The Mudflats of the Dead (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  Palgrave was about to leave the bridge and continue his walk towards the dunes when he was aware of a girl who was approaching the bridge. Having no mind for company while he was mentally roughing out a description of the scene for his book, he walked on, quickening his pace, but from behind him she called out, “Hi!” and began to run.

  Palgrave slackened his pace, then stopped and waited for her to catch up with him. She was a thinnish, leggy creature unattractively dressed in a large, long, shapeless sweater of the type which used to be called a Sloppy Joe. Faded blue jeans came halfway down the calves of her bare brown legs, and a pair of muddy, canvas-topped shoes brought her over the bridge to Palgrave’s side.

  “Hi!” she said again, panting a little as she joined him. This second exclamation was not a call to him to stop, as the first had been. It was a greeting, American style.

  “Hi!” he replied, in the same idiom. With her tousled, unkempt, uncared-for elf-locks, her suntanned face and limbs, her coltish gracefulness, she could have been an elemental, a spirit of the place, a creature born of the marshes, the dunes, and the sea. Her eyes were bright and avid, her lips as curved, as pure and as sensuous as those of the Citharist Apollo in the Naples museum. Except for her eyes, which were giving him the summing-up a woman gives a man she is meeting for the first time, she could have been a hermaphrodite. Palgrave’s first reaction to her was one of dismay and dislike. He wanted neither her conversation nor her company. There was no civilised way of making this clear, however, so they strolled together alongside the creek and soon left the little bridge behind them. The girl began to explain her reason for accosting him.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE MUDFLATS, SALTACRES STRAND

  “Forlorn the sea’s forsaken bride

  Awaits the end that shall betide.”

  John Davidson

  “Didn’t we see you in the pub just now?”

  “Probably. I was there.” Palgrave had been aware of a fresh young voice coming from one of the alcoves, for the inn was furnished with settles which had facing seats like miniature railway compartments. He himself had taken one of the high stools at the bar, and the voice had been his only clue that he and the barmaid and the landlord had not been the only occupants of the place. “I had a ploughman’s lunch before I decided to push on.”

  “Where to? Where are you going?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  “We thought we heard you asking about finding somewhere to stay.”

  “Yes, I did speak to the landlord when he came to relieve the barmaid. I rather fancied this village for a stop-over, but there doesn’t seem any chance of it. He doesn’t let rooms.”

  “How would you like to muck in with us? The others sent me chasing after you to find out. We’ve got a cottage here. We could put you up, if you like.”

  “But you don’t know anything about me.”

  “What does that matter? We’re all human.”

  “According to some of the things I read in the papers, I’m not too sure about that, apart from the fact that I’m a keeper in a blackboard zoo.”

  “A schoolmaster? I should never have thought it.”

  “I hope that’s a compliment. I’m also what they call a rising young novelist.”

  “Published?”

  “Certainly. As a matter of fact, I’m collecting material for my next book. That’s why I thought this place might give me what I’m looking for, a setting.”

  “Well, you’ve had my offer. Take it or leave it, only make your mind up so that I can let the others know. We’ll have to get in some more bacon and eggs and things if you’re coming to stay.”

  Palgrave glanced sideways at the girl. Not more than sixteen or seventeen, he thought. He was not enamoured of the conclusion that he was being invited to share a holiday cottage with pop-enthusiastic and probably guitar-playing and certainly record-playing teenagers. To have them in school was bad enough. He certainly did not want to spend part of his vacation with them.

  “What others?” he asked.

  “Only Adrian and Miranda. Adrian designs wallpapers and paints flowers and things on cups and plates. Miranda teaches part-time at the art school and paints seascapes. They’re married and quite old—in their thirties, I think. I’m sure you’d have a lot in common with them.”

  “Thanks. I’m twenty-six.”

  “And a bachelor?”

  “For what it’s worth, yes.”

  “Wouldn’t she have you? You look a sort of one-man-one-woman type to me.”

  “As a matter of fact, I broke the engagement.”

  “Did she play fast and loose? You should have given her a beating and told her to behave herself.”

  “I broke the engagement because I wanted to write, that’s all.”

  “Under your own name?”

  “Certainly. I’ve a very appropriate name for a writer.”

  “Yes? Tell me, and then I can introduce you properly to Adrian and Miranda when you meet them and I can also ask for your books at the library.”

  “I’m Colin Palgrave.”

  “Camilla Hoveton St. John.”

  “That’s a village, not a surname.”

  “I know. It sounds nice, though, doesn’t it? When my parents died I adopted it. You don’t get far in the art world calling yourself Thomasina Smith.”

  “You’re an artist, then, like your friends?”

  “Art student only, but I persevere. Well, are you coming back with me to meet the others?”

  “I—well, look—I don’t want to commit myself to anything.” He stood still and looked about and around him. Behind was the village, mellowed by distance to a not unpicturesque jumble of brown, grey, white and dirty red; above him a limitless expanse of sky; all round him the grey-green level of the sea-marshes; before him the marram-topped mounds and undulations of the sand-dunes, and beyond them the pebble-ridge, the muddy-looking beach and the gently moving green, blue, silver of the glittering, sun-warmed sea. He turned to the girl and, as their eyes met, she laughed.

