‘Steady on, man,’ said Bill. ‘Gone the wrong way?’
‘That’s your lies choking you,’ said Mrs Booth, now behind the counter again. Then apropos of nothing to do with choking as Harry, red in the face, continued to cough, she said, ‘I’ve just ascertained’—she liked a long word, an educated word, did Mrs Booth—‘I’ve just ascertained that our guest has gone for a walk in the wood, and it near on dusk. And she’s not the only one what’s decided to take the same road.’
With a significant nod of her head Mrs Booth departed with a full tray, and Harry, still coughing and dabbing his mouth, said, ‘It’s as you say, Bill, he takes after me.’ With one long drink he finished his beer, then stated, ‘Well, I’d better be off an’ all. Missis’ll be after me else. So long, you old potbelly.’ Harry aimed a sham blow at the protrusion, then went out laughing, and Bill, laughing in return, leaned his back against the counter and sipped at his beer. By! Harry was a lad, wasn’t he?
His thoughts on Harry, it gradually dawned on him that he hadn’t yet seen him pass the window on his way homewards. He must be still in the yard. Or was he? Slowly Bill scratched his head.
After having finished his glass of beer and having joined in sundry bits of conversation without taking his eyes off the window, and still not having seen Harry pass, Bill went out into the yard, but could see no sign of his mate. What prompted him to look over the neat hedge of the Booths’ garden down to the fence at the bottom and the field beyond would not have been clear to anyone else but himself. There was a gate in that fence, and it was only a hare’s leap, so to speak, from there to the wood. ‘Harry,’ said Bill half aloud, ‘you didn’t oughter do it.’
Bill looked about him. There wasn’t a soul in sight and twilight was deepening. Nobody could accuse him of anything for walking down the bar garden, could they now?—he was a keen gardener himself—and once through that gate …
It is astonishing how fast fat people can move when necessary. Bill certainly moved swiftly down the garden path, and Mrs Booth moved back more swiftly from the yard door into the bar and to her husband, who, behind the cover of a china rum barrel, was measuring whisky into a wet glass.
Putting her head close to his, although the din did not occasion her whispering, she gasped, ‘What do you think? Fountain…he’s gone sneaking up the garden into the woods after her.’
Mr Booth turned his long horse-face towards his wife, but no change appeared in his expression. ‘Fountain? That makes two of ’em. Guess young Peter went.’
‘Three, if I know anything. Harry Puddleton an’ all.’ Mrs Booth looked angry and sounded incensed, but the only alteration in Mr Booth’s face was that it seemed to stretch to even longer proportions as he commented briefly, ‘Safety in numbers.’
‘Safety in numbers! I’m not putting up with it.’
‘Shut tha mouth.’ It was an order. ‘The likes of her bring custom. You’ll see, the morrow night we’ll be packed out. Keep your tongue quiet. Say what you like to them but nothing to her. As for Harry Puddleton…’ Mr Booth left the statement unfinished and turned away, and after a lift of her chin and a prolonged stare in her husband’s direction, Mrs Booth flounced about and into the saloon again.
It was evident that Mr Booth, if not quite master in his own house and of its mistress, was in absolute control of the bar and its proceedings.
As nonchalantly as his long legs would allow him Peter had attempted to saunter through the wood. Should he by chance be seen, he was out for a stroll; or he could be going fishing. Without a line, and it on dusk? No, that one wouldn’t do. Anyway, whose business was it what he did? His shoulders went back and his head went up, but its position was uneasy. What if Mavis should…? To the devil with Mavis! And Florrie as well, for that matter.
This way of thinking was indeed daring, and his native cautiousness questioned it and asked tentatively: but wouldn’t it be awkward for him if he were seen at this time of the evening in the wood with the boarder from the Hart? As quickly again he defended himself. She wasn’t the reason for his coming here—ten-to-one he wouldn’t come across her anyway—he was going to the pond for a minute to see the eel, and then he was going straight home to his supper and an early night. Aye, that was all very well, put like that, but he’d have a job to talk himself out of it if he were seen with her, wouldn’t he? This cautious pricking was too much for him, and abruptly he left the main path and made his way over the soggy ground and through undergrowth that was almost shoulder high, and somewhat dishevelled in his appearance and disturbed in his mind he came at length to the path along which earlier in the day he had led the twins, and so to the lake.
