by A. J. Cronin
At half-past four that afternoon Harmon and Gracie had returned from the regatta to the lounge of the Ardfillan Pier Hotel.
Harmon was seated at a small table by the window with a whisky and soda before him, while Gracie, stretched on the adjoining sofa, was drinking a cup of tea.
The view was beautiful, that combination of sunlit sea and sky conducive to a gentle reverie, but the noise coming from the crowds strolling along the front made Gracie’s head ache more than ever.
Her migraine had begun at lunch after Harmon had insisted on ordering champagne—which always upset her—and it had continued all afternoon when, seated with Frank in the mass of people upon the pier, surrounded by shouting, excited spectators, deafened by the brass music from the merry-go-rounds of the fair-ground behind, she had endeavoured to see, to enjoy, the regatta. What a fiasco it had been!—the very thought of it made her temples throb again.
Her eyelids fluttered with sheer nervous fatigue and yet, jaded and dejected though she was, she refused to surrender to wretchedness. She had been foolish to consent to this expedition, but it was not an irrevocable folly. She had only to endure the situation for another hour.
Meanwhile, Harmon had finished his whisky. Putting down his glass, he moved over and sat on the couch beside her, studying her with a half playful, half sardonic familiarity which set her nerves quivering anew.
“How is the head?” he inquired.
She managed to smile. “Still rather bad.”
“A breath of fresh air will put you right.” He spoke lightly. “ I’ve ordered a launch for five o’clock. We’ll take a trip out to the big liners.”
“But Frank,” she raised herself, “ isn’t it almost time I was going?”
“Nonsense.” He dropped his big hand on her knee with an easy intimacy. “I want to show you the Andalusia. She’s a lovely boat. We fitted her out, you know. The staterooms are the last word.”
There was a pause. A strange thought flickered to the surface of her mind. She glanced away, her nervousness increased.
“I know you mean to be kind, Frank, but I’m not really in the mood for a ship inspection.”
He laughed. “ You may change your mind when you’re on board.”
Shocked out of her lassitude, she lowered her eyes, Striving to keep a firm grip of herself. What had at first seemed a wild suspicion now assumed an aspect of probability which sent a cold shiver through her veins. Had she not heard somewhere that the Andalusia was listed for an imminent departure?
A fresh surge of anxiety and indignation swept over her. Only by a great effort did she restrain an impulse to question him directly and settle the issue at once. But a scene would gain her nothing. She had a worrying idea that he was watching her, waiting for her next move, prepared calmly to counter it.
There and then, stifled by the sensation of his proximity, she experienced an overmastering, an almost terrifying desire to escape from him. She would have given everything she possessed to be miles and miles away, never to see him again, never, never. But now, above all, she must disguise her feelings. She forced a smile, made a gesture of acquiescence.
“Oh, very well, Frank. If you’re set on it, we’ll go.”
“Good.”
She sat up, glanced at her watch.
“I’ll go and tidy up. I must put some cologne on my forehead.”
His expression changed slightly, and he gave her a narrow, slanting glance. He said slowly: “Don’t be long.”
“I shan’t keep you a minute.”
She crossed the lounge and went into the rest-room, where she stood perfectly motionless, thinking deeply, with a pale and drawn brow. She felt limp, as though floating in an enervating air.
But in a few moments she saw exactly what she must do. A train left Ardfillan for Renton at half-past five—the very rarity of the service had impressed it on her memory. From Renton she would walk to Markinch—it was a longish way, but in her present apprehension she counted that as nothing. And then—a faint expression of relief softened her harassed features—she would reach Daniel and the boy.
If only she could have stolen away unnoticed without further delay! But that, in the circumstances, was impossible. She must use her wits, rely upon some simple stratagem. Cautiously, she opened the door. As she had expected, Harmon was in the lobby, awaiting her. She summoned her brightest smile, advanced towards him and took his arm.
“Now I feel better. The lounge was rather stuffy.”
They passed through the lobby to the front porch of the hotel. Suddenly, with a start of recollection, and by an effort keeping her voice natural, Gracie exclaimed:
“Oh, how stupid. I left my bag on the sofa: will you get it for me, Frank?”
There was the barest pause, almost imperceptible, during which she held herself rigid, her smile fixed resolutely, as though painted upon her lips. She had guessed that he could not, without absolute discourtesy, refuse so simple a request.
“All right,” he said slowly, turning on his heel. “Wait here till I come back.”
Her heart began to beat again. For an instant she forced herself to be still, but no sooner had he disappeared behind the brass-bound revolving door than she stepped quickly into the street. Her purse was in her pocket. For the time being she had abandoned completely all thought of her luggage. She wanted only to get away, to get away while this opportunity remained.
Outside, she simply flew to the station, took her ticket hurriedly and flung herself into a front compartment of the train, which, since Ardfillan was the terminus of the line, stood waiting at the outbound platform.
Not daring to show herself at the window she sat back, scarcely breathing during what seemed an interminable delay. But at last the whistle sounded and the train jerked slowly away. She sighed with relief.