  “All right, Mr. Cautious,” she said. “You haven’t committed yourself to anything—yet. Come on. You never know your luck.”

  He took to the married couple at once, especially to Miranda. She was plump, comely and kind, a blonde who would be prettier, he thought, if she could contrive to lose a little weight. As though to redress the balance, Adrian was very tall and noticeably thin. He was a quiet man, soft-voiced and courteous, but although he and his wife welcomed Palgrave, no mention was made of a bed for him at the cottage. It was clear that the girl had been lying when she had told him that the others had sent her chasing after him.

  Just as he was thinking of taking his leave and driving to the next town to get a room for the night, an opening came and Camilla took immediate advantage of it. Miranda asked where Palgrave was staying and he replied that he did not know.

  “He would like to stay in this village,” said Camilla.

  “But at the pub they held out no hope,” said Palgrave, “so I had better be pushing on.”

  “Can’t he stay here? There’s the studio couch,” said Camilla.

  “Stay here? Well, yes, if he doesn’t mind our rough and ready ways and people having to pass through this room to reach the front door,” said Adrian, looking at Miranda. She nodded.

  “It will be good for you to have another man for company,” she said.

  “Good for me, too,” said Camilla pertly. “Besides, he will pay a quarter of the rent and help with the chores.”

  “Oh, hang it all!” said Palgrave. “I can’t impose myself on people I’ve only just met.” He was embarrassed by the way this extrovert girl had taken charge of the situation and committed the married couple to a course which probably they had no wish to follow. Miranda reassured him.

  “We shall be delighted to put you up. Can you pay ten pounds a week? That would be for bed, breakfast and supper. We have a snack at the pub if we bother about lunch at all, so that wou
ld be extra.”

  “Well, it’s awfully good of you. Could I stay for a fortnight?”

  “Not quite a fortnight,” said Adrian. “My lease of this cottage is up on Saturday week, but you could stay until then, if that would suit you.”

  “So ten pounds for a full week, and one pound fifty a day for the rest of the time,” said Miranda in businesslike tones.

  “Profiteering!” said Adrian, laughing.

  “It’s awfully good of you,” said Palgrave. He took out his wallet and produced the notes. “I’ll go to my car and get my things, then.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Camilla.

  “What are we to call you?” asked Miranda.

  “My name is Colin Palgrave.”

  “Colin, then, and our name is Kirby, but to you, please, we are Adrian and Miranda.”

  “And I am Camilla,” said Camilla, taking his hand and leading him towards the door. “Where will you park your car? There’s a wide bit of the road a little further on. You would find it handy unless you want to leave it where it is.”

  “I’ll get the bed made up while you are gone,” said Miranda.

  “You know,” said Palgrave, when he and Camilla were outside the cottage, “you had no right to wish me on to those people.”

  “Oh, nonsense! Miranda will be glad of your money. They only asked me to join them because they wanted some help with the rent. They don’t really like me all that much. Do you like me, Colin?”

  “I don’t know yet, do I?”

  “When we’ve dumped your suitcase or kitbag or whatever, will you bathe with me? Usually I have to bathe alone because the other two can’t swim.”

  “Now, look here, young woman, the reason I’m staying here is that I want a setting for my book. I’m not just a casual holidaymaker. I shall be very busy, I hope, most of the time. I shall be taking notes and getting the feel of this place. I don’t want interruptions and I don’t want company on my excursions. Sorry to be so blunt, but it’s better to get things straight.”

  “All right, but don’t you forget that if it weren’t for me you wouldn’t be staying here at all.”

  “True.”

  “So will you swim with me just this once, by way of saying thank you?”

  “You’re a persistent little so-and-so, aren’t you? This time, however, you lose out and that for the best of reasons. I don’t have my swim-trunks with me. They’re in the car and I’m dashed if I’m going to rout them out now.”

  “Keep your underpants on. If we sprawl out on the dunes afterwards they’ll soon dry off.”

  “I don’t have a towel, and I hate being sun-dried.”

  “Dry yourself on your shirt, then. Any more stupid objections?”

  “Yes. I’m too full of pork pie and beer to go swimming. Here’s my car. Get in and show me this parking space you mentioned.”

  “There’s no hurry. Wouldn’t you like to buy me a drink? The pub will keep open for another half hour and Miranda won’t want us back until she’s found you some bedding and put the room to rights.”

  The last thing Palgrave wanted was to involve himself further with the girl, but he followed her into the pub and twenty minutes later they returned to the cottage with his suitcase. The studio couch had been opened out to make a double bed and he had a suspicion that Miranda and Adrian had stripped the sheets from their own bed to put on his. There were no pillows, but plenty of cushions, and in reply to an enquiry he said that he was sure he would be comfortable. He added that he would like to change his clothes.

  Accepting the hint, the other three went out, Camilla to bathe, Adrian to search the marshes and the shore for plants and small sea-creatures which would suggest wallpaper patterns, Miranda to make pencil sketches of the church. He watched them go past the window and then he unpacked his belongings, put on flannel trousers, an open-necked shirt and a blazer, thrust a notebook into one of the pockets, hid his wallet and cheque book in his bed, and walked out on to the marshes.

