Dover Beach

by Richard Bowker

  If the statue knew, it wasn't saying. I stood staring at it for a while, hands jammed into my pockets, waiting for inspiration. Then I felt a crumpled piece of paper, waiting to inspire. I took it out and read it by starlight.

  The End Is At Hand

  Swell. I closed my eyes and fought off the memories while I whirled through space in the midst of those silent stars. Was it the whirling or the memories that made me dizzy, that made me clutch at Columbus to keep from falling into the snow?

  Hard to say. After a while I returned the paper to my pocket and walked back home. I sat next to the Christmas tree and stared out the window until it was light, and Mickey arrived in the van to drive Winfield and me to the airport.

  Chapter 16

  Hello good-bye hello good-bye.

  We were in the air. We were flying. It was real.

  I was terrified; I was ecstatic; I was numb. I had lived so long amid technology's detritus that it was astonishing to be able to sit back and let technology help me, let it set me free. I was certain it would let me down—we would crash into the Atlantic, we would explode in midair, we would sputter to a stop and have to turn back. But none of these things happened. The engines hummed peaceably; the clouds rushed past us, heading dopily in the wrong direction; the flight could not have been more normal. I was the one who wasn't normal.

  Winfield was hung over and didn't say much. That was all right with me. There were about a dozen other passengers. They all looked vaguely official, and they all seemed to know each other. They ignored us, except for a suspicious glance or two, so I had little to do but dream and fret until, after endless hours, the plane landed, and we were in England.

  England. This fortress built by Nature for herself/Against infection and the hand of war. "It doesn't seem possible," I murmured.

  Winfield shrugged. "Boston was what didn't seem possible."

  I walked groggily across the tarmac and into the terminal, trying not to gawk. It was twilight. There were electric lights everywhere. Music was playing. We got on an escalator that worked and found our baggage whirling around on a conveyor belt. Then we went to Customs.

  It took a while. The agent was extremely interested in us. He studied our passports, counted up Winfield's cash to make sure we wouldn't be a burden on society, and asked us the purpose of our visit.

  "I'm looking for my father," Winfield said, and he gave a vague summary of his story.

  The agent nodded sympathetically. That was as good a reason for coming to England as any. "Have to search your bags, however, I'm afraid."

  Nothing to be done. He found the Smith and Wesson in my underwear. He took it away. "Not in England, sir," he said.

  I had a feeling that a bribe was not in order. Everything was all right, though, because finally he let us pass, and we had arrived—officially, legally, undeniably. Winfield changed his new dollars for pounds at a booth in the terminal, and then we walked outside; the terminal doors graciously slid open for us when we reached them. "Isn't it amazing?" I said.

  "I need a drink," Winfield said.

  * * *

  We took the Tube from Heathrow. The train was clean and fast and not very crowded—a far cry from what Gwen was used to in Boston, where one old car made the trip through the subway, a solitary piece left on the underground gameboard, and you prayed it wouldn't break down before it reached your stop.

  There were advertisements above the windows—glossy colored photos of beautiful people smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. I stared at the ads hungrily, but Winfield didn't seem to notice them. Maybe, I thought, he was comparing himself to Cornwall, who had probably arrived in style at Heathrow with the other scientists and been treated as an honored guest while the government figured out how to use his talents. And here Winfield was—accustomed to being king of the hill, with prestige and money and shiny new shoes—now an anonymous traveler with nowhere to stay and little to spend. The money that rented him a suite at the Ritz back home would scarcely buy him a good dinner in London. Maybe he was finally realizing what he had gotten himself in for by coming here.

  Or maybe he was still hung over.

  "Where should we get off?" he wondered after a while.

  I studied the transit map across from us. "How about Piccadilly Circus?" I said, for want of a better suggestion.

  Winfield shrugged. "All right."

  When the train reached our stop, we had a tough job just getting out of the station. But finally we found the right escalator and the right stairway and the right door, and we made our way out into the London night.

