“I’m tired,” she said again. “Now go out to Nor.”
Nor was still on the beach.
As she came nearer to him she saw that he was staring down at a sand castle. It was one she had helped the children build yesterday. The tide had washed away some of its foundations and it had tumbled, but you could still see that it had been a castle.
She wondered what he was thinking, standing staring there. Was he seeing the castle just as something the children had made, and missing them physically? For he had loved them, she had sensed that, for all his casual air ... Was he seeing it as the House of Larsen, not so impregnable, weak in structure, falling humbled to the ground? “Hullo,” he said.
“Mummy Reed sent me.”
“You wouldn’t have come yourself?”
“I don’t know. You see”—Laurel looked at him uncertainly—“I don’t think I would have known what to say. I don’t know now.”
“All sympathetic contributions gratefully received,” he announced sarcastically.
“Mrs. Reed didn’t think you were taking it like that,” replied Laurel soberly. “She was worried that you were making it an alone sort of thing.”
“What else can I make it? There’s only me.”
“There needn’t be.”
She saw his sailor blue eyes narrowing.
“Meaning?”
She felt the treacherous pink climbing her cheeks. “Meaning that you mustn’t think you’re so special,” she blurted inadequately. “No one’s so special they can’t be touched.” But she hadn’t meant that at all. She did not know what she had meant, really. She did not know why she had said it. A little unsteadily she joked. “That’s what a very good doctor is called, a special.”
To her relief he grinned back.
“I’ll miss the youngsters and the things they said. They infuriated me often, but a house without children is an empty thing.”
She looked at him curiously. “You are an odd man. You say that, but still you despise women, yet without women there would be that emptiness, the emptiness we have now, everywhere.”
He shrugged. “As a whaleman I accept the female sex as anatomically and biologically necessary,” he stated crisply.
“Not mentally, spiritually?”
“I don’t know the I. Q. and the spiritual capacity of a whale,” he came tauntingly back.
He was becoming his old caustic self again. In a way she was glad. He was a fighter, and there is something infinitely desolate in a fighter cast down.
Now was the time, she thought, to tell him that with the children gone she would go too. There would not be enough for her to do. He would be spared, as well, that much expense. She sensed intrinsically that within a few days Nathalie would receive all her dues. Nor was that sort of man.
But, the words on her lips, she hesitated. It wasn’t just David and his need of everything she could earn for him here that stopped her, it was something else. This place, of course. Instinctively, right from the first, she had loved this place.
Then she heard Nor speaking, and it was almost as though he had known what she intended to say.
“It will make no difference to you. The kids being gone, I mean.”
“I was employed because of them.”
“I know, but other avenues have opened up. Already I’m compiling lists of things I want you to start, things that would have had to be curtailed if the youngsters were still here to occupy all your time.”
“What sort of things?”
“Things you mentioned talking to the women about ... social activities, pride in their community, permanency here and being glad of that fact. It will be a hard job. Harder still with Nathalie completely out of the picture this time, through Peter, and the girls gone as well. Example is a powerful thing. But interest is powerful too, and that will be your job. Interesting these women, getting them to want to stop on, reluctant ever to leave.”
Laurel hesitated. “It seems to me you’ll be paying me a lot of money for something that I would have done, anyway,” she told him at length.
“I can pay it. I’m not as badly off as I’ve inferred. In fact we’re prospering. It’s just that I’ve always wanted Humpback to be something extra, something better than the next. I guess”—the big man ran his brown hand through his salt bleached hair—“that I’m that sort of bloke. I must expand.”
“It’s not expansion when you don’t maintain,” she reminded slyly, and was glad when he grinned once more.
“Very anxious over the high level storage and the house, aren’t you? Well, I need a new ramp, and a new flensing deck, and a—”
They had turned from the beach and were walking up now to the house.
“So you’ll stay on?” he enquired without any more preamble.
“That’s a rather curious thing for you to ask,” she could not resist baiting, “to ask of a woman. Don’t you remember telling me what an irresistible issue money was to our sex?”
He had stopped abruptly, stopping her with him, not by a touch of the hand but by a flick of the sailor blue eyes.
“I’m sorry about that, little green duck,” he said.
She looked at him in surprise, surprised at his words, at the surprising sincerity in that usually taunting face.
“Mummy Reed told me,” he went on. “Your brother. That he’s the real reason that you’re here. I’m sorry for what I said. I’m sorry for you. For him.”
“Thank you, Mr. Larsen.”
“You better make it Nor as the others do.”
“Thank you—Nor.”
“How bad is your brother?”
Laurel told him.
He nodded soberly, asking her more questions, listening gravely, nodding his head again.
She felt better when they got to the house than she had felt for a long, long time. It almost seemed that the weight that was David was lighter upon her shoulders than it had ever been before ... that two now shared that loved burden instead of only one ... herself and Nor.
Dinner that night was an almost auspicious occasion.
The three of them lingered over it. There was no coaxing unwilling children to eat, hurrying their laggard little bodies off to bed.
