn’t a good passport-photo of him anyway.
He moved slowly, casually, keeping close to the stalls, giving each girl he passed a careful once-over. The girl was here somewhere, he wanted to waste as little time as possible locating her.
He found her at a hoop-la stall.
He was certain it was her. A dark, sulky beauty with eyes like shining pools and lustrous black hair. Gold earrings against a soft white neck. That was what he was looking at now, in person. If the photograph he had remembered erred at all, it was only that it was more luscious in the flesh.
He stood back, watching and waiting.
He liked watching her; but he liked what lay beyond her, what was waiting for him at the end of his trip much better. He didn’t wish to draw any attention to himself. There came a bit of a lull around her stall, and he moved in just like any other mug.
“Here y’are, sir.” She held out a cluster of coloured hoops. “Seven for six, fourteen for a shilling.”
Johnny gave her a shilling and went through the motions. He aimed at the upended box of chocolates on its wooden stand and after half a dozen attempts managed to ring it clearly. He got through the rest of the hoops without any further luck.
She brought him the box of chocolates. He decided she looked at him in a way that suggested she didn’t mind what she saw. “You’ve been lucky,” she said.
“Must be you,” he said, with his most inviting smile. “I never had much luck at games.”
She rose to it. She came in on cue. It wasn’t new stuff to her. It was pretty old hat. “Perhaps you’re lucky in love,” she said.
“Guess I missed out on that, too. The candy’s for you.”
“What about my figure?” she said.
“You really want to know what about it?” he said.
“Why, you an expert?”
“I’ll call back later and give you a demonstration,” he said. “Say, around closing time?”
She shrugged. Her eyes were bold. She stared at him frankly, unblinkingly. “May not be many chocolates left by then.”
He grinned at her. He’d hardly ever had it so easy.
“Who should I ask for?”
“Lucilla.”
“Nice name,” he said. That was the name he had remembered her by. It was her okay. He hadn’t made any mistake. His pulses raced a little in excited triumph. He took out a packet of cigarettes and offered her one. She didn’t smoke while she was working. He lit a cigarette for himself and took a deep drag at it. His eyes glinted at her through the smoke.
“You’re an American,” she said.
He nodded. “Hoop-la,” he said. “Hollywood talent-scout, you got any talent?”
“That old stuff,” she said derisively.
“Well,” he said, “if I told you the truth, you wouldn’t wear it.”
A mob was pushing round him, and the girl had to go into her routine. He grinned at her again and said he’d be back all right, and she stared after him for a moment until he’d vanished in the crowd.
It was strange the impression he’d made on her. She’d handled the fast customers before; she knew the backchat to give the boys on the make. Even though they were the customers, and always right, she knew how to keep them in their place.
She’d never let any of them date her. But he was different. He had a way with him. She wondered if he really would come back. Maybe, if he was lonely. An American serviceman on leave in the town, and alone.
She couldn’t help hoping he would come back. He was a fast worker and no mistake. But then these Yanks were like that. She recalled some joke she’d heard about them. What was it? Over-paid, over-sexed, and over here, that was the joke. She smiled to herself. Not that he’d seemed like that. A bit over-dressed, perhaps, but it suited him. And he wasn’t loud and cocky. Quiet, and with a sense of humour.
A girl who somehow didn’t look the type to play hoopla was pushing her way to the stall, with another young woman behind her, fair-haired with horn-rimmed glasses. She leaned forward automatically, waving a fist full of hoops.
“No, thanks,” Erica Travers said to her, then hesitated, before she said: “Frankly I wondered if you could tell me who that man was you were speaking to?”
Lucilla drew herself up, her eyes bright with resentment. “I haven’t a clue who he was,” she said. “And if I did, why should I tell you? Why don’t you chase after him and then you can ask him yourself?”
“It’s not that,” Erica said quickly. “It
— it’s only that I thought I knew him. And since he was talking to you —”
Lucilla shook her head. Some kind of alarm-bell had suddenly rung faintly at the back of her mind. “He was just a customer,” she said. “Never seen him before.”
“I see,” Erica Travers said.
She turned to Miss Frayle behind her, who gazed at her questioningly and then back at the girl at the stall. The mob pushed and perspired around them. But Miss Frayle knew that Erica was reluctant to leave without obtaining more information concerning the man she’d seen and whom they’d followed, only to lose him again after they’d seen him talking to this dark girl. This girl who obviously resented being asked about him.
Erica turned back from Miss Frayle to the girl at the hoop-la again. Her expression was determined, but she managed to force a coaxing smile into her question.
“You — that is — you don’t know his name?” she said.
“No.”
“I mean, he didn’t say who he was?”
“I heard you the first time. It’s still no, I don’t know him.”
“It wasn’t Destiny? Johnny Destiny?”
Suddenly Lucilla felt scared. She didn’t know why, and she covered up her unreasoning fear with a burst of ill-temper. “Haven’t I just told you?” she said. “He didn’t tell me who he was.” And she turned away with her hoopla rings to answer the demands of the throng that had deepened as it milled round her. She didn’t look to see what the brunette and the fair one in the specs did about it. She didn’t care.
Chapter Fourteen
TOGETHER WITH HIS opponent facing him, Dr. Morelle sank on his knees and bowed low, until his forehead touched the tatami, the rice-straw mattress with its shining surface, in the age-old ritual of the contest, which is more than a trial of strength, or the matching of skill and wills, but is a contest between philosophers’ minds.
Dr Morelle and Destiny Page 8
