ON THE WAY FROM the heliport Silas rehearsed what he would say to his mother. He carried Hebe’s Guernsey sweater. He pulled up the hood of his parka, shielding his face from cars passing along the road who might recognise him, stop, offer him a lift, ask with kindly curiosity whether he had a good time sailing. On the beach the high-tide mark was a line of weed wrenched from the seabed by the storm. Along this children ran shouting to each other as they gathered driftwood into a pyre, building a bonfire which would burn with blue flames from the lumps of coagulated oil. To the debris they would add refuse—plastic containers which would explode in the heat, adding a tinge of risk to their pleasure. People would complain about the smoke which would drift inland to sully their nylon curtains. Silas watched. Many times he had collected driftwood, taking armfuls home to burn in the sitting-room fire. He felt a sharp desire to join the girls and boys. Then he saw Giles was with them. He did not at all want to see Giles.
His thoughts reverting to Hebe, Silas recited to himself: ‘It was marvellous. They have asked me to come again. I am home early because Mrs Reeves’ father is ill. They are all going back. They sent you all sorts of messages—the food was very good—my clothes were just right—I’m afraid I spilled something on your Guernsey. We sailed round Bishop’s Rock lighthouse—no, not dangerous at all, it was thrilling—I liked the other boys—a terrific family—it was brilliant.’ A load of cock, he told himself. Cock was an expression fancied by Alistair. She will know it’s cock when she smells the sick on her jersey. What am I to say? he asked himself for the hundredth time. Perhaps she will take it for granted the visit was okay, just as she believes what I tell her about school. About the only thing I’ve got from the Scillies is to use the word ‘cock’ and the seals and the adder and the colour of the sea. Should he ‘lose’ Hebe’s jersey, drop it over the sea wall? Then she would not smell the vomit. No good. He remembered that she had paid a lot for the jersey and justified herself by saying, ‘You will be able to wear it, it will come in useful when you’ve grown a bit.’ God, how he hated the thing. And what was he to say about his duffle bag, how to explain its loss? Silas urged himself on. She would be so pleased to see him she would forget to ask questions. She never questioned him much, that was one of the marvellous things about her. Silas broke into a run.
Swinging round the corner, starting the stiff climb up the dark brick street, he forced his pace, his spirits rising. Soon he would be with Hebe. She would look as she looked on the station platform when he arrived back from school, eyes large, wearing a rather mad expression. She would hug him, he would put his arms round her, lay his head against her chest, they would laugh with relief at being together. It would be all right, Silas told himself, nearly there. He ran, arriving on the doorstep in a rush of joy.
The door was locked.
Silas was stunned. Peering from the window Trip, opening her mouth in a silent mew, showed her needle teeth and pink palate. Silas ran round to the back of the house. The back door was also locked. He rattled the handle. Trip came out through the cat-flap and wound herself purring round his legs, nudging him, turning in and out so that her whole body, including her tail, was part of the caress. Silas picked her up and held her close to his face. He remembered. He was to have been three weeks in the islands. She had said she would do a job in Wiltshire for a fortnight while he was gone. Silas sat down on the wet doorstep. He had guessed when Hebe told him about the job that she was only going because he was robbing her of a chunk of his holidays. He had blocked the knowledge. He had wanted to go to the Scillies. He had not cared. He had known perfectly well she was only filling in the time because he would not be there. Holding the cat against his face Silas wept; the addition of guilt to the shame and mortification he was suffering was too much. His eyes streamed, his nose trickled, he disgusted the cat, who jumped away, going back into the house through the cat-flap. Silas put his head between his knees and sobbed. He decided to throw himself over the cliff and have done with it.
‘Can I be of any help?’
Silas saw feet, legs in jeans, tweed jacket over a dark sweater, above that a face he had not seen before. He struggled to his feet. He was cold and stiff from squatting on the doorstep. The man wore an old felt hat, rain dripped from its brim. ‘Who are you?’ he asked and was ashamed of his tearful voice.
‘Name is Jim Huxtable,’ said the stranger. ‘Rather wanted to see the girl who lives here.’
‘She’s not here.’ Silas started to cry again. He was cold, tired, hungry, wet. He wished the man would go away. He wanted to die. Failing that, he wanted his mother.
‘And you are shut out?’
‘She’s away.’
‘Who has the key?’
‘Terry or Hannah or Amy but I—’
‘Don’t want to ask them.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Who feeds the cat?’
‘Terry or Hannah.’
‘When will she be back, your mother?’ What a bedraggled child.
‘Not for days and days.’ Silas’ voice rose in lamentation.
Jim took stock of the situation. If the child knew people who had the key it was their business to help. The sensible thing would be to take him to one of them, let them take over.
