The Empty House Page 12

  Eustace raised his eyebrows. “You haven’t swum in the sea and you haven’t been to a beach? That’s all wrong!”

  “Mummy says there hasn’t been time…”

  “But she promised me,” Nicholas reminded of his grievance, became indignant. “She said today I could dig with the spade, but I’ve not been near one grain of sand.”

  Virginia began to laugh at him, and he became, naturally, angrier than ever. “Well, it’s true, and it’s what I want more than anything.”

  “Well,” said Eustace, “if you want it more than anything, what are we doing sitting around here talking our heads off?”

  Nicholas stared at Eustace, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You mean go to the beach?”

  “Why not?”

  “Now?” Nicholas could not believe his ears.

  “Is there anything else you’d rather do?”

  “No. Nothing. Nothing else.” He sprang to his feet. “Where shall we go? Shall we go to Porthkerris?”

  “No, we don’t want to go there—nasty crowded place. We’ll go to our own private beach, the one that nobody knows about, that belongs to Penfolda and Bosithick.”

  Virginia was astonished. “I didn’t know we had one. I thought there was nothing but cliffs.”

  By now Eustace was also on his feet. “I’ll show you … come along, we’ll take the Land-Rover.”

  “My bucket and spade’s at our house.”

  “We’ll pick them up on the way.”

  “And our swimming things,” said Cara.

  “Those too.”

  He went into the house to fetch his own things, shouted a message to Mrs. Thomas, led the way through the gate and back across the farmyard. He whistled and the dogs, barking, came rushing around the side of the barn, knowing that the whistle meant a walk, smells, rabbits, maybe a swim. Everybody, including the dogs, clambered into the Land-Rover, and Cara, her shyness now quite forgotten, screamed with delight, as they lurched out of the cobbled farmyard, and went bumping and bouncing up the lane towards the main road.

  “Is it far?” she asked Eustace.

  “No distance at all.”

  “What’s the beach called?”

  “Jack Carley’s cove. And it’s not a place for babies, only for big children who can look after themselves and climb down the cliff.”

  They assured him hastily that they came into this category and Virginia watched Nicholas’s face, and saw the joyful satisfaction upon it at being indulged, at last, in the one thing he had been wanting to do for a whole day. And what was more, doing it instantly. Not told maybe, or tomorrow, or to wait or to be patient. And she knew exactly how he felt for long ago Eustace had done the very same, performed the same miracle for the young Virginia; had bought her the ice-cream she had been yearning for, and then, out of the blue, asked her to come back to Penfolda.

  7

  They left the Land-Rover in the deserted farmyard below Bosithick and started to walk down towards the sea. At first, crossing the fields, they went in a bunch, four abreast, Eustace taking Nicholas by the hand because he was inclined to lag. But then the fields gave way to brambles and bracken and they fell into single file with Eustace leading the way; over crumbling stone walls and across a stream, where rushes grew shoulder high to a small person. Then over another wall, and the path disappeared beneath a jungle of green bracken. Through this they pushed their way, gorse bushes pressing in at either side. The ground all at once slid steeply away from beneath their feet, and the path zig-zagged down through the undergrowth, down to the very lip of the curving cliff. And beyond, space. Blue air. Soaring, screaming gulls, and the distant creaming of the sea.

  At this point the coast seemed to fling itself out into a jagged headland, composed of great granite outcrops. Between these the turf was smooth and very green, stained with patches of purple-belled heather, and the path wound down between these outcrops and as they followed its convolutions, a little cove, sheltered and enclosed, gradually revealed itself, far below. The sea was deep and still, purple over the rocks and jade green over the sand. The beach was tiny, and backed by the remains of an old sea wall. Beyond this the land sloped up to the green wedge of the cliff, down which trickled, in a series of small waterfalls, a fresh-water stream. And above the sea wall, tucked snug against the foot of the cliff, stood the remains of a cottage; derelict, windows broken, slates torn from the roof.