Nor, too, did not go down to the office to catch up on his clerical work as was his wont. He seemed content to sit in the big kitchen and talk.
And what talk it was, what tales he and Mummy Reed had to tell! Tales told to them of the first Larsen whalemen ... how they had set out on boats manned by six and rowed and sailed for hours.
“They didn’t use all the whale like we do,” said Nor. “Apart from the oil, only the baleen was sent to be marketed, and the rest of the whale was often left on the beach. Some of the giant vertebrae are there to this day.”
“Some,” laughed Mummy Reed, “are used as stools in the older cottages. Nathalie wouldn’t sit on one for the world. She was horrified.” They all laughed.
It was a grand night. Mummy Reed enjoyed every minute. The pink crept into her old cheeks as she turned back the pages of the years.
Nor brought out port and biscuits and looked questioningly at Laurel for a toast.
She hesitated, then said, “To the wind and the spray.”
“The wind and the spray,” he nodded.
“They’re good things,” Mummy Reed said.
* * *
What time of the night was it that Nor came to Laurel? She did not know, she only knew she opened her sleep-heavy eyes and saw him standing there.
He was dressed, and he must have been in her room quite a few moments, for he had found and now he held her gown in one hand. The other hand must have groped for and gently shaken her shoulder until she woke up. “Laurel—”
“Yes, Nor?” She looked at him unblinkingly for all her sleep-heavy eyes.
He paused briefly, then: “How old are you, Laurel? No”—impatiently—“not twenty ... twenty-one ... not that, but how old?”
She gazed at him steadily, quite awake now, heavy-e
yed no more, understanding at once what he meant.
“How old do you need, Nor?” she asked gravely.
“Old enough for—death?”
“Is it Mummy Reed?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Just now, I believe. I wakened ... I had a feeling somehow ... I went in. It was very peacefully, I should say, quite happily in her sleep.”
“I see.” Laurel was sitting up now, her hair, that red hair, not marigold as he had said once, tumbling about her shoulders. “Do you want me there, Nor?”
“Can you? Could you?”
“There was a little boy when David was young who died,” Laurel remembered softly. “There was someone in the next cot whom David used to talk to. Oh, yes, Nor, I can come.”
He did not go away, he just held out the dressing gown while she slipped into it.
Although she looked small in her bare feet it seemed to him that she had grown taller somehow ... or was it mental and spiritual maturity that gave her this new dignity, those qualities of sex that he had shrugged over this afternoon, refusing to accept?
But who was he to accept or not to accept? He was finite, bounded, the One Who planned these things knew no bounds, knew only infinity.
Suddenly chastened. Nor led the way out.
Laurel made coffee afterwards and they sat in the kitchen where only a few hours ago Mummy Reed had sat too, the pink creeping into her old cheeks, and they drank.
“As soon as it’s daylight I’ll get out the Leeward and go across to Anna for a doctor and a minister,” Nor said.
But he didn’t go. He couldn’t. He tried to radio to the coast, but no message could get through.
With the dawn had broken a storm of such intensity that even the Clytie, behind schedule though it was, stout though it was, would not dare to put out.
All day long the storm persisted. Gales banged at the windows, screeching to get in, sleet jagged at the glass like javelins, the wind whined like a malicious dog.
One of the Island women came and slept in the children’s room that night.
Laurel talked with her, worked round the house with her, worried about the storm with her, but somehow she was only vaguely conscious of her presence. It never even remotely occurred to her to question—and to comprehend —why she was here like this.
The next day Mummy Reed was laid to rest beside her Tim.
“When the padre arrives he can say the right words, Nor told Laurel. “I said what I could.” He stood there in his big black oilskins. They made a harsh rustle and the water from them dripped all over the floor.
Laurel nodded, busy with coffee. “Yes, I expect so, Nor. I expect it has to be like that sometimes, and I expect God understands. When will this storm stop, do you think?”
“It could be a few days yet. We’re in the centre of a depression.” Nor looked at Laurel closely. “Mrs. Jessopp still here?”
“Yes. It’s silly really, isn’t it? I can manage easily without any help. She’s nice, though. I do believe she thinks I’m fretting. She even asked me to come across to her cottage to sleep. As though anyone could fret for darling Mummy Reed. She’s happy because it’s what she was waiting for, to go to old Tim.”
There was a pause. It was Nor’s turn to speak. But Nor did not speak back to her.
All at once the silence was not just a silence, any silence, it was fraught with meaning, meaning that grew ... and grew ... and grew.
Still uncomprehending, Laurel turned and stared at the man. He stared back at her ... it was a long, asking look. It asked a question. It asked if she did not realize why Mrs. Jessopp was here, why she had invited her back to the cottage.
“Oh,” Laurel said in sudden, flooding, enveloping knowledge. “Oh, of course, of course ... oh, Nor.”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter to me if Mrs. Jessopp goes. I don’t think it particularly matters to Mrs. Jessopp. But what passes for me, for Mrs. Jessopp, might not pass for others. Now do you understand?”
