Dover Beach

by Richard Bowker

  "How did it go?" I asked.

  "I didn't find anything," he said. "Not a fucking thing." He wasn't happy. There were voices in the background, clinking glasses. At least he had found a pub.

  "Are you still in Bromford?"

  "Yeah. I missed the last goddamn train. I'll have to spend the night. No one here remembers anything—at least that's what they say. They're probably lying, of course. The research center is a goddamn old people's home now. Jesus, you'd think at least someone would remember if an American lived here once. We're rare enough. Did you find out anything?"

  "Nothing to speak of," I said. "I think we're about done with the newspaper library."

  Winfield was silent for a moment. It was not a pleasant silence. I dripped. Glasses clinked. "Goddamn it," Winfield said. "We've got to find him. I don't have enough money to fool around like this. Understand?"

  "What do you want—"

  "I don't give a shit. You're supposed to be the expert. That's why I brought you over here. So find him. Fast. I don't care if you have to break into the fucking Prime Minister's house. Understand?"

  "Yes, boss."

  "And you better be there when I get back tomorrow. Understand?"

  I hung up, then got a towel and dried myself. I looked at the newspaper, lying open on the bed to the movie listings. Saint Humphrey, pray for us. Sam Spade probably would have told his client to shove it.

  Not if it was his first case, maybe.

  I got dressed and went down to the lobby. The desk clerk smiled his knowing smile. Those Americans and their crazy problems, it seemed to say. I tried to smile back. "Could I borrow the telephone directory for the letter 'C'?" I asked.

  * * *

  "Hello, I'm sorry to disturb you, but I'm a reporter from the United States, and I'm doing a story on an American scientist who I believe emigrated to England after the war. His name is Robert Cornwall. I wonder if you would be related to him?"

  Cornwall, R. was very sorry, but she couldn't help me.

  Cornwall, R. did not answer.

  Cornwall, R. (or whoever answered Cornwall, R.'s phone) did not speak English, and our conversation got nowhere.

  Cornwall, Arthur had a cousin named Robert, but no, he was from Bristol and had never been to America.

  Cornwall, Beatrice thought I had a nerve calling up perfect strangers, and she had a mind to report me to the authorities.

  Cornwall, E. and Cornwall, Edgar did not answer.

  Cornwall, George was surprised there were reporters in America, and wondered why they wanted to write a story about Robert Cornwall. No, he didn't know any Robert Cornwall, he was just curious.

  Cornwall, Harold's wife was pretty sure he didn't have a relative named Robert, but he wasn't in right now, and could I call back later?

  Cornwall, John's brother had died of radiation poisoning while with the American Relief Expedition, and he hoped we would all suffer the way his brother had suffered.

  Cornwall, K. said why, yes, her father was Robert Cornwall, the American scientist. What was the story about?

  Er, um. I stared at the listing in the directory. This was really happening, wasn't it? The voice was young and innocently curious. What was I supposed to say to Cornwall's daughter? "Well, the fact of the matter is, Ms. Cornwall, I'm not a reporter. I represent a man who is a relative of Professor Cornwall's from America. We've come to England to try and find him."

  There was a pause. "What kind of relative?"

  "Well, perhaps I should leave that to the relative himself to explain."

  "Why did you say you were a reporter if you weren't?"

  "Well, the relative wished, uh, to avoid having to explain the circumstances of his search to a lot of people."

  "Are you this relative?"

  "No, no. As I say, I'm his, um, uh, representative." I was turning in a stunning performance here. Sam Spade, eat your heart out. "Would it be possible to meet your father?"

  A pause. "Well, maybe I should meet you people first. My father is rather a private person."

  "Of course. I understand perfectly. Name the place and time, and we'll be there."

  She gave me the address of a pub in Soho. "I have classes during the day. How about five-thirty tomorrow afternoon?"

  "That would be perfect."

  "How shall I recognize you?"

  "Oh, I wouldn't worry about that, Ms. Cornwall. We'll be the two American-looking gentlemen. See you tomorrow."