  He had reckoned without Camilla. She was waiting for him and she fell in beside him as soon as he appeared. He said nothing and affected not to notice she was there. The afternoon was hot. Very soon he took off his blazer and slung it over his shoulder. They tramped over coarse grass and sea-lavender until they came to the sand-dunes. Here they ploughed their way through the deep, soft sand and the marram grass and when they reached the top Palgrave sat down and took out notebook and ballpoint. Camilla lay down beside him, propped her chin on her fists and gazed out towards the pebble-ridge and the sea. Palgrave frowned at the blank page of his notebook.

  “I’m being very good, don’t you think?” said the girl.

  “You’d be a lot better from my point of view if you were somewhere else.”

  “Tell me all about yourself. I’m a student of human nature and I’ve never met a rude man before.”

  “I’m not rude. I’m here to write and I don’t want company, that’s all, especially the company of adolescents. I get quite enough of that at school.”

  “Are you a good schoolmaster?”

  “Competent, I suppose.”

  “Shall I tell you about myself?”

  “No thanks.” He got up, returned his notebook and ballpoint to his pocket, picked up his blazer and scuffled his way downhill towards the beach. He thought at first that the girl was not going to follow him, but he was clambering and sliding over the smooth pebbles when she caught up with him. When he had cleared the ridge he found that there was a shallow lake left by the last tide. The girl came cascading down the pebble-ridge and sat down on the sad-looking shore. It seemed to consist of more mud than sand, and exhibited numberless casts and depressions made by lugworms, for although the tide had turned it was a long way from the high-water mark.

  Camilla took off her shoes. She stood up, walked on the squelchy shore and called back to Palgrave:

  “At least take your shoes and socks off! Don’t you love to feel the mud between your toes?”

  “Not particularly. Where I usually spend my holidays the walking is over heather and the peat-bogs. Oh, well, if you want to, let’s swim.”

  There was nobody else about. They stripped off, the girl revealing that she was wearing a bikini under the loose sweater and the calf-length jeans, and were soon splashing their way through shallow, sun-warmed water.

  The girl was a competent swimmer, but Palgrave soon outdistanced her. The bottom shelved suddenly and he found himself in deep water, although the waves were small. When, having had enough, he swam back and waded ashore, the girl was still disporting herself. He climbed back to the sand-dunes and lay spreadeagled to dry off. After another quarter of an hour she joined him. He saw her coming out of the water and before she reached him he had pulled off his still damp underpants and was into his flannel trousers.

  Camilla apparently had no such inhibitions. Unconcernedly she took off her two bits of almost non-existent nonsense and lay down. From the colouring of her skin Palgrave deduced that sunbathing was among her ways of passing the time in these desolate surroundings. He took a pipe and matches from the blazer which was lying beside him and sat clasping his knees and smoking as he gazed out to sea.

  Beforetime he had spent a holiday at a resort on the Solway and had seen the unexpected speed with which the tide there came in and receded. Here it did not come up so fast but, even so, he was interested to watch as, more swiftly than he would have supposed, half the mudflats were covered.

  At the cliff-top town which he had left that morning, the incoming tide took a slightly slanting direction from northwest to south-east, but here, less than forty miles along the coast, this trend seemed to be reversed. He put this down partly to the direction of the wind. Although it was warm, it blew fairly strongly, caressing his bare shoulders and ruffling the girl’s dark hair.

  He looked across at her. Her face was turned away from him with her head resting on her rolled-up sweater. Her back was childishly thin, the shoulder-blades slightly prominent, the
waist scarcely narrower than the hips. The back was enticingly hollowed like that of a young gymnast and her legs were long and straight. She looked defenceless, elemental and, in spite of the immature body and the careless boyishness of the whole pose, seductive and desirable.

  Palgrave shook his head at his own thoughts, knocked out his pipe on his tin of tobacco, rolled loose sand over the dottle, stood up and put on his shirt and blazer. He rolled his underpants into a ball and stuffed them in his blazer pocket, disposed of his pipe, tin and matches in the other pockets and said:

  “I’ll leave you to put your things on. I’m going back now.”

  “Oh, wait for me,” she said, “and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

  Palgrave turned his back while she dressed. She caught his hand when she was ready and held on to it, swinging his arm a little as they walked, more slowly this time, across the marshes and along the banks of the creek. They crossed the plank bridge, took to the causeway and made their way towards the village.

  They did not converse. The girl hummed something monotonous and, to his ears, tuneless, but he sensed that she was happy. He himself was filled with a languorous contentment after his bathe. It came from the enchanted confluence of the sun’s warmth and the sea, and he felt at peace with all men and even in some kind of comradeship with the determined girl. He was still certain that the invitation to stay at the cottage came from her and from nobody else, but in his state of euphoria he felt sufficiently grateful to her not to make any attempt to put an end to the hand-holding, embarrassing though he found it.

  “After all, she’s only a kid,” he thought, “and she’s probably lonely.” On impulse, when they were drinking the tea she had made, he said, “Do you really think I’m rude?”