‘Do you happen to know somebody called Bernard Quigley?’ he asked vaguely, thinking Bernard might help were he here.
‘Yes!’ Something about the boy’s eyes, the way they lit up, touched him. ‘My mother does and I do too but it’s a separate friendship, it’s nice to—’ How to express, how to explain that it was nice to see old Quigley by himself without Hebe being there?
Jim thought, Really, these latchkey children, how irresponsible people are. ‘I am staying with Bernard Quigley,’ he said, watching the boy’s face. ‘Been doing his shopping. Would you like to come and see him? Perhaps you could tell him your trouble.’
‘Yes, please,’ said Silas adding, ‘there’s nothing to tell.’
‘Come on, then.’ Jim led the way to his car. Silas followed. Jim wondered why he was angry, why he was behaving in this mad way. This boy was no business of his. But as he drove out of the town with Silas beside him Jim thought, This will help me to meet that woman. Knowing her boy I can call later to ask whether he is all right. To see her would get rid of the niggling idea he had had since he had first seen her. Just one more who isn’t, this one is obviously a bitch of the first order.
They did not speak on the drive. Jim thought small talk unnecessary. Silas was sunk in nervous gloom. When they reached the lonely call box Jim asked Silas to open a gate into a field. ‘The farmer lets me leave my car here.’ He locked the car.
They walked across the fields in Indian file, Jim leading the way, carrying the shopping. Silas followed. If I run, thought Silas, it’s only a half mile to the cliff. I could jump, there would be no need for explanations. He mulled this dramatic vision. Commonsense told him the man walking ahead would run faster than he, would catch him and he would look even more idiotic, an even greater fool. He followed Jim sulkily through the wet field. Halfway to the house Feathers met them, bouncing and bounding, wagging his tail, yelping with joy.
‘I have brought a friend of yours to lunch.’ Jim greeted Bernard who stood in his porch, watching them walk towards him through the rain. ‘Got himself locked out.’
‘Come in and get dry.’ Bernard expressed no surprise. He put his hand on Silas’ shoulder and guided him into the sitting-room. He was moved by Silas’ appearance. Someone had hurt the boy.
‘We must find you dry clothes,’ he said. ‘You had better change. But have a drink first. Just a spoonful of brandy. You hate sherry, you won’t like this either but it will warm your guts.’ Bernard poured a small measure of brandy and handed the glass to Silas. ‘Don’t pour that on to the rug. Drink it.’
Silas blushed and swallowed the brandy obediently. Bernard kept his hand on his shoulder. Silas stopped feeling he must throw himself off the cliff. Bernard waited until Silas’ shoulder muscles stopped feeling like a wound spring. In the kitchen Jim was moving about unpacking the shopping, talking to Feathers, who, being a vocal sort of dog, rumbled and groaned in response. Bernard said, ‘Now go upstairs, first door on the left, take off your wet things. Jim,’ he called, ‘find clothes for Silas to wear until his are dry.’
Jim brought a towel. ‘These will keep you warm.’ He handed Silas a T-shirt and a heavy sweater. ‘Put them on. Socks.’ He handed Silas socks. ‘Can’t do anything about trousers. Try this, wrap it round you.’ He took a shawl off the bed.
‘Thank you.’ Silas stripped off his clammy clothes and pulled on the T-shirt and sweater, which reached his knees. It was warm and smelt delicious. He wrapped the shawl round his waist like a sarong, pulled on the socks.
Bernard called up the stairs. ‘You had better stay here until your mother comes back.’
‘Can I?’ Silas was amazed.
‘Of course. Come down and sit by the fire with Feathers when you’re ready.’
Jim beckoned from the kitchen. Bernard joined him.
‘There’s something badly wrong,’ Jim whispered to the old man. ‘What sort of people are they? I’ve heard about children being locked out and what it leads to.’ His voice rose. ‘What does the child’s father do? He should be prosecuted—’ He was blazing with righteousness.
‘There is no father. Keep your voice down.’
‘And the mother’s a prostitute I suppose,’ Jim sneered.
‘Yes, she is.’
‘Then she should be prosecuted. It’s criminal leaving a child alone. I found him shivering and crying, shut out, afraid to go near the neighbours. What sort of bitch is she?’
Bernard was wheezing in an effort to stifle his normal cackle.
‘What the hell’s funny?’ Jim snarled.
‘Silas is supposed to be staying with some rich school-friend in the Scillies. His mother is consoling herself for his absence by working as a cook for my friend Louisa.’
‘Mrs Fox, who you sent me to? That one?’
‘Yes.’ Bernard used his snuff-stained handkerchief. ‘The boy has an adoring mother who slaves to—’
‘Prostitutes, you mean,’ said Jim nastily.