There it lay before him, dark-shadowed, beautiful, yet eerie. But there was no sylphlike figure bending over its water. Slowly he walked to the bank. It was funny she wasn’t here. He looked across the water to where a small shoal of rudd was feeding, snapping up at the black gnats, which through weariness or fly bravado were skimming the surface. Perhaps she’d lost her way—you could, you know. Well, she had found her way here twice already the day…Aye, but now it was dusk.
From the far bank a moorhen skidded into the water, followed by her mate, leaving double rows of light catching thin froth in their wake. They swam towards the great dead oak that lay half submerged, its head almost reaching the middle of the lake. He brought his eyes from them to the darkening water below his feet, searching for the silver line that would betray the eel. But there was no movement except that of the little bleak dizzying about. She had, he surmised, taken refuge out in the middle of the lake, or at the other side where it was deeper; it wasn’t likely that she had gone yet. He’d come again in the morning, earlyish, but now he’d better go and see where she was, she, this time, being his client, if she had wandered off the path and into the sog she might get a bit of a fright, and it on dark an’ all.
He was in the act of turning about to leave the clearing when her voice came to him. It startled him and at the same time brought his brows together, for she was saying in her soft gurgle, ‘That’s a real fishy story, Mr Puddleton.’
‘No, it’s a fact, miss, true as I stand here.’
That was his dad, and not gone home yet. Well really, it was a bit thick. No wonder his mam went on. He felt a sudden unusual anger against his father, and turning quickly to the bank again he knelt down and concentrated his gaze upon the water.
‘Well, I’m damned! You beat us to it, lad.’
Peter cast his glance sideways for an instant but did not speak, and the girl, moving quickly across the grass to his side, said eagerly, ‘Is she here?’
It was odd but he found it impossible to give her an answer, so shook his head; and when she knelt down beside him with her coat sleeve touching his arm, he thought, she’s as bad as him. It amuses the likes of her to encourage an old fellow. Yet in calmer moments he would be the first to admit that his father carried his age even a little too well, for he could pass for fortyish any day. To his added annoyance he again became conscious that she smelled nice.
‘She can’t have gone,’ said Harry; ‘ground’s like powder. And there’ll be no dew the night either. Look’—he went down onto his hunkers at her side and drew her attention as he pointed to some bubbles on the surface of the water—‘there goes an old stager. I’ve always wanted to catch she…an old carp. Ever seen a carp, miss?’
‘Yes. Oh, yes.’
Always wanted to catch she! Peter jerked himself to his feet. His father was always wanting to catch something, even if it was only a smile from a mere stranger like the girl here. Was it any wonder that the Puddleton men had a name in the village? And not only in the village. Oh, give over, he chided himself. What was up with him? He knew his father’s ways, and there was no use in getting ratty. But he was ratty.
‘I’m off,’ he said.
‘Here, wait a minute, hold your hand!’ Harry turned sharply, almost overbalancing himself, then stood up. And as he looked at his son his face sobered for an instant
and something came from his eyes that could have been an appeal, an appeal for understanding of a nature that refused to recognise age. And something of it did come over in his words as he buttoned up his coat and said, ‘I’m getting back home, lad, your mother’ll be waiting. I’m well over me time the night, but I never could resist a fish, you know that.’ He paused, and smiled, then nodding to the girl where she was still kneeling on the bank as if deaf to the conversation that was going on over her head, he said, ‘I’ll say good evenin’, miss.’
‘Oh! Good evening.’ She turned towards him now. ‘And thank you for your company.’ She stressed this with a little inclining movement of her head.
‘Thank you, miss. It’s been a pleasure. So long.’ He nodded to Peter, then went through the gap.
