by Susan Sallis
She looked out to sea then closed her eyes against the brassy glare. It was all right. He knew . . . he thought he knew . . . that she saw him as a schoolboy.
She said, ‘Bum fluff? I’m trying to work out . . . oh Phil!’ She bent over, laughing inordinately. He pulled her back to the water. She said, ‘It’s all right now, Phil. You’ve done the trick.’ It was all right. She was sure of it.
They walked back slowly to the beach huts. He told her that his mother was ‘good’ about him not taking up his apprenticeship. ‘She’ll make it all right with Chippy Penberthy too,’ he said. ‘We got to be careful ’cos he’s our landlord.’
‘I think your tenancy is probably protected, Phil. I’ll ask William about it. He’ll know.’ Then she remembered that she was not going to marry William after all so she could hardly expect free legal advice from him.
But Philip said, ‘Aw, Chippy wun’t do nothing. Mum dun’t know, but Ellie and me, we’re pretty certain ’e’s sweet on Mum.’
‘Oh . . . I suppose it’s a bit soon but . . . would she consider him, d’you think? I mean if you’re going to America it would be nice to think she had someone to look after things.’ She looked at his suddenly closed face. ‘Sorry, Phil. None of my business.’
‘I en’t going to America just yet, Connie. Mum’s thinking of doing more with the smallholding. Mebbe a pig. And a tunnel of strawberries.’ He lifted her hand and folded her little finger into his palm. She held her breath. He said, ‘Do that ’urt? Tell me the truth now.’
‘It’s all right. Honestly. I had forgotten all about it.’ She smiled, relieved again. ‘Do you mind? About postponing America.’
‘No. I want to be here for a bit. Help Mum and that. And Ellie when she do start her new school.’ He paused. ‘An’ you.’
She withdrew her hand gently. ‘Phil . . . Philip . . . Philip Marlowe, detective extraordinary . . . I wasn’t going to tell you . . . using you as a prop . . .’ They were outside the beach hut now and she let her hands hang by her side and moved her feet, pushing them into the sand as if they could take root. ‘But.’ She looked up and smiled at him ruefully. ‘I won’t be coming here again. I’m not engaged any more and I’m not going to marry William Mather. Which means I’ll have to find another job. Not so much money. No lovely long holidays in Cornwall.’
He returned the smile, blazingly.
‘I knew you wouldn’t marry him. I knew.’
‘Yes. You did. I thought you were wrong.’ She felt very sad. The truth had been spoken and so must be real.
‘You will come with me to America.’
She gave that smile again. ‘No, Phil.’
‘Perhaps not America. But we will be together always.’
‘No. That cannot be.’ She unearthed her feet and climbed the small step to the hut, fitted in her key. ‘You will make a great success of the smallholding. And I will get another job and look after my mother.’
He did not care what she said, he knew she was wrong. ‘Listen. I’ll go and open up the shop and make us some coffee and sandwiches . . . We’ll sit in the sun and sleep together.’
She looked at him sharply and saw that he was being his usual literal self. He strode off to the shop, where the remains of his bike lay in the sand. She could hear him laughing. All the time. And she thought, I do love him! My God, I do. I know him like I know my hand. She held up the hand he had cleaned for her. Put it close to her face. Kissed it. And felt the same kind of joy he was exhibiting as he held up a pair of handlebars and rang the bell of his bike. She waved to him, laughing so that he could hear her. Then she unlocked the beach hut and began to get the chairs out and assembled. It was as if a weight had fallen from her. She did not have to ‘burden’ him. He knew. He was so sweet. So kind. And he loved her and wanted her to be with him always.
She set out the little beach table carefully and sat in one of the chairs and closed her eyes. She had not slept all night.
William had said that he could not sleep without her. ‘I haven’t slept like last night for years and years . . .’ He was still half joking, thinking she was being coy. ‘You can’t be so cruel.’
But it confirmed her feelings. If he had said that he understood exactly how she felt and he respected her and would happily wait until their wedding day, it might have been all right.