‘If you like. To educate him at a lamentably expensive prep school. When not, as you put it, prostituting, she takes jobs as a cook with old ladies. I assure you whatever happened to Silas happened in the Scillies and more than likely he has brought it on himself. Since when have you been so puritanical?’
Jim was deflated. ‘He will tell you what happened?’
‘I doubt it, knowing his mother. She makes an oyster look like an open safe. Silas takes after her.’
‘What shall you do?’
‘Keep him here. Telephone Louisa presently.’
‘Here he comes.’ Jim listened to Silas coming down the stairs.
‘It was unforgivable of me to tell you what I have just told you.’ Jim saw that Bernard was distressed by his indiscretion.
‘I too can oyster,’ he said, listening to Silas approaching.
As Silas reached the bottom step Feathers, a dog with a sense of occasion, jumped up, putting his paws on his shoulders, knocking him back into a sitting position, licking his face. Silas laughed. The old man and the younger man exchanged relieved smiles.
Eyeing Silas’ feet, Bernard said, ‘You’ll break your neck in those socks. See what you can do about them, Jim. Sit down, Silas.’
Silas sat by the fire and Jim showed him how to tuck the socks back so that he would not trip. Feathers huffled and snuffled round him, noting that Jim’s smell was now joined with Silas’.
‘Lunch,’ cried Bernard. They followed him into the next room. ‘Sit here by me.’ Silas sat beside Bernard. He was furiously hungry. Jim put a bowl of soup in front of him. ‘Start eating,’ said Bernard. Silas obeyed.
‘Wait a minute,’ Jim said to him. ‘It’s out of a tin, let me add a drop of sherry.’
‘I—’
‘It improves it no end.’ Jim poured a little sherry into Silas’ soup. ‘Try it.’ Silas sipped.
‘Like it?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Silas had never met a friend of Bernard’s, imagining him forever solitary. He drank his soup, feeling safe with Feathers’ chin pressed on his knee, wriggling his toes in Jim’s socks.
Then they ate fish baked with fennel. ‘Tonight,’ said Bernard, ‘we are eating grouse which clever Jim found in Salisbury. Ever eaten grouse?’ he asked Silas.
‘Never.’
‘I would have bought more. There was only a brace left, some greedy woman had bought nearly the whole stock. She was filling a deep freeze, the fishmonger said. I shall make soup from the carcasses.’
‘Fancy yourself as a cook.’ Bernard was mocking. ‘Silas’ mother is a paragon, you can’t surprise him.’
Silas looked down his nose. There was a drop in the temperature. Jim caught Bernard’s eye. Bernard, using his great age as armour, asked, ‘Were you proposing to kill yourself when Jim found you?’ Not waiting for Silas to answer, he turned to Jim. ‘When did you last wish to do away with yourself, Jim? I can’t remember when I last had the impulse. It’s something which dims with age. It must be thirty years since I seriously considered it. Come now,’ he was looking directly at Jim, ‘tell us.’
Sensing the appeal (did Bernard hope to cauterise Silas’ wounds?) Jim rose to the occasion.
‘Quite some time ago I imagined myself in love.’
‘You!’ mocked the old man, encouraging Jim. ‘In love?’ he scoffed.
‘In Italy,’ said Jim. ‘I was taken to a party. It was a feast day, you know the sort of thing, a procession, statues of saints carried wobbling, priests, altar boys swinging censers, people singing and chanting, smell of garlic, wine, incense, children shouting, getting over-excited, their mothers slapping them.’
‘Italians don’t slap their children,’ interrupted Bernard. ‘But go on.’
‘I was watching the procession. It was at night, did I tell you? There were brass bands, tumpity-tump.’
‘Carry on.’ Bernard watched Silas’ interested face.
‘The dark town lit by candles, candles stuck in all the windows of the town, lined along ledges. It was Lucca. Ever been to Lucca?’
‘No.’
‘I was watching from a balcony. The procession wound through narrow streets which make the houses seem tall when they are not really tall. By the light of all those candles they did seem tall—’
‘Where was the girl?’
‘What girl?’
‘The one you fell in love with.’
‘She was down in the street with a group of hippies. There were stalls selling necklaces of hazelnuts. I saw she wanted one. I ran down and caught up with her. We walked together. I bought her necklaces and put them round her neck.’
‘What did she look like?’
‘Very long brown hair, long dress, could hardly see her face. You know how it was at that time, one didn’t see people’s faces, there was so much hair. I had a beard.’
‘I remember you, a sad sight.’
‘It was the long hair and beard era.’ Jim was defensive. ‘Flower Power and so on, tremendous crops of hair on both sexes.’
‘Go on.’
‘We spent the evening together. She was lovely.’
Silas was absorbed. He was with Jim in Lucca walking with the candlelit procession, he could hear the people singing, the bands. It was wonderful.