The girl remained kneeling, her back to Peter. He did not move from where he was, and with silence hanging between them they gazed over the pond. So quiet did they remain that the night sounds became loud; a rabbit scurrying through the undergrowth, a vole gliding into the water—that he was used to, but was she? Yet none of them he noted had had the usual effect. She had not exclaimed at the sight of the rat, or jumped as the bat swooped above her head, which was odd for a town person.
He watched her now slowly rise to her feet. Then as she dusted down the front of her coat, she said, ‘I don’t think we’ll see her tonight, do you? Not in this light.’
‘No.’ He smiled quietly at her, for the moment all embarrassment gone.
‘We’d better be getting back then.’ Her eyes were high up under her lids, looking at him.
‘Yes.’
Why couldn’t he say something besides yes and no? He managed more than that with Florrie, or even Mavis.
He had turned and was about to lead the way out when the sound of steps breaking harshly through the undergrowth checked him. And then came the sound of a voice, which he recognised instantly as Bill Fountain’s, and although it was hushed and held a cautionary note, and was full of Bill’s deep rumbling laughter, his sharp ears caught the words clearly as Bill said, ‘Aw! You can’t hoodwink me man Harry, but you didn’t oughter do it.’
‘Don’t be so bloody soft, Bill.’ His father’s voice was muffled, yet loud. ‘I tell you it was an eel.’
Peter threw a quick glance towards the girl, then away again.
‘Ooh! Oh, Harry!’
‘Look, you great lumbering, fat fool, come back here a minute.’
As Peter heard their feet scrambling nearer, he chewed on his lip for a moment; then somewhat sheepishly he sauntered back to the edge of the bank. But the girl didn’t move, she was standing with her head bowed, and he had the uneasy feeling that she was laughing at him. And then her next words startled him, bringing the colour up to his hair. ‘We’d better prove the point, hadn’t we?’
He shot a swift glance at her, and she made a little face at him.
‘What point?’
Without answering she came with unhurried steps to his side, and, deliberately kneeling down again, she leaned over the bank and gazed into the darkening water.
He stood looking down at her. By! She was a cool customer…experienced. He wondered how often she’d had to prove the point. And in the moment before his father and Bill Fountain made their appearance a number of questions raced through his mind. Where was she from? Where was she going? What had she done? Who was she, anyway, with her pale skin and that tired look on her face, which robbed it of what he thought to be her natural youth? Yet she wasn’t young, her ways weren’t young. Where had she learnt to be so smart on the uptake, on this particular kind of uptake, anyway? With men. Aye, with men. Perhaps in pubs—she threw a dart like a man. Yet she didn’t really look or sound like a brash pub-type. And she knew about eels …
Harry was not wearing his usual grin when he made his reappearance, closely followed by Bill, but before he could give any explanation the girl turned from the bank and, with slightly feigned surprise, said, ‘Oh, hello. You’ve come back again.’ Then to Bill, ‘Hello, there.’
It appeared all of a sudden as if Bill’s weight was becoming burdensome to him, for he threw it from side to side. As for Harry, his jaws champed a number of times before he managed to bring out, ‘I wanted to show him where we saw the eel, miss.’
‘Oh, the eel. Well, it was just about there.’ As she pointed Bill moved to the edge of the bank and peered down into the water; then glancing at her, he asked, ‘Fact, miss? An eel here?’
‘Yes…fact. And a real beauty, too.’
‘No—can’t believe it.’ Bill shook his head. ‘We’re miles from the river. Up above it an’ all. Who found her?’
‘The twins,’ said Harry butting in. ‘And it’s like this here, Bill: if Mackenzie or Crabb hear of it, it’s ‘So long’ to the eel.’
‘Aye, I see.’ Then as Bill looked at Harry his expression became puzzled. ‘You not going to catch it yersel, Harry?’
After moving his head impatiently, Harry’s eyes steadily avoided those of his son and the girl, and concentrating his gaze on his mate as if Bill were a backward youth who had to he instructed in the rudimentary habits of eels, he said, ‘She’s on her way back to the sea. She’s likely had a tough enough time getting here. I believe in giving any fish a sporting chance.’
‘You do, Harry?’ This charitable characteristic of his friend where fish were concerned was evidently a new one on Bill.
