Ngaio Marsh - Dead Water

“There you have it,” Patrick said. “We may as well take the plunge.”

They did so literally, down a precipitous and narrow descent. That at least had not changed, nor at first sight had the village itself. There was the old post office shop, and, farther along, the Portcarrow Arms with a new coat of paint. “This is now referred to as the Old Part,” said Patrick. “Elsewhere there’s a rash of boarding establishments and a multiple store. Trehern, by the way, is Ye Ancient Ferryman. I’ll put you down with your suitcases at the jetty, dig him out of the pub and park the car. O.K.?”

There was nobody about down by the jetty. The incoming tide slapped quietly against wet pylons and whispered and dragged along the foreshore. The dank smell of it was pleasant and familiar. Jenny looked across the narrow gap to the Island. There was a lamp, now, at the Island’s landing, and a group of men stood by it. Their voices sounded clear and tranquil. She saw that the coloured lights were strung on metal poles mounted in concrete, round whose bases seawater eddied and slopped, only just covering the causeway.

Patrick returned, and with him Trehern — who was effusive in salutations and wore a peaked cap with boy-and-lobster on it.

“There’s a motor launch,” Patrick said, pointing to it, “for the peak hours. But we’ll row over, shall we?” He led the way down the jetty to where a smart dinghy was tied up. She was called, inevitably, The Pixie .

“There were lots of people in the bus,” said Jenny.

“I expect so,” he rejoined, helping her into the dinghy. “For the Festival, you know.”

“Ar, the por souls!” Trehern ejaculated. “May the Heavenly Powers bring them release from afflictions!”

“Cast off,” said Patrick.

The gurgle of water and rhythmic clunk of oars in their rowlocks carried Jenny back to the days when she and Patrick used to visit their little bay.

“It’s a warm, still night, isn’t it?” she said.

“Isn’t it?” Patrick agreed. He was beside her in the stern. He slipped his arm round her. “Do you know,” he said in her ear, “it’s extraordinarily pleasant to see you again?”

Jenny could smell the Harris tweed of his coat. She glanced at him. He was staring straight ahead. It was very dark, but she fancied he was smiling.

She felt that she must ask Trehern about Wally, and did so.

“He be pretty clever, Miss, thank you. You’ll see a powerful change in our little lad, no doubt, him having been the innocent means of joy and thanksgiving to them as seeked for it.”

Jenny could find nothing better to say than: “Yes, indeed.”

“Not that he be puffed up by his exclusive state, however,” Trehern added. “Meek as a mouse but all glorious within. That’s our Wally.”

Patrick gave Jenny a violent squeeze.

They pulled into the Island’s landing jetty and went ashore. Trehern begged Jenny to visit her late pupil at the cottage, and wished them an unctious “Good night.”

Jenny looked about her. Within the sphere of light cast by the wharf lamp appeared a shopwindow which had been injected into a pre-existing cottage front. It was crowded with small, indistinguishable objects. “Yes,” Patrick said. “That’s Miss Cost. Don’t dwell on it.”

It was not until they had climbed the steps, which had been widened and re-graded, and came face-to-face with the Boy-and-Lobster, that the full extent of the alterations could be seen. The old pub had been smartened but not altered. At either end of it, however, there now projected large two-storied wings which completely dwarfed the original structure. There was a new and important entrance, and a “lounge” into which undrawn curtains admitted a view of quite an assemblage of guests, some reading, others playing cards or writing letters. In the background was a ping-pong table and, beyond that, a bar.

Patrick said, “There you have it.”

They were about to turn away when someone came out of the main entrance and moved uncertainly towards them. He was dressed in a sort of Victorian smock over long trousers, and there was a jellybag cap on his head. He had grown much taller. Jenny didn’t recognize him at first, but as he shambled into a patch of light she saw his face.

“Costume,” Patrick said, “by Maison Cost.”

“Wally!” she cried. “It’s Wally.”

He gave her a sly look and knuckled his forehead. “Evening, evening,” he said. His voice was still unbroken. He held out his hands. “I’m Wally,” he said. “Look. All gone.”

“Wally, do you remember me? Miss Williams? Do you?”

His mouth widened in a grin. “No,” he said.

“Your teacher.”

“One lady give me five bob, she done. One lady done.”

“You mustn’t ask for tips,” Patrick said.

Wally laughed. “I never,” he said, and looked at Jenny. “You come and see me. At Wally’s place.”

“Are you at school, still?”

“At school. I’m in the Fustivell.” He showed her his hands again, gave one of his old squawks and suddenly ran off.

“Never mind,” Patrick said. “Come along. Never mind, Jenny.”

He took her in by the old door, now marked private, and here everything was familiar. “The visitors don’t use this,” he said. “There’s an office and reception desk in the new building. You’re en famille , Jenny. We’ve put you in my room. I hope you don’t mind.”

“But what about you?”

“I’m all right. There’s an emergency bolt-hole.”

“Jenny!” said Mrs. Barrimore, coming into the little hall. “How lovely!”

She was much more smartly dressed than she used to be, and looked, Jenny thought, very beautiful. They kissed warmly. “I’m so glad,” Mrs. Barrimore said. “I’m so very glad.”

Her hand trembled on Jenny’s arm and, inexplicably, there was a blur of tears in her eyes. Jenny was astounded.

“Patrick will show you where you are, and there’s supper in the old dining-room. I–I’m busy at the moment. There’s a sort of meeting. Patrick will explain,” she said hurriedly. “I hope I shan’t be long. You can’t think how pleased we are, can she, Patrick?”

“She hasn’t an inkling,” he said. “I forgot about the emergency meeting, Jenny. It’s to discuss strategy and Miss Pride. How’s it going, Mama?”

“I don’t know. Not very well. I don’t know.”

She hesitated, winding her fingers together in the old way. Patrick gave her a kiss. “Don’t give it a thought,” he said. “What is it they say in Jenny’s antipodes—‘She’ll be right’? She’ll be right, Mama, never you fear.”

But when his mother had left them, Jenny thought for a moment he looked very troubled.

In the old bar-parlour Major Barrimore, with Miss Pride’s letter in his hand and his double Scotch on the chimneypiece, stood on the hearthrug and surveyed his meeting. It consisted of the Rector, Dr. Mayne, Miss Cost and Mr. Ives Nankivell, who was the newly created Mayor of Portcarrow, and also its leading butcher. He was an undersized man with a look of perpetual astonishment.

“No,” Major Barrimore was saying, “apart from yourselves I haven’t told anyone. Fewer people know about it, the better. Hope you all agree.”

“From the tone of her letter,” Dr. Mayne said, “the whole village’ll know by this time next week.”

“Wicked!” Miss Cost cried out in a trembling voice. “That’s what she must be. A wicked woman. Or mad,” she added, as an afterthought. “Both, I expect.”

The men received this uneasily.

“How, may I inquire, Major, did you frame your reply?” the Mayor asked.

“Took a few days to decide,” said Major Barrimore, “and sent a wire: accommodation reserved will be glad to discuss matter outlined in your letter.”