It was nearly eight o’clock when they finally drew into Renton, and Gracie, stepping on to the platform, felt a surge of energy in her limbs. The evening was still and silent, and the thought of the long walk ahead was not displeasing to her.
It was after ten o’clock when she reached the bay. She felt the dry softness of the sand beneath her feet. She was at the water’s edge now, halted, her eyes searching, her breath quickened by expectation. Ah yes, there was the light of the binnacle lantern. Then dimly in the darkness the glimmer of the houseboat took form, lying out there in the inky shallows.
Cupping her hands about her mouth she called out: “Cooee! Daniel! Daniel!”
Immediately there came an answer in tones of joyful recognition.
“Gracie, is that you?”
“Yes,” she cried, all her being suffused by happiness and relief. As she heard Daniel row towards her in the dinghy she felt that she had reached a safe haven at last.
The next day came fresh and fair. It had rained heavily during the night, but in the morning, although the wind remained high, the sun broke through the racing clouds and steeped the loch in brightness. To Gracie, seated on the deck of the houseboat with her son, the world wore a strange new aspect.
They were alone. After breakfast Daniel had departed hurriedly for Levenford.
And now, sheltered by the high bulwarks, over which the crested “white horses” of the loch were visible, Gracie and Robert were playing a game of draughts.
Gazing at his small intent face, the dark eyes downcast towards the board, the long lashes casting shadows upon the pale, still hollow cheeks, the lips compressed in contemplation of his next move, there welled up in Gracie such an emotion of longing, mingled with remorse, it seemed as though her heart must break. Why, but for Daniel and the intervention of a forgiving heaven, had she almost thrown away the most precious thing which life could give?
All that she had dreaded had not even remotely come to pass. Her meeting with her child had taken place simply, without one of those agonising embarrassments which she had feared might arise to shame her.
He had accepted her, neither eagerly nor fondly, yet without a word of recriminatio
n: had heard in unreproachful silence her halting explanation, that laboured story of her protracted stay in India: had behaved throughout with a quiet sense of knowing everything, of holding nothing against her, merely of leaving the whole solution of the problem to the future.
And how quickly, she reflected joyfully, how quickly their mutual adjustment was taking place. The instincts of nature were not to be denied. Already his stoic reticence was breaking down, with guarded, reluctant, half-hidden glances he was drawing towards her, and once, by some well-chosen word, she had evoked from him a shy, appreciative smile.
Moist-eyed, she pledged herself to care for her forgotten little boy with the most tender, the most constant solicitude. She perceived, as by a lightning flash, how frivolous, how self-centred had been her life, realised also how, in future, she might find happiness, in giving her most devoted service to the child.
The future opened up like the clear, fresh pages of a book in which the record of her accomplishment would be inscribed. With Daniel’s help she would find honest employment, she would try so hard, so earnestly, work her fingers to the bone, to make a good and worthy home.
The time passed all too quickly, and she saw, with a throb of joy, how groundless had been her fear that her company would intimidate or bore Robert. When evening came it was hard to get him below. But at last the darkness forced them down, and in the galley he helped her to cook supper of fried ham and scrambled eggs.
Often, with the coming of the evening, a sort of listless melancholy would fall on Gracie, but now she was gay, gayer than she had been for many months, with a gaiety so infectious that it melted even the gravity which the sadness of his life had imposed on Robert. He laughed and chattered, unguarded, unselfconscious, carried away by the flowing tide of happiness which bore them both along.
When he climbed into his bunk—wisely, she resisted her inclination to assist him—she bethought herself to sing to him. And, listening to an old Scots lullaby, he fell asleep.
When she had washed the dishes, thinking that her movements in the narrow cabin might awake him, she went on deck. The wind seemingly had dropped and, mindful of her new responsibility as cook and caterer, she decided she must go to the Ross farm to obtain fresh supplies of eggs, butter and fresh milk. This would take her little more than ten minutes. The farm lay conveniently, barely a half-mile back in the woods, and Apothecary Hay bought most of his stores from its good-natured owner.
Quietly, then, Gracie untied the dinghy from its mooring at the stern of the houseboat and rowed the few yards to the shore. There she beached the little skiff and started across the meadows towards the trees.
It was dark, gustier than she had expected, and the pines made a heavy sighing as she went through the wood. Soon, however, she was at the farm, and having made her purchase and chatted a moment with the farmer’s wife, she set off briskly on the return journey.
Suddenly at the end of the wood, as she crossed the deserted country road which wound its way along the margin of the loch, she saw the lights of a slow, approaching vehicle.
At first she took it for a belated farm wagon lumbering back to its lonely steading, then she realised that it was a car, and drew back instinctively to let it pass.
But when the beam of the yellow headlamps picked out her stationary figure a thought struck into her which sent a cold thrill through her breast. Prompted by this sudden and instinctive apprehension, even as the car slowed down and stopped she hurried forward across the road and began rapidly to make her way towards the beach.
But she had been seen—someone called from behind her. That call, more than anything, increased her fear, set her running across the meadow with a wildly beating heart. Burdened as she was, and unfamiliar with the path, she stumbled on the tufty hummocks of the field, blundered into bushes and thick undergrowth. Twice she fell to her knees.