‘Yes, I do.’ Harry’s head bounced once. ‘And for your information her name’s Slinky Jane.’ He laid some emphasis on the Slinky, making it distinct from Sylvia.
‘Slinky…Jane!’ Bill’s lower lip was hanging in an astonished gape.
‘Yes, the lady here christened her.’ Harry indicated the lady without looking at her.
‘Well, I’ll be damned! Slinky Jane.’ Bill’s round, bright eyes rolled in their nests of fat. They went from Peter to the girl, then on to Harry, then back again to the girl. And he chuckled, ‘Good name, miss, for an eel. Never heard one like that afore for ’em.’
‘No?’ The amusement came over in her voice. ‘We always called them that when we were children. What name do you give them here?’
Whatever answer Bill would have given to this was checked by the bark of a dog, and from quite near, and the bark caused Harry to jerk his head up. ‘God above! That’s Felix, and where he is the major’s not far behind. I don’t want to have to go over all this again, come on.’ He nodded to Bill, and Bill, somewhat reluctantly, said, ‘Aye, yes,’ then touching his forehead in salute, he added, ‘Be seeing you, miss—and,’ he chortled, ‘Slinky Jane.’
Peter’s one desire at the moment was to follow on the heels of his father and Bill, the last thing in the world he wanted was to explain about the eel to the major. The major wouldn’t believe a word of it. Unless he saw it he would he harder to convince than his father had been this afternoon. And the major would talk. He would talk about the eel not being here, of the impossibility of an eel ever reaching this water; and he would, as likely as not, cap every remark with a quotation, for the major had a known weakness for quotations. What was more, if he found him alone here with the girl, he wouldn’t be above putting two and two together and making it a topic of conversation at breakfast tomorrow morning. Peter had a swift mental picture of Florrie descending on him again.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’
In his eagerness to be gone he forgot for the moment to whom he was talking.
‘Why the hurry?’
He threw a glance back at her, and then said, ‘I’ll explain later. Come on.’
When they were out of the clearing he found that he had to make a quick decision. If he went back the usual way he would like as not run into the major, so there was nothing for it but to go down the beech drive which would bring them out by the church.
‘We’ll go this way,’ he said, turning sharply to the right. ‘We’ll have to go in single file for a bit. You’d better keep close behind.’
They had gone
quite some distance before he spoke again, and then it was just to throw over his shoulder the evident fact that it was, ‘Almost dark now.’
Her voice sounded very small, as she answered, ‘Yes,’ and he realised that she was some little way behind, and so he called, ‘You’ll have to keep up and watch where you’re going here.’
He slowed his pace a little but she still seemed to keep her distance, saying nothing. Once he heard her stop, and he turned. He could just make out that she was loosening a bramble from her coat. He knew his father would have sprung back to her assistance, but all he could make himself say was, ‘You all right?’
‘Yes.’
Somewhat reluctantly, he moved on again, until he came to where the path broadened into the beech drive. Here it was darker still, and he stopped and waited for her to come up, and when she did they walked on, now side by side, but in silence.
All about them was a quietness. There was no wind, there were no night noises here, no rustlings, only the sound of their feet on the leaves. He looked up into the thick, dark mat of the beeches. It was like the roof of night, for he could see no light through them. He cast his eyes sideways at her and wondered if she were afraid, and thought how odd it was to be walking in a dark wood and with her, when only a few hours ago he had never set eyes on her. He found himself wishing she would speak, just say something—anything. But instead she made a noise which sounded like a strangled cough, and he felt rather than saw her grope for her handkerchief. A little farther on she made the noise again. They were nearing the end of the beech wood now and it was getting somewhat lighter, and when they came to where the oaks took over he saw the moon coming up—she was heavy and gold-laden, and almost full. It was, he thought, as if her rising had stilled the wind and silenced the wood. He liked the moon. He could never really describe the feeling the moon had on him; he only knew that he liked her hanging over his village, draping the mountains and washing the valley bottoms with a light that did things to a man and transferred his life momentarily to a dream place, where the secrets of his inner world were no longer secrets but took over with a naturalness that made his days seem false.
Slinky Jane Page 6