‘She had brown eyes, a wonderful walk. We were happy. Then she went wild, it was quite hard to keep up with her at times, she moved so fast.’
‘And then?’
‘Then’—Jim spoke fiercely—‘the night went sour. There was a fight of some sort. I lost her. Everyone was running to get out of trouble.’
‘So you didn’t make love to her—’
‘I had, before the confusion, the fight, the running away. She vanished. It was as though she’d never been. Can you understand? Perhaps,’ Jim said, ‘she was an illusion.’
‘Yes,’ Bernard sighed, ‘perhaps she was.’
‘When I could not find her I felt like killing myself.’
‘Ah,’ Bernard sighed. ‘You had not known her before that night?’
‘No, I told you.’
‘So you have been seeking her ever since.’
‘Sometimes I think I see her,’ said Jim, ‘catch a glimpse.’
‘And it’s never the girl.’ Bernard snapped his fingers. ‘I would not have believed you capable of such flights of fancy. Shall we have coffee by the fire?’
‘All very well to mock.’ Jim got up to make the coffee. ‘Some of us, not you of course, are romantics.’
‘I have had my moments.’ Bernard was dignified.
Silas burst out laughing. The idea of Bernard in a romantic situation was hilarious.
Bernard looked satisfied. ‘I was never so stupid as to mislay them,’ he said, stooping to put logs on the fire. ‘When I was no longer in love with a girl I arranged matters so that love turned into friendship. In that way I have kept up relationships with nearly all my amours.’
‘And how do you manage that?’
‘When you are—er—on the wane, you work it so that it is she who thinks she is cooling. She keeps her amour propre, you keep yours and you remain friends. It works,’ said Bernard smugly. ‘In every case except one it has worked with me and even that one—well, we were talking about you. What was your girl called?’
‘I don’t know. I asked the people she had been with. They said she wasn’t of their party. I was not surprised, they were not her kind of people—into drugs, I’d say.’
‘So she had no name. What nationality?’
‘We spoke French. Her Italian was poor. She said “Do you speak French?” I remember that. She may have been French.’
Bernard was laughing. ‘A girl without name or nationality. You are inventing her.’
‘I would not wish to kill myself for a myth,’ said Jim stiffly.
‘You have not even described her appearance.’
‘I told you, she had long hair, brown eyes, brown skin. If I saw her now as she was then I might know her, but by now I might not recognise her. We met at night, by torchlight. I made love to her in darkness. It was quiet, near the church, the noise of the procession muted. There is a black Christ in the church.’ Jim was back in Lucca.
Silas looked at Jim’s face lit by a sudden blaze from the fresh logs. ‘What happened?’ he whispered.
‘I searched for days. I was working in a bar to earn money. Nobody admitted seeing her. I described her as a girl running. They said a lot of people were running that night. It was a disgrace to have a fight on the Saint’s day. It was the fault of foreign hippies. I suppose she left the town.’
Jim poured coffee into cups, handed it to Bernard, offered it to Silas.
‘Silas?’ It was the first time Jim had called him by name. Silas accepted coffee, helped himself to milk and sugar. Bernard sneezed. ‘It is quite refreshing to find that people still fall in love. What happened?’
‘I decided against suicide, had an affair with an American blonde, became a philanderer.’ Jim spoke flatly.
‘But you still look for her,’ Silas suggested.
‘Exactly.’ Jim looked at the boy. He is recovering, he thought, feels safer now, not safe enough for us to ask what happened, probably won’t even tell his tarting mother. Perhaps he won’t tell anybody until some occasion arises like today, when I have told him about my love in Lucca to distract him. ‘Sometimes I see a woman who reminds me of the girl. It never is her.’
‘That must be tantalising.’ Bernard was almost sympathetic.
‘It keeps me young.’ And single, Jim thought, surprised.
‘Perhaps she is still looking for you,’ Silas suggested, liking the idea.
‘I doubt it. Last seen in full flight,’ said Jim. ‘She was a fast mover.’
They sat drinking their coffee, Bernard by the fire in his wing chair, Jim opposite him, Silas, Feathers and the cat at their feet. Outside the rain poured pitilessly, soaking the peninsula from the Atlantic rain clouds. Feathers licked his chops in a dream. Bernard put his cup into its saucer with a clink.
‘I have never before told anyone about that girl.’ Jim caught the old man’s eye.
I am supposed to believe it never happened, thought Bernard. He is as vulnerable as the boy. ‘It was generous of you to tell us,’ he said. Presently, he thought, I shall stumble across the fields to the telephone and alert Louisa about Silas. She will tell Hebe. I must wait as late as possible; I have not the strength to stump across the fields twice. We must see that Hebe does not take fright and drive recklessly on her way home.