I decided not to walk back the way I had come but go along the beach. The sky was lowering and there was a storm in the air. After nearly a year in the area I was beginning to be able to read the weather. I trudged along by the dunes with my coat collar turned up and saw that there was a figure ahead. It was a man digging for worms and with a strange sense of déjà vu I was reminded of when I had first seen Wilson; perhaps it was this recollection that made me go over to the man so that I could confirm to myself that there was no real similarity. Perhaps, as an adopted local, I wanted to address one of my countrymen after a brush with the common foe.
In fact I did have a vague acquaintance with the man; I had seen him at Wilson’s funeral. He was the companion with whom Wilson was supposed to have gone wildfowling and who had begun to suspect that something might be wrong when his friend never turned up. I wished him good day and he grunted and straightened up to scratch his head. ‘I don’t understand it.’
I asked him what he did not understand and he indicated the area of sand dug up about him. ‘Look what I turned over. A good cricket pitch and I haven’t lit upon one worm.’
I felt a stirring of unease. ‘Is that unusual?’
‘Never known anything like it before in my life. And I’ve been digging this beach fifty years. I don’t know where they’ve gone.’
‘Perhaps there’s some disease killing them,’ I said. ‘Like myxomatosis with the rabbits.’
‘It’s possible, I suppose, though they’ve survived everything so far. We had a shipload of chemicals go down off here once. And oil, of course – Lord knows there’s been enough of that. But then you see them, dead mostly, but you still see them. Now I’m not finding one.’ He drove his spade almost viciously into the tightly packed grey sand and I watched apprehensively as he turned it over. A tiny shell glistened like fool’s gold and was scuffed aside. I made some noises that were meant to express regret and sympathy and went on my way. I did not find it easy to talk to the local people or, more exactly, to finish talking to them. To extend a few words of greeting into a conversation required an art I did not possess.
I returned to the dunes and, almost unconsciously, found myself taking the route that led past the sluice where my wife had perished. I hesitated and then pressed forward; for some unknown reason, fears and pressures were starting to build up inside me and I did not wish to give them too much rein. It was not only the news of the nuclear reactor; that alone could not account for my feelings of impending doom.
I passed the block house and saw the scarce-changed outline of the sluice gates ahead. Half a dozen steps through the tall marsh grass and I stopped dead. A woman was leaning on the rail and looking down into the water; silhouetted as she was against the horizon and with her head tilted away from me, she looked like only one person who had once been on this earth. I felt as icy cold as if I had been plunged into the water beneath her; after the man on the beach who had reminded me of Wilson this sight was almost unbearable. Something attached itself to my feet and I let out a cry of terror, then looked down and saw that it was Mrs Valentine’s remaining King Charles spaniel, the other having died of old age before Christmas. The dog sniffed my boots and then started to wag its tail in recognition. Mrs Valentine stepped down from the parapet and came towards me.
‘Mr Hildebrand. What a surprise.’ She snapped her fingers at the dog. ‘Heel, Ripper! I’m sorry if he alarmed you.’
I was still shaken but I felt foolish at having let the dog disturb me. ‘He gave me a shock, that’s all,’ I said. ‘I was thinking about something else. No doubt you’ve heard all about the nuclear reactor.’
‘I have indeed – or as much as anybody has been allowed to hear.’ Mrs Valentine started to walk towards the block house, almost driving me before her down the narrow path. I think that she was being diplomatic and taking the initiative in removing us from this particular spot. ‘Have you been to see what they’re up to?’ I described my experiences with the security guard and she shook her head and addressed the dog. ‘It doesn’t sound like a good walk for us, Ripper. I think that alsatian might fancy you for his supper.’ Ripper wagged his tail, delighted to be spoken to. He was nearly blind and it was obvious that he was soon going to go the same way as his erstwhile companion. Mrs Valentine smiled charmingly at me. ‘Shall we walk up the beach a little bit and go back via the village? I’m glad to have bumped into you because I wanted to enlist your aid. I imagine you’re as horrified by this reactor thing as the rest of the village?’
‘Of course,’ I said.
‘Good. Because I think we’ve got to set up some kind of a committee. I’ve already talked to Doctor Parr and Colonel Fraser – you have met Colonel Fraser, haven’t you?’
‘Fleetingly,’ I said. Once in a while, Mrs Valentine would invite local dignitaries to her house for sherry after Sunday matins, and on one of these occasions I had been included in the party and introduced to a florid-faced man who numbered among his other functions that of commander of the local territorial army unit. He had quickly found someone else to talk to after we had exchanged a few words.
‘The vicar’s sitting on the fence,’ continued Mrs Valentine. ‘I think he’s worried about involving the Church in what he thinks will become a political situation.’ She reeled off some other names and I listened dutifully. Mrs Valentine called to the dog which had gone snuffling on down the beach and led the way across the marsh. A snipe rose into the air as if fired from a gun. ‘Of course, most of these people have full-time jobs so they won’t be able to devote themselves totally to the cause.’ She smiled at me again with her pleasant blue eyes. ‘You and I are more fortunate in that respect.’ She cleared her throat in the way that people do when they are about to ask a favour. ‘I was wondering whether you would be prepared to be a sort of secretary to the committee. There’s certain to be a lot of paper work – sending out notices and letters and all that kind of thing – and I know you’ve had a lot of business experience.’