  They stood in a row, the four of them, buffeted by the gentle wind, looking down. It was a disturbing sensation. Virginia wondered if the children might suffer from vertigo, but neither of them seemed in the least disturbed by the dizzy emptiness of the great height.

  “There’s a house,” said Cara.

  “That was where Jack Carley lived.”

  “Where does he live now?”

  “With the angels, I reckon.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Yes, I knew him. He was an old man when I was a boy. Didn’t like people coming down here. Not any old people. Had a great barking dog and he used to chase them away.”

  “But he let you come?”

  “Oh, yes, he let me come.” He grinned down at Nicholas. “Do you want me to carry you, or can you manage?”

  Nicholas peered out and over. The path trickled down the face of the cliff and so out of sight. Nicholas remained undismayed.

  “No. I don’t want to be carried, thank you. But I’d like it better if you went first.”

  In fact, the dogs went first, unafraid, surefooted as goats. The humans followed at a more prudent speed, but Virginia found that the path was not as dangerous as it appeared. After the dry spell the ground was hard and firm underfoot, and in steep places, steps had been cut, shored up with driftwood or fashioned roughly out of cement.

  Much sooner than she had expected they were all safely down. Above them, the cliff loomed, dark and cold in the shadow, but when they jumped down on to the beach they came out of the shade and into the sunshine, and the sand was warm, and there was the smell of tar from the little house, and no sound but the gulls and the creaming sea, and the splash of the stream.

  There was an air of unreality about the little cove, as though they had somehow strayed out of time and space. The air was still, the sun burning hot, the sand white and the green water clear as glass. The children stripped off their clothes, and took Nicholas’s new bucket and spade and went at once to the water’s edge, where they began to dig a sand castle, moated and turreted with bucket-shaped towers.

  “If the tide comes in it’ll wash the whole castle away,” said Cara.

  “No, it won’t, because we’re going to make a great huge moat and then the water will go into that.”

  “If the tide comes in higher than the castle, it’s going to wash it away. Like King Canute.”

  Nicholas considered this. “Well, it won’t for ages.”

  It was the sort of day that they would remember for the rest of their lives. Virginia imagined them, middle-aged, reminiscing, nostalgic.

  There was a little cove and a ruined cottage and not another soul but us. And there were two dogs and we had to climb down a suicidal path.

  Who took us?

  Eustace Philips.

  But who was he?

  I can’t remember … he must have been a farmer, some sort of a neighbour.

  And they would argue over details.

  There was a stream.

  No, it was a waterfall.

  There was a stream running down the middle of the beach. I can remember it quite clearly. And we dammed it with a sandbank.

  But there was a waterfall too. And I had a new spade.

  When the tide was high, they all swam, and the water was clear and salt and green and very cold. Virginia had forgotten her cap and her dark hair lay sleek to her head, and her shadow moved across the pebbled sea-bed like some strange new variety of fish. Holding Cara, she floated, drifting between the sea and the sky, with her eyes dazzled by water and sunshine; and the air was cleft with sc
reaming gulls, and always the gentle murmur of breaking waves.

  She became very cold. The children showed no signs of chill, however, so she left them with Eustace, and came out of the water, and went to sit on the dry sand, above the high water mark.

  She sat on the sand because they had brought no rug, no super-sized bath-towels. And no comb or lipstick, or biscuits or knitting, and no Thermos of tea, and no extra cardigan. And no plum cake or chocolate biscuits, and no money for the donkey rides or the man with the ice-cream.

  She was joined at last by Cara, teeth chattering. Virginia wrapped her in a towel and began gently to dry her. “You’ll soon be swimming at this rate.”

  Cara said, “What time is it?”

  Her mother squinted up at the sun. “I suppose, nearly five … I don’t know.”

  “We haven’t had tea yet.”

  “No, nor we have. And I don’t suppose we will either.”

  “Not have any tea?”

  “It doesn’t matter for once. We’ll have supper later on.”

  Cara made a face, but raised no objections. Nicholas, however, was vociferous in his complaints when he realized that Virginia had brought nothing for him to eat.