  We stood for a moment while our senses adjusted to the neon and the traffic and the noise and the sheer number of people bustling past. So many people. I had a vision of them all living their lives at the same time I was living mine—getting drunk and going to work and falling in love and making babies—and the vision made me realize how small my world had been. To live in that world was to live half-blind, like Bobby groping through the night. Now my eyes were being opened, and it was scary, because in my world all that had mattered was staying alive. Here other things could matter. Here I could matter.

  In the center of the Circus was a statue. Eros, I remembered from Art's guidebook. Teenagers were standing and sitting all around it, not doing much of anything, apparently content just to be in the middle of the excitement. I felt the same way.

  "I'm freezing," Winfield said. "Let's go."

  I reluctantly followed. We tramped around for a long time, looking for a place where we could afford to stay. It quickly became clear that hotel prices were out of our league. "We could look for a rooming house or something," I suggested.

  "We'll find a place," Winfield insisted. I think his pride would have been destroyed if he couldn't stay in a hotel.

  As we searched, and my senses became adjusted, I began to notice that England, too, was not what it once was. I knew that intellectually, of course: no place had totally escaped the consequences of the war. But now I could see it for myself. There were lots of cars by American standards, for example, but they were mostly ancient, and the few new ones were tiny three-wheelers that looked like tricycles for adults. There was neon, but there wasn't the explosion of it that you saw in old photographs. And Piccadilly had its share of boarded-up stores and broken windows. Still, I wasn't disappointed: the place was wounded, but alive. Definitely alive.

  Near Russell Square we finally found a dingy hotel that Winfield could, barely, afford. The night clerk was an Indian who looked at us over half-spectacles and seemed faintly amused by what he saw. "We do not get many Americans anymore," he said.

  "I'm not surprised," Winfield growled. He had to pay two nights in advance. There were no porters to be seen, and no elevator, so we lugged our bags up the dimly lit stairs to the second floor.

  Our room was full of stains: water stains on the walls and ceiling, grease stains on the purple scatter rug, stains I didn't want to think about on the faded bedspreads. Louisburg Square it wasn't.

  But it was warm, and the electric lights worked, and so did the radio, and the faucets in the bathroom gave you as much hot water as you wanted. I have lived in far worse places.

  Winfield threw down his bags and washed his face. "Let's go get a drink," he said.

  I was more interested in taking a bath, but he was paying for everything, so I felt obliged to tag along. When we reached the lobby, the Indian clerk looked up at us and smiled. "Are the accommodations satisfactory?" he asked in his staccato accent. I felt a little out of my depth. Was he making fun of us?

  "They'll do," Winfield said. "Where's the nearest pub?"

  The clerk gave us directions. We followed them, and found ourselves in a dark, warm, womblike place that was empty except for a stout barmaid and a couple of old men at the bar who looked like they were part of the furniture. There was a fake blue Christmas tree by the door, frosted with plastic snow and dotted with red lights that blinked on and off. Winfield advanced purposefully to the bar.

&n
bsp; "What can I get you gentlemen?" the barmaid asked. She was fiftyish, with dyed blond hair and naturally rosy cheeks.

  "Whiskey," Winfield said. "A double. On the rocks."

  "Ooh, an American," she gushed. "Don't get many Americans anymore. And you, sir?"

  The old men had stopped muttering at each other and were staring at us out of the corners of their eyes. Life had suddenly gotten interesting for them. "Uh, do you have any apple juice?" I inquired.

  The barmaid looked puzzled for a moment, as if trying to decipher my accent. Then she seemed to decide she had heard correctly. "Oh, we wouldn't have none of that, sir."

  I thought hard, and came up with a magic word from the old days. "How about a Coke, then?"

  She nodded vigorously, like a mother pleased with the progress of her dim-witted son. "Very good, sir." She poured the drinks, Winfield paid her, and we took them to a table.

  Winfield downed half of his in a swallow; he closed his eyes and looked much happier. I took a sip of mine and almost choked on the bubbles. Carbonation—another new experience. I can't say I liked it. I started hiccuping.