She said, ‘I don’t think you can have heard what I just told you, William.’ She still felt sick. ‘Mrs Pentwyn asked Mrs Heatherington to get rid of me. I was using her home as a brothel.’
William looked at her. He must be listening now. Before, he had said quizzically, ‘Darling, I’m sure you’re mistaken. Let’s go upstairs and talk about this properly.’ And he had taken her key and gone ahead of her into her room as if he had every right to do that. Just because . . . just because . . .
‘And this was . . . when?’ He was speaking in his solicitor’s voice.
‘You know very well when it was. When Mrs P. wanted a private word with Mrs Heatherington and Lily asked me very nicely whether I could find some biscuits and I went into the kitchen and the two of them – Heatherington and Pentwyn – were under the porch with the light on and it was obvious that Mrs Heatherington had been coming here for donkey’s years and she – she – Mrs Heatherington – herself in person – had booked two rooms, one for her and one for you – and then you had telephoned and asked for another room for your fiancée!’ Connie took an enormous breath. ‘I should never have come. I’m the odd one out. You should have explained it all to me properly. That you would have to spend all the time with her. In effect, you have lied to me about this holiday. And I am the one to be shown the door!’ She went to the window and stared down at the dark glimmer of the cove and thought of the boy who was reading American novels and was innocent and honest. She had been innocent too . . . and gullible. She put her knuckles on the window ledge and leaned hard down until the pain took her mind off the two women arguing under the porch.
William was behind her, silent, no longer a lover pleading for love, no longer a lawyer. She said loudly, ‘I feel shame. I feel grubby. Horrible. I want to go home.’
‘Connie . . . please. I realize now how awful this is from your point of view. Can you try – please – please – to see it from mine?’
‘Tomorrow I will arrange a taxi to the station at Penzance – you can tell them what you like.’
He said miserably, ‘I will drive you back, of course. But I want you to know – I didn’t want – oh God, Connie, Arnold thought it would be a good idea if I went along with her – Greta Heatherington. She wanted to talk it all over, away from the grime of the city where the air was clear . . . you know how she goes on. Arnold says she hasn’t got a chance with this suit and he reckoned if I listened to her and put in a word now and then, she would drop the whole thing. Then I asked you to marry me and you said yes and I thought . . .’
‘Yes.’ Connie nodded as if she really did understand. ‘Two birds with one stone. You used me, William. I was making sure poor old – Greta, did you say? – couldn’t embarrass you. And as I was just next door, why not try it on? It’s quite the done thing now, isn’t it?’ She took another breath and forced herself to say very clearly, ‘Sex before marriage. A trial run. Just to see if I was good enough?’ She turned, suddenly unbearably weary. ‘Just go.’
He looked terrible. Drooping. He held out one hand. ‘I will go, darling. But please, don’t – don’t – cancel everything. Not everything.’
She felt herself softening inside again. But then, out of the blue, something made her say, ‘Am I included on the list of expenses for this business holiday?’
He flinched physically as if she had struck him. Before he could speak she had twisted off her ring, the lovers’ knot of sapphires and diamonds, and put it into that outstretched hand. Then she turned away again and listened as he walked across the room, opened the door and closed it.
The boy’s voice woke her.
‘Connie, are you all right?’
He smiled into her eyes. ‘You bin asleep. Solid. I kep’ an eye on you from the shop. People comin’ and goin’ . . . thought they’d disturb you.’
She struggled up, held her head and noticed her watch. ‘Oh . . . good Lord, Phil. It’s almost one. Lunch will be on the table. Damn! Damn, damn, damn! I meant to be on the train by now!’
He looked stricken. ‘I didn’t think . . . not so soon?’
‘I can’t go back there. I really can’t. I’ve got my money and there are spare sweaters and things in the beach hut. I’ll get a taxi to Penzance and just wait there for a train.’ She put her hands on the frame of the deckchair and then fell back with a groan. ‘Bit of a headache,’ she said as he crouched by her, full of concern.
‘Just close your eyes again. I’ll fetch a glass of water and perhaps a sandwich – bet you din’t ’ave no breakfast.’