  “But I’m hungry.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Nanny always had shivery bites and you haven’t got anything.”

  “I know. I forgot. We were in such a hurry and I never thought of biscuits.”

  “Well, what am I going to eat?”

  Eustace caught the tail end of this conversation as he came, dripping, up the beach. “What’s this?” He stopped to pick up a towel.

  “I’m very hungry and Mummy hasn’t brought anything to eat.”

  “Too bad,” said Eustace unsympathetically.

  Nicholas sent him a long, measured look, and turned away, headed in a sulky silence back to his digging, but Eustace caught him by an arm and pulled him gently back and held him against his knees, rubbing at him absently with the towel, rather as though he were fondling one of the dogs.

  Virginia said, placatingly, “Anyway, we’ll have to go soon, I expect.”

  “Why?” asked Eustace.

  “I thought you had all those cows to milk.”

  “Bert’s doing them.”

  “Bert?”

  “He was at Penfolda today, cleaning out the loose boxes.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “He used to work for my father, he’s retired now, but he comes along every alternate Sunday, gives me a hand. He likes to do it, and Mrs. Thomas feeds him a good dinner, and it means I have a few hours to myself.”

  Nicholas became irritated by the pointless small-talk. He reared around in Eustace’s hands, turned up a furious face towards him. “I am hungry.”

  “So am I,” said Cara, wistful if not so vehement.

  “Well, listen,” said Eustace.

  They listened. And heard, over the sound of the sea and the gulls, another sound. The soft drumming of an engine, putt-putt-putt, all the time coming closer.

  “What is it?”

  “You watch and see.”

  The sound grew louder. Presently around the point they saw approaching a small open boat, white with a blue stripe, riding the waves with a scud of white spray. A stocky figure stood at its stern. Putt-putt, it swung round into the shelter of the cove, and the engine idled down to a steady throb …

  They all stared. “There you are!” said Eustace, smug as a conjuror who has brought off a difficult trick.

  “Who is it?” asked Virginia.

  “That’s Tommy Bassett from Porthkerris. Come to pick up his lobster pots.”

  “But he won’t have any biscuits,” said Nicholas, who would never be diverted from the matter in hand.

  “No. But he might have something else. Shall I go and see?”

  “All right.” But they sounded doubtful.

  He put Nicholas aside and went back down the sand and into the sea, diving through the eye of a peacock-coloured wave, and swimming, with a strong and steady crawl, far out to where the boat bobbed. The lobster pots were already being hauled aboard. The fishermen emptied one and dropped it back, and then saw Eustace coming, and stood, watching.

  “Hallo there, boy!” His voice carried across the water.

  They saw Eustace catch the gunwales with his hands, hang there for a moment, and then with a heave pull himself clean out of the water and into the rocking boat.

  “What a long way to swim,” said Cara.

  Nicholas said, “I hope he isn’t going to bring back a lobster.”

  “Why not?”

  “Lobsters have got claws.”

  In the boat, some discussion seemed to be taking place. But at last Eustace stood up, and they saw that he was carrying some sort of bundle. He let himself overboard and started back, swimming more slowly this time, hampered as he was by his mysterious burden. This proved to be, of all things, a string shopping-bag, but it contained, wet and dripping, a dozen gleaming mackerel.

  Nicholas opened his mouth to say, “I don’t like fish,” but caught Eustace’s eye, and closed his mouth and said nothing instead.

  “I thought he might have a few,” Eustace told them. “He usually puts a line out when he’s coming out to the pots.” He smiled down at Cara. “Ever eaten mackerel, have you?”

  “I don’t think so. But,” said Cara, “fancy giving you the string bag.” To her, this seemed far more amazing than the gift of the mackerel. “Doesn’t he want it back again?”

  “He didn’t say he did.”

  “Shall we have to take them back to Bosithick.”

  “What would we do that for?… No, we cook them here … come on, you can come and help.”