  Winfield glared at me. "Hold your breath," he said.

  I held it.

  After a while he got bored watching me turn the color of the Christmas tree. He swallowed some more of his drink. "Now, what's our plan?" he asked.

  I exhaled. Plan? "What plan?"

  He glared some more. "Why are we here, idiot? Our plan to find Cornwall."

  "Ah." My case. I had a job to do. It had sort of slipped my mind. I thought for a moment, then got up and went over to the barmaid. "Excuse me," I said. "Would you know where I could find some sort of directory that lists people's telephone numbers?"

  "What, let her love?" the barmaid asked.

  I didn't quite get that. I hiccuped. "Excuse me?"

  "What letter, luv?"

  "Oh. Um, C."

  She rummaged around behind the bar and finally pulled out a large volume. "Here you go."

  I took it. "Now, is this for all of England or—"

  "Lord, it's just London, you know, and the front part of the alphabet at that. They've got other ones for different places. Don't they have 'em in America now?"

  "Not in my part of America, anyway."

  "How do you get along without 'em?"

  "You get used to it. Hic." I took the directory back to the table and opened it. "Well, there are more than a dozen Cornwalls here," I said, "but no Robert Cornwall. Maybe he doesn't have a phone, or maybe he doesn't live in London—or maybe he's dead. I suppose we could call up these people here and see if they've heard of him."

  "Are you crazy?" Winfield said.

  "Why? What's the problem?"

  "In case you've forgotten, Sands, someone tried to kill me because I'm looking for Cornwall. Now maybe that person knows I'm here and maybe not, but I don't want to start calling around and letting the world find out I've arrived. Besides, do you really think the government would let his name be listed in the goddamn phone book?"

  "I don't know. Depends on whether your hypothesis is correct."

  "Let's assume that it is, shall we? Now, why can't we snoop around that Ministry of Science where the letter was from and see if we can find out something there?"

  It was clear our partnership was not going to be a smooth one. "I'm a private eye, not James Bond," I said. "Breaking into a government office and trying to steal some secret file or whatever that we don't know even exists is a sure way to get us both thrown in jail. Look, maybe the first thing to do is go to the library and do some research. We might find an obituary right off the bat—or maybe someone has done an exposé of secret government projects, and Cornwall is mentioned. His name must have cropped up somewhere in the past twenty-two years. It's dull work, but no one will shoot us or arrest us."

  Winfield swallowed the rest of his drink, "You found a secret file in Boston," he pointed out.

  "I had friends in Boston. The only person I know here is you."

  He didn't seem happy, but he also didn't seem inclined to argue with me. "Who's James Bond?" he asked finally.

  I hiccuped.

  * * *

  Winfield had another drink while I held my breath. When we finally left, the old men looked sorry to see us go. The barmaid wished us a happy Christmas.

  We returned to the hotel, and I got to take my bath. It wasn't a Jacuzzi, but it felt wonderful. It even cured my hiccups. When I went back into the bedroom, Winfield was asleep. I felt so relaxed that I thought I might be able to sleep, too. No luck. I lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the traffic—traffic!—and Winfield's snores, and I realized that the new world hadn't changed my old habits.

  Gwen had thought it might. Ah, well. What were they doing in Boston? Thinking of me, probably—maybe wondering if I was thinking of them. I tried to figure out the time difference. It was after supper there. They would be in the parlor together—reading, knitting, maybe playing cards. Living their lives as I was living mine.

  When, after endless hours, dawn came and I finally dozed off, I dreamed of them—dreamed that they were in England with me, and we were all climbing that statue in Piccadilly. First one to the top gets a glass of Coke! But none of us could quite make it: Stretch was too short, Linc too sick, Bobby too blind, Gwen too tired. And me? What was wrong with me? I was afraid, I think—afraid of the height, afraid of the hiccups. The prize remained out of my grasp, and finally I slid down the cold metal body of the deity and joined my friends on the ground. "It's all right," they said to me, and they held me tight in the middle of the traffic and the neon lights.