She did as she was bid and when he came back with the water she sipped and felt herself coming together again. But the innocence of the mussel shells and the strange, painful exhilaration of the jellyfish had gone. She was left with a heavy weight of depression that was like nausea in her chest.
She glanced around. ‘Where are all the people, Phil?’
‘It’s going to rain. They’ve gone back to their caravans and rooms. It was just too hot.’
She nodded, still gazing around the deserted cove. ‘Did anyone come looking for me?’
‘Not as I know of. Dun’t think anyone ’ud spot you from the cliff top. Reckon you’re safe ’ere.’
She was not comforted. Why had William not come to find her? Surely he would when she didn’t turn up for lunch? And when he did, what was she going to do? She looked at her watch again and shivered in the heat. If she left right now and phoned from the kiosk not far from Blue Seas, she would be seen. Mrs Pentwyn would be triumphant, her accusations verified by such an undignified departure. And by the time she got a taxi and arrived at Penzance station it would be at least mid-afternoon and the journey was six hours. And her mother was at the other end. She would be good about it, she would stand by her daughter. But she would be so disappointed.
‘You need summat to eat. I’ll get that sandwich.’
And he was right again, she did feel better after the cheese sandwich and another glass of water. He munched away, grinning up at her from the sand.
‘Goin’ to rain cats and dogs,’ he said. ‘We’ll be all right. We’ll wait in the hut till it gives over. Then we’ll get back to Hell for the night. You can get the train tomorrow from there.’
‘Hayle?’
‘Where I live. You en’t been lissening, Connie!’ But he was still grinning. ‘Told you. You can sleep with the girls – Ellie will see to it.’
She said blankly, ‘How will we get there? It’s about ten miles up the coast surely?’
‘Mended the bike in between customers. Good as new. You can go on the handlebars. Take us a couple hours but we got all the time in the world now, Connie.’ He was slickly confident. Like Philip Marlowe. ‘Give me a year or two to get things going for Mum an’ I’ll come and fetch you an’ we’ll go to America. How’s that sound?’
She got out of the chair at last. She would have to go now. Now. At this moment. Lock the hut and leave the key with the boy. And go.
And then something happened. The ground beneath her feet started to move. She stared down at the boy. He stared back.
‘’Tis only an earth tremor.’ But he looked frightened. ‘Mum do call it the shivers. Comes with the heat.’
He uncoiled himself and stood up. The dry sand was falling away in little rivulets. Through the soles of their feet came an ancient drumming. And then the beach hut on the end of the row collapsed and its four plank walls spread themselves flat. The other huts jumped but stayed put. The boy gave a little whimper and automatically Connie put her arms around him and held him tightly. ‘It’s all right, Phil. We’re OK. We’re hunky-dory! Yes?’
The tremor was subsiding. The rain started. They stayed where they were, clutched together, lifting their heads to the enormous drops of water.
‘Mum do say it’s all right when it gets to rain. It cools the earth down, like.’
‘I reckon she’s right. Can’t feel anything under my feet, can you?’
‘Naw.’ But he was shivering. They were both already sodden with the rain.
She loosened her grip on him slightly. ‘Shall we shelter in the beach hut, Phil? When it stops we can go to the shop and eat everything in sight!’ She laughed and he joined in but uncertainly.
‘What if the hut collapses like the end one?’
‘We shall get wet all over again.’ She urged him up the shallow step and into the hut. It was an enormous relief to get out of the way of those heavy drops hurtling from the sky. She looked up at it and noticed it had turned purple.
She released him and he folded into a crouch on the wooden floor. His checked shirt and khaki shorts were dripping everywhere. She was suddenly worried.
‘Come on, Phil. Take your stuff off. Here’s a towel. I’ll turn my back. In fact, I’ll dry myself too.’ Rain drummed on the roof so she repeated her words, pushed a towel into his hands, grabbed another one and went into a corner. He must have heard her but she knew he was not moving. As she leaned over to dry her legs she saw his towel lying on the floor. She seized one of William’s enormous sweaters and dragged it over her head.