‘I’d be delighted,’ I said, wishing that I could inject more enthusiasm into my voice. It was difficult to imagine Mrs Valentine leading Doctor Parr, Colonel Fraser and even a fully committed vicar to victory over the concrete monolith I had just visited. Still, perhaps I was giving in too easily. One had to put up a fight.
‘We have a lot of powerful interests on our side,’ said Mrs Valentine bravely. ‘The National Trust will be up in arms and there are a good many influential people who own property round here. I think we can count on a few voices being raised in parliament.’
‘The trouble is that it seems to be a fait accompli,’ I said. ‘It’s not at the planning stage. They’re actually building it.’
A flight of mallard rose from a nearby pool with a small thunderclap of wings and Mrs Valentine called for her dog. ‘Ripper! Heel, boy.’ The dog did not appear and it occurred to me that I had not seen him since we left the beach. ‘Ripper! Ripper! Ripper!’ The words echoed away across the marsh almost like the call of a bird. We looked back along the path expectantly. Nothing moved, save the grasses bowing before the wind. ‘He’s getting old,’ said Mrs Valentine. We retraced our steps to the dunes without seeing anything and she began to get anxious, so we went back to the beach and shouted against the noise of the sea. The shore stretched away empty on either side. The man digging for worms had gone and there was only a bulldozer on the horizon moving slowly like a ponderous beetle across the mud.
‘He must have followed us and gone into the reeds,’ I said.
‘Stupid dog.’ Mrs Valentine sounded more worried than angry. We went back to the pool where the mallard had risen and began calling again. I pushed into the reeds but the ground soon became soft beneath my feet and the water rose nearly to the top of my boots. Standing on tiptoe, I was able to see a dense thicket of reeds rearing up like an island in the middle of a lagoon of brackish water. It was a dismal place, heavy with a familiar smell of putrefaction. The reeds pressed against me and I began to feel trapped and frighten
ed; I tried to turn back but my feet were wedged deep in the mud. Something moved in the reeds a few yards away and I called the dog’s name. The noise stopped at the sound of my voice. In the grip of panic I tore one foot free and felt cold water slopping into the other boot. When I hobbled back to Mrs Valentine I was spattered with mud up to the thighs.
‘Your hand,’ she said. It was dripping blood and had a ruler-straight cut across the palm where I must have grabbed a reed. I wrapped a handkerchief around it and we continued calling and looking. Mrs Valentine thought that the dog might have been caught in a trap but that did not explain why it was making no noise.
‘It’s possible that it could have gone into the reeds and had a heart attack,’ I said. ‘It was old.’
She looked at my boots. ‘Perhaps it’s trapped in the mud.’
We looked for another half hour without seeing or hearing anything, Mrs Valentine becoming more and more distressed. In the end I suggested that the dog might have gone home and be waiting for us there. I did not think that she believed this any more than I did but it was beginning to get dark and she must have realized that searching this wilderness of reeds was a physical impossibility even in daylight.
We went back to Marsh House and there was no sign of Ripper. I had never seen Mrs Valentine so agitated – the nuclear reactor was forgotten. She said that she would take some food back to the place where we had last seen the dog in case he was wandering around the marshes looking for us. I was sceptical but I decided that it was best to humour her; doing something was much better than waiting helplessly. I accompanied her to the spot where the mallard had risen and we left a plate of cold chicken near the path.
In the morning, the chicken was all gone but there was no sign of the dog. Mrs Valentine was heartened by the disappearance of the food but after a few days had passed she began to give up hope. The dog was never seen again.
CHAPTER NINE
The first meeting of the protest committee was held at Marsh House in the week following the disappearance of Mrs Valentine’s dog. I had the opportunity of re-meeting Colonel Fraser and found him scarcely more friendly than on the first occasion. He did most of the talking, with Mrs Valentine filling in the gaps and Doctor Parr listening solemnly and looking as if he was having difficulty keeping his eyes open. The vicar was present but in what he took care to describe as ‘a strictly non-executive capacity’. It was decided that the group would be called the ‘Save Blanely! Association’, with an exclamation mark, and that Mrs Valentine would be chairman – the appellations chairwoman, chairlady and chairperson were rejected after long discussion for reasons that I cannot recall – and that Colonel Fraser would be president. A distinguished patron would be sought from amongst the ranks of the local gentry, and a fighting fund would be set up and a meeting held in the village hall as soon as possible with an invitation extended to the Eastern Daily Press and the local member of parliament. Anti-nuclear reactor posters would be printed with a wording to be agreed and a special letter heading designed for all correspondence emanating from the committee. Colonel Fraser stressed the importance of ‘looking as though you mean business’.