  But then I awoke, and there was just Winfield and bright sunlight and the squealing brakes of buses. My friends were thousands of miles away, and I had a job to do.

  Chapter 17

  No friends now, just me and my brain. And Winfield, of course. Time to forget all the distractions and show him, and myself, what I was capable of.

  I figured we should start at the top, so we went to the British Museum, which was near our hotel. It was hard not to be distracted there. I wasn't used to museums that weren't ruins; I wasn't used to a past that was preserved for its own sake, not salvaged to buy today's supper. I was tempted to wander off and see some of what had been preserved, but managed to resist. We found our way to the Reading Room. The people there immediately pointed us off to their newspaper division, in northwest London. We hiked to King's Cross and took the Tube.

  The librarians at Colindale were intrigued by our story of the search for a long-lost father, so they gave us passes and explained how to do the research. "We don't get many Americans anymore," they remarked. The refrain was starting to bore me. Finally, we sat down at our computer terminals and set to work.

  More distractions. I read through old periodicals, searching for references to Cornwall. But my gaze kept slipping away to articles about the things I had lived through. Was this how it had really been? Was this what it had really meant?

  Such useless distractions—not simply because they weren't part of my job. Private eye or not, I didn't need to know what it had really meant. It was enough that it had happened; everything else was trivial and pointless.

  I tried to concentrate on Cornwall, but I couldn't find any mention of him. I came across references to other scientists in Mr. J. T. Carstairs's list, but Cornwall remained elusive. Winfield's luck was no better. By the time the Reading Room closed I was hungry and my head ached and we had made no progress.

  Winfield was not happy. We sat in a tea shop and had sandwiches while he fumed. "This is a waste of time," he said. "We've got to come up with a different approach."

  "But we haven't exhausted the possibilities of this one yet," I pointed out.

  "It's boring. He's here—somewhere in this country—and we're just sitting around reading old newspapers."

  "Well, what do you suggest, then?"

  He bit into his sandwich and didn't reply. When he had finished eating, he threw his money on the table and st
omped out.

  I followed, faithful retainer that I was. I wasn't particularly happy about the current arrangement, however. The trouble was, he had all the money, and that meant there wasn't much I could do except hang around with him. The prospect of spending the evening with Winfield in some pub was pretty depressing. I may have done stupider things than leaving all my money behind in Boston to convince people I was coming back, but at the moment I couldn't think of one.

  "Listen," I said as we took the Tube back to the hotel. "This is crazy, me having to tag along with you everywhere. Why don't you give me a per diem, and that way I can get my own meals and stuff and not bother you?"

  Winfield stared at me.

  "Most private eyes get a per diem, you know," I said, a little desperately. "I'm not asking for pay, just meal money."

  He considered, then took out his wallet and handed me a five-pound note. "That's for everything until tomorrow night," he said. "I don't care if you spend the night at the hotel or not, but you better be ready to get back to work tomorrow, or I'll find you the same way I'm going to find Cornwall."

  I pocketed the money. It was a fortune in America, almost a joke here. "Don't worry," I said. "I'm not going far on this."

  We stared at each other for a moment, then Winfield turned away. He got off at Leicester Square, looking for a pub. I got off at Charing Cross, looking for bookstores. Art's guide was right again. When I came up from the station, I was in the midst of more bookstores than I had ever seen in my life. I went into the nearest one.

  It had new books. I opened one reverently, feeling the spine crack a little, smelling the fresh inky smell. Art would have been in heaven here. Think of all those writers, I could hear him say, even as we speak, staring at their blank sheets of paper, imagining the words we will one day read. I smiled.

  I had to buy a new book. I couldn't afford a hardcover, so I studied the paperbacks. There were no private-eye stories, but I found a mystery complete with an inspector from Scotland Yard and a corpse in the vicarage. I bought it and a postcard. Then I stood by the door and wrote a cheery message to America.