‘Phil, for goodness’ sake. You’re shivering like a dog! Stand up – let me . . .’ She hauled him upright, pushed his shorts down as far as decency permitted, unbuttoned his shirt – realizing that he must be wearing it to look American – and pushed it from his shoulders. She picked up the towel and started at his hair, worked down his neck and chest and turned him to dry his back. Then she eased him into the waterproof jacket William called his ‘slicker’.
‘It’s American. Look, Phil, see the label?’ She turned him again to zip up the jacket and realized he was crying. Tears were pouring down his face, his mouth working uncontrollably.
She said, ‘Oh Phil . . . oh my dear boy . . . what is it? Tell me – talk, Phil. Please say something.’ Tears filled her own eyes. She said, ‘We’re together, Phil. Nothing can harm us when we’re together.’
She cradled him and he sobbed into her neck for some time before words emerged.
‘Wanted to look after you. Love you. And you love me. Thought I could go to America. Thought I was a detective. Now you know.’ He almost choked on his sobs.
She was bewildered. ‘What are you talking about, Phil? Of course you can go to America. And anyone can be a detective.’
‘Naw. Naw. Not unless you come with me . . .’ He raised his head and looked at her. ‘I’m . . . I’m MD. You didn’t know, did you? You treated me like I was normal. And I looked after you when you was unhappy.’
‘Phil, you did. I haven’t thanked you, have I? Oh Phil, you made such a difference.’
He stared at her. ‘You don’t know what MD means, do you?’
‘I do. And you are not it.’
‘Say it, Connie. Say what it means.’
‘It means mentally defective and you are not that. You are wise and kind and you know what to do when people need help. Those little girls – Rosalie and Lily – they love you. So did Mrs Heatherington and William.’
‘They knew.’
‘Mrs Heatherington does gush like that. Probably so that you will know she’s an actress. And William . . . he doesn’t say much.’ She held his head in her hands and looked into his eyes. She said, ‘There is nothing wrong with your mind, Phil. Some of those tests . . . I’ve seen them . . . they’re ridiculous.’
‘Oh Connie . . . oh Connie . . .’
She whispered, ‘It’s all right. It’s all rig
ht. Honestly.’ She put her lips against his.
At some point in the next few minutes she made a decision. After all, it was no great thing to give this boy something he wanted and needed so much. William had shown her how; she was not that silly word, a virgin. So really what was the point of stopping him? They lay in the purple darkness and she showed him what to do. He was so gentle. He could not stop saying her name. The beach hut was full of his whispered ‘Connie . . . oh my Connie . . . Connie, I love you. Connie.’ And her responses were her kisses and whispered ‘It’s all right, Phil. All right.’
They huddled quietly together and laughed at the thumping roar of the storm on the roof. His happiness filled the tiny space so gently. She whispered, ‘Feel the air, Phil. It’s like silk.’
It was strange to turn her head in his shoulder and smell William on the crumpled slicker jacket; to feel Phil’s arms around her arms within the sleeves of William’s sweater.
He said, surprised, ‘It’s us. We made the silk.’
‘Yes. Like a cocoon.’
They were quiet again within their cocoon. The storm abated gradually though the light was still purple. When it stopped and all they could hear was dripping from the cliff above, she stood up and opened the door. The sand was pitted by the rain; the sea oblivious. The tide was lapping up as usual as if nothing had happened. She peered out. To her left the little shop was intact, even the awning above the serving hatch still there, bowed with its weight of water but in place. To her right the broken beach hut was the only evidence of the earth tremor and the storm.
She looked down at him. ‘Are you all right, my wonderful detective?’
He nodded. His intensely blue eyes shone in the peculiar light.
She said, ‘I’m going to have a swim, Phil. Then I’m going back to the boarding house and tomorrow William will drive me home.’
He stood up slowly. ‘Will you be engaged again?’ His voice shook.
‘No.’ She smiled at him and took his hand. ‘I can see now why William did what he did. But I can see I should not have said yes when he asked me to marry him.’ She shook his hand. ‘Thank you, Phil.’