There was a long discussion about the subscription to be levied and it was eventually decided that it should not be less than 50p for adults and 25p for those below school-leaving age. Collecting boxes would be placed in all the shops in the surrounding villages and Colonel Fraser suggested that the proceeds of a special church collection should be given to the fund. The vicar pursed his lips sceptically and said he would have to consult his bishop on this point; he rather felt that the latter might take the view that the appropriation of the offertory monies would represent a secular intervention into matters ecclesiastical. Colonel Fraser said nothing but pointedly avoided addressing another word to the vicar during the rest of the meeting.
I took notes diligently but all the time, in my mind’s eye, I could see fresh slabs of concrete moving into place and hear the growl of the bulldozers as they bit into the earth. Whilst we talked, the reactor was springing up like a mushroom, and it was difficult to believe that anything that was done or said in Mrs Valentine’s elegant drawing room was ever going to get it dismantled and the marsh returned to its old state.
When the meeting was over and the Colonel had departed in his Range Rover and the vicar on his bicycle, I took my notes and returned to the cottage. It was one of Mrs Mullins’s afternoons and I could hear her coughing as I approached the front door. She had recently begun to look much older and not at all well; she complained of stomach pains and said that nothing the doctor gave her did any good. I sympathized as much as I could but thought that she probably had some indigestion problem made worse by a bad diet. I knew from my own experience that as the years went by the body became more of a liability than a servant.
When I entered the sitting room Mrs Mullins was cleaning upstairs. I called out to her that it was me and walked past her handbag which was lying open on a low table. Something shiny caught my eye and I glanced inside it. Clumsily wrapped in a headscarf were half a dozen antique silver teaspoons. I quickly withdrew one to look at the hall mark – yes, it was genuine.
The discovery made me uneasy and embarrassed. My first thought was that Mrs Mullins must have helped herself to the teaspoons whilst working at Marsh House. I nearly raised the matter with her there and then before realizing that this would be stupid; they might possibly belong to her and she was taking them to be sold or valued, or perhaps Mrs Valentine had given them to her. It was probably best to be discreet and approach Mrs Valentine. I could not let the matter rest.
When Mrs Mullins had gone I returned to Marsh House and rang the front door bell. Mrs Valentine opened it almost immediately as if she had been passing nearby. There was a faint blush on her cheek and she looked slightly discomforted to see me. I noticed that she held the ivory envelope opener in her hand.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ I said. ‘I’ve just been alerted to something that I think you ought to know about.’
She stepped aside and ushered me into the house. ‘About the nuclear reactor?’
‘No, something else.’
She saw that my expression was serious and leant forward to touch my arm. ‘Not about Ripper?’
‘No, no. It concerns Mrs Mullins.’
Mrs Valentine had led the way into the drawing room so that I could not see how her face reacted to this news. She replaced the envelope opener on its tray and turned towards me looking calm and collected. ‘What about her?’
‘It’s rather embarrassing,’ I said. ‘When she was cleaning the house, I happened to glance inside her handbag – by accident, of course. It contained what I’m fairly certain were half a dozen silver teaspoons.’ I paused, waiting for Mrs Valentine to draw the obvious conclusion, but she said nothing. ‘I couldn’t help wondering if perhaps she’d picked them up here.’
‘How odd.’ Mrs Valentine looked disapproving and I rather felt that it was me she disapproved of. I began to wish that I had never mentioned the matter – it was no affair of mine anyway. I was being made to feel like someone who told tales out of school. ‘Betty Mullins has been with me fifteen years. We’ve never had any trouble.’
‘There’s probably a very simple explanation,’ I said, eager to find some way of climbing down. ‘I just thought I ought to mention it, that’s all.’
Mrs Valentine said nothing but crossed to a heavy, carved oak sideboard which dominated one wall of the room. She slid a drawer open and looked inside. ‘No, there’s nothing missing. Nothing at all.’ She slid the drawer closed and turned to face me, a haughty expression on her face.
‘I am relieved. I hope I haven’t caused you any distress by raising the matter.’
Before Mrs Valentine could answer, the telephone in the hall started to ring. She excused herself and went out. I heard her say ‘Oh yes, vicar,’ in a voice that sounded as if she was resigning herself to a long conversation. The door was half-closed and she could not see me f
rom where she was standing. On an impulse I crossed to the sideboard and pulled open the drawer; the interior was divided into a number of dark blue plush-lined sections, each of them equipped to receive a set of cutlery. Nearly half the sections were empty. Furthermore, there was one section where the spotless cleanliness of the cavities showed that some utensils had only recently been removed. Six remained, six silver teaspoons . . .
I pushed the drawer closed rapidly and returned to the centre of the room as Mrs Valentine came in. ‘The vicar thought he might have left his spectacles here.’ We looked quickly round the room but there was no sign of them. I followed her out into the hall and took my leave as she picked up the telephone again. The front door closed behind me and my footsteps crunched across the wet gravel. From what I had seen it seemed almost certain that the teaspoons had belonged to Mrs Valentine – also, from the denuded state of the drawer, that other items of cutlery had been removed. Why had Mrs Valentine pretended that nothing was missing? Was she poorly off and getting Mrs Mullins to sell her silver for her? I had noticed no obvious signs of cutting back and it hardly seemed the kind of transaction that she would have confided to Mrs Mullins. It was most peculiar.
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