She was afraid now, horribly afraid, and the sound of someone following increased her panic. Someone was close behind her. Her feet were bogged in the soft sand of the beach. With a sobbing breath she spun round, her figure braced, feeling for an agonising instant that she must faint. She made to cry out, but no sound left her dry throat. Yes, she had known it. The man who stood before her was Harmon.
She stood there, too overcome to speak, too petrified to move. His physical nearness to her, utterly unexpected, intensified by the darkness and the solitude, was more than she could humanly sustain. He must have read the shrinking in her face, for, still breathing thickly, he took her by the arm.
“Yes … you deserve a thorough shaking … you’ve led me a pretty dance.”
“I’m sorry, Frank,” she faltered palely. It was all she could find to say.
“I should hope you are.” He had recovered his breath now, and there was in his tone a measured note of reason, a sort of husky firmness more ominous than anger. “You didn’t really imagine I’d let you get away from me. I’m not the sort of man you can play hot and cold with, Gracie.”
She lowered her eyes, struggling for composure, while thoughts raced madly in her anguished brain. What, oh what, a senseless fool she had been ever to have had a thing to do with Frank, to have accepted his favours, flirted with him, and above all to have so misjudged him as to believe he would tamely accept the dismissal she had attempted to impose upon him.
“I wasn’t taken in,” he went on in that same even tone. “ I suspected at Ardfillan you were up to some trick. But I thought you might have played a better one. It was easy for me to follow you. But if you wanted a holiday you might have chosen a livelier place than this. It’s all so stupid, Gracie. And against your own interests. Anyhow, you’re coming with me in the car right away.”
“No, Frank, no.” she whispered.
“It’s no use to argue,” he answered flatly. “Things have gone too far between us. We’ve missed the Andalusia up here, but we can join her at Tilbury.”
Her blood congealed. For a second she had a frantic impulse to scream for help, but a glimmer of reason told her how useless that would be—her voice would never carry from this lonely spot. Besides, she might wake Robert, and this above all was what she dreaded most. Come what may, Harmon and Robert must be kept apart. If ever she saw a gleam of understanding of her situation in that childish eye, then, simply, she would die. She felt all at once weak and vulnerable. The hard brilliance with which she might once have withstood Harmon was gone for ever, lost in the tender softness of her new protective love for her son.
Yet this instinct gave her resources of another kind—her mind, never more lucid, went on working with a desperate, distracted energy, seeking a way of escape. And suddenly, in a flash of revelation, she saw what she could do.
“Frank,” she murmured at last. “If I do come, will you promise to be nice to me?”
“Didn’t I say so?” His face cleared slightly.
“Very well,” she said submissively. “I’ll go and tell Daniel.”
At first he did not understand, then, following her eyes, he saw the feeble light on the boat.
“Old Nimmo is with you?”
“Yes,” she lied, “ I can’t leave without a word.”
“I’ll come aboard and have a word with him.”
“No, Frank,” she said firmly. “I must take him the provisions, then I will make some sort of excuse, get my hat, and join you.”
He kept an angry silence.
“Don’t you understand? You have got your way,” she cried bitterly. “Are you afraid I shall escape? How could I do that?”
Then, more calmly, “Smoke a cigarette. I will be back before you have finished it.”
“Very well. But if you are not back in five minutes I shall come and get you.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said.
Suppressing the wild beating of her heart, she put her parcel in the dinghy and, with an air of resignation, took the oars. Drawing away from the shore, she saw the flame from a match as Harmon lit his cigarette. Knowing he could no longer see
her, she bent over the oars. Her plan was quite clear in her mind. Frank was blocking the bay of Cantie so that she could not escape that way. But he had forgotten, or perhaps, as a stranger to the district, he did not know that beyond the headland, on the opposite shore of the loch, stood the little port of Gielston. She could easily reach it. It was little more than two miles and Gracie, resolute, felt that she could cover five times that distance. She would take Robert, book a room in an hotel and telephone Daniel and, if necessary, warn the police. There must be no more half-measures and futile attempts at escape; once and for all she must remove this threat and be sure of her freedom.
With a quick stroke of the oars she had brought the dinghy alongside the houseboat and climbed on to the bridge. Her legs were trembling so much that she had difficulty in holding herself erect. In the cabin she put out her hand and gently shook Robert’s shoulder.
He opened his big eyes.
“Robert,” she said, trying to smile, “ we are going on a little trip. Now.…”
The child looked at her in astonishment.
“Where are we going?”
“To Gielston … and after that to Uncle Daniel’s house. It is much better than this place.”
Gracie had expected a protest, some sign of alarm, or at least of petulance at this unexpected derangement of his rest. But all his life Robert had been subject to upsets and turmoil, to the sudden descent upon him of the unforeseen.
Moreover, because of their happy day together, he trusted her. He rose without fuss, and while the flame of the candle threw his little shadow in fantastic shapes upon the bulkhead began philosophically to dress.
An instant later they were in the dinghy, he in the stern, a blanket across his knees, she in the thwarts with her arms taut against the oars. Scarcely breathing, she dipped the blades in silence and, using the cover of the houseboat, slid away into the darkness of the night.