  * * *

  And he collected six or seven big stones, round and smooth, and built them into a ring, and he took matches, and a scrap of an old cigarette packet, and some chips of driftwood and straw, and he kindled a fire and sent the children off to find more wood and soon they had a regular bonfire going. And when the wood ash was deep and grey and burned red when you blew on it, he laid the fish there, in a row, and there was a sizzling and a spitting and presently a most delicious smell.

  “But we haven’t got knives and forks,” said Cara.

  “Fingers were made before forks.”

  “But it’ll be hot.”

  She and Nicholas squatted by the fireside, hair on end, naked except for their bathing pants and a coating of sand. They looked like savages, and perfectly content.

  Cara watched Eustace’s clever hands. “Have you done this before?”

  “What, whittled a stick?”

  “No, had a fire, and cooked fish.”

  “Many times. This is the only way to cook mackerel, and eat it, fresh out of the sea.”

  “Did you use to do this when you were a boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the old man alive then? Jack Carley.”

  “Yes. He used to come out and sit on the beach and join in the party. Bring a bottle of rum with him and a smelly old pipe and sit there and tell us yarns so hair-raising we could never be quite sure if they were true.”

  “What sort of yarns?”

  “Oh, adventures … he’d been all over the world, done everything. Been a cook in a tanker, a lumberjack, built roads and railways, worked in the mines. He was a tin miner, see. A tinner. Went off to Chile, worked there for five years or more, came home a rich man, but all his money was gone within the twelve months, and he was off again.”

  “But he came back.”

  “Yes, he came back. Back to Jack Carley’s cove.” Cara shivered. “You cold?”

  “Nanny calls it a ghost going over your grave.”

  “Put on a sweater then, and that’ll keep the ghosts away, and then it’ll be time to eat our tea.”

  And seeing him with her children, Virginia thought of Anthony who had missed so much because he had never wanted to have anything to do with them. If Cara had been pretty, perhaps he would have paid attention
to her … Cara who longed for attention and love and thought her father the most wonderful being in the world. But she was plain and shy and wore spectacles, and he never endeavoured to hide the fact that he was ashamed of her. And Nicholas … with Nicholas it might have been different. When he was old enough, Anthony would have taught him to shoot and play golf and fish, they would have become friends and gone about together. But now Anthony was dead, and none of this would happen and she felt sorry because they would never now remember swimming with him, they would never crouch with him round a camp fire, listening to his stories and watching his clever hands whittle wooden skewers to be used instead of forks.

  The sun slipped down out of the sky, shone directly in upon them, and the sea was turned to a liquid dazzle. It would soon be evening and then it would be dark. And Jack Carley had lived here, just as Aubrey Crane had lived at Bosithick. You didn’t see them. You didn’t hear them. But you knew that they were still around.

  It was disturbing, this awareness of the past, but somehow elemental, and so not really frightening. And it was not possible to live in this part of the world as a nervous or a timid person, for, beneath the beauty it was a savage land, and danger lurked everywhere. In the sea, deep and treacherous, with its undertows and unsuspected currents. In the cliffs and caves, so swiftly cut off and submerged by racing tides. Even the quiet fields down which they had walked this afternoon concealed unthought-of horrors; abandoned mine workings, deep pits and shafts, black as wells, lay hidden beneath the bracken. And scraps of fur and feather, and little bleached bones bore witness to the foxes who built their lairs in earthly hollows under the gorse.

  And after nightfall the owl set up his predatory hooting, and the badger emerged to tunnel and scavenge. Not for him the thrill of the hunt. He was just as content to push the lid off a dustbin in the middle of the night, causing such a clatter as to waken the farmer’s wife in a cold sweat of fright.

  “Mummy. It’s cooked.” Cara’s voice broke across her thoughts. She looked up and saw Cara holding a stick aloft, a fragment of fish impaled dangerously upon its point. “Come and get it quickly before it falls off!” Her voice was agonized, and Virginia got to her feet, dusting the sand off the seat of her bathing-suit, and went down to join in the picnic.