“That I must make other arrangements?” Laurel said. She felt her cheeks burning. How could she have been such a fool?
He was still in his oilskins. Apparently he had to go out again, so did not intend removing them yet. He delved into a deep pocket and brought out the makings.
“Do you ever smoke?” he asked Laurel.
She was surprised, believing he was changing the subject, and that was not like Nor.
“Only occasionally,” she replied.
“Well, you’re going to have one now.”
He rolled it and handed it over for her to lick together. He rolled one for himself and lit both. Then he began to talk.
“We can’t go on like this,” he began. “Mrs. Jessopp wants to get back to her own house—quite naturally, I expect—so we have to do something about it. Agreed, mate?”
“Agreed,” she nodded.
“Well, either you board with one of the Islanders, either we have one of the Islanders here permanently, or—”
“Or?” Her lips said it, but she was not aware of moving them.
“Or you marry me,” Nor said.
There was another pause. Now it was Larsen who waited. Waited in a silence that, like that other meaning silence, grew and grew and grew.
Then—“Which way do you want?” Laurel asked politely at length.
There was an even longer silence this time, then Nor put back his head and laughed. He laughed and laughed. He even wiped his eyes. It was his first laughter since Mummy Reed had gone.
“You make it sound,” he said weakly, “like sugar in your tea.”
But Laurel did not laugh with him. She could not. She was considering David; considering very seriously.
“I’d never thought much about marrying,” she admitted at length.
“I’d never thought much myself.”
“Oh, yes, you had. You had decided against it.”
“A man can alter his mind, circumstances can alter it.”
“What circumstances?”
“Nathalie going finally and for all time ... my way out through you blocked because society imposes certain obligations on people. Those circumstances,” Nor replied. “I’m in need of you, Laurel, you’re the right person for this island, for this job. The women here respect you, you are a standard to them, an incentive, they would copy you, they would really begin to settle in.”
“And me?” Laurel said a little indistinctly. “What about me?” Her cigarette had gone out. He took it from her lips, lit it and put it back again, his eyes never leaving hers.
“You like it here,” he stated, “I know you do. I’ve seen you turn round and look out to the sea. I saw your eyes the night Mummy Reed died when you lifted your glass and said, ‘To the wind and the spray.’ ”
“Yes,” admitted Laurel, “I do like it here.” She waited to hear what else he had to say.
“You would only stand to gain,” Nor resumed. “As well as the money that I said was one of woman’s aims you would have the other as well, the married status. Status”—he looked at her sharply—“without obligation, do you understand?”
“No.”
“I would ask nothing of you, nothing, Laurel, only your co-operation towards the end I’m after. Then there’s your brother—”
“Yes?”
“You could have him here with you. I would bring him out. It’s a healthy climate, it could put him on his feet.” A voice, that like that last time must have been hers but did not seem so, murmured, “All that—and David as well.”
A long moment went by. Nor moved a little restlessly. The oilskin rustled harshly again.
“I’m going down to the office,” he said. “Ridge has been working on the set, he believes he can get a message through at last.”
“The—doctor?”
“The minister.” The blue eyes flicked unmistakably at hers.
“Well,” he asked. “What is it, mate—yes or no?”
She said a little wil
dly, slightly hysterically, “If you could recite a service for Mummy Reed, probably you could marry me, too, without any minister.”
His hand shot out and grasped hers. The hold was hard and firm. “Control yourself,” he said.
She did, but with difficulty. Everything, she thought, was moving far too fast.
“It’s not every day a woman gets proposed to,” she defended
“I don’t make a habit of proposing every day myself.” She detached herself from his grasp and crossed to stand at the window. She could not see anything at all but rain, rain, rain.
But something inside her seemed to keep time with the rain. It will be right, it will be right, it will be right, it said.
She turned to Nor and said aloud, in wonderment yet in quiet certainty, “It will be right.”
“You mean yes, Laurel?”
“Yes. I mean that.”
Another moment went by. “Good.” Nor inclined his head. “Any questions?” he asked.
“Questions?”
“Apart from money, which will remain as it is now, apart from your brother whom I promise to bring out, apart from—” He looked remindingly at her.
“Children,” she ventured bravely.
“Children?” He frowned, thinking she was meaning Nathalie’s and Peter’s girls. “They’ll be O.K. They’ll manage along. After all, they’re none of our business.”
“Whose, then?” She turned on him quite angrily. “They are our children, aren’t they? I mean”—flushing vividly—“I’m not a child myself, Nor, I do realize that complying to a social obligation doesn’t give me a right to expect to live as I did before ... I mean ... I really mean ...”
The blue eyes were narrowed, but they were laughing ... actually laughing at her.
“What do you mean, little green duck?” he asked.
She looked at him squarely. This thing had to be said, she thought.
“There are six rooms and a kitchen in this house,” she told him.
“We will want two of the six,” he told her back. “I said that. I said ‘without obligation.’ Now do you understand?”
“N—not quite.”
“Then tell me.”
“It’s hard to.”
“Tell me all the same.”
The Wind and the Spray Page 8