  I hung up and said a prayer of thanksgiving to Saint Humphrey. We had wasted a few days, but that was all right; the case was on the move. All I needed to complete my happiness was some money to buy food. You can't have everything, I suppose.

  For a change, I couldn't wait until Winfield got back.

  Chapter 18

  It was quarter to six, and Winfield was drinking his third Scotch. "She's not coming," he said.

  "Take it easy," I replied. "This is more important to you than it is to her."

  He stared at his drink. "It could be a setup, you know. Maybe she works for the government, and—"

  "Oh, give it a rest."

  He glared at me, then twisted around and gazed at the other patrons of the pub. Maybe she had sneaked in through a back door. Maybe someone was getting ready to shoot him. He was a little nervous. I suppose I couldn't blame him.

  He was at the bar ordering another drink when she came in. Her gaze swept the place as his had, pausing for a moment when she saw me and then moving on: I couldn't be the one. And then Winfield turned from the bar with his Scotch, and their eyes met.

  An apple cleft in two is not more twin/Than these two creatures. Well, not exactly. But they knew. It wasn't hard to know.

  She shared his jet-black hair and dark eyes. Her skin was paler, although flushed at the moment from the cold December air. The other features were identical: high cheekbones, long, narrow nose, firm jaw. Maybe not twins, but they were related; that much was clear.

  For all the similarities, though, there was something, well, nicer about her face than Winfield's—a calmness in the eyes, lips more ready to smile than to frown. Maybe it was due to the environment—living a cozy, protected life in England rather than a struggling, deprived one in America.

  Or maybe, it occurred to me as I watched her, the difference was in the eye of the beholder. Was it because those features belonged to a woman that they appeared so pleasant to me? She was stunningly attractive, and I wanted very much for her to be a better person than Winfield.

  She went over to him and extended her hand. "Katherine Cornwall," she said.

  Winfield was confused for a moment. His drink was in the way as he tried to respond. He set it down finally and shook hands. "Charles Winfield," he responded. "Very glad to meet you. Can I, uh, buy you a drink?"

  "Half of bitter, Gil," she said to the bartender.

  "Righto, Kath."

  She smiled at Winfield while the bartender poured her the poisonous-looking liquid. "I take it that you are my mysterious relative?" she said.

  "I believe so, yes."

  "Well, it sounds as though I'm in for a fascinating story, then. Shall we sit?" Winfield paid for her beer, and led her over to where I was waiting like Patience on a monument. I stood up, and she smiled at me. I recalled the way Winfield's gaze had drifted past me when we met, not interested enough to meet my eyes. Katherine Cornwall's gaze was direct and friendly. "Are you the gentleman I spoke to last night?"

  "That's right. Walter Sands, Ms. Cornwall."

  "Please call me Kathy." She shook my hand. "Now who would like to tell me the story?" She took off her peacoat. She was wearing a green turtleneck sweater, faded jeans, and black boots. The sweater went well with her hair. She put her coat and shoulder bag on the banquette next to me. A tattered copy of The Seagull peeked out of the top of the bag. We all sat.

  I looked at Winfield. This was his show now. He surprised me by telling the truth—except for the stuff about cloning. "My mother was a student of Cornwall's at MIT," h
e said, "but she moved to Florida just before the war. That's where I was born. I never knew my father, but my mother told me about him. When I could afford it, I decided to go looking for him. I found out that he had gone to England after the war, so here I am."

  "You're my—what?—half-brother, then?"

  "Something like that."

  "How could you afford to come to England? Travel is so expensive nowadays."

  "I'm a doctor. I do quite well, by American standards."

  "You're awfully young to be a doctor."

  Winfield tried to look humble. "Your father is a very brilliant man, Kathy. I share his genes."

  Kathy smiled, "I wish I shared a few of those brilliance genes." She took a sip of her beer. "Father never mentioned that he had left a son behind in America," she noted.

  "He probably didn't know. I was born after the war, you see. If he knew my mother was pregnant, I suppose he assumed that I had died. It would have been a reasonable assumption."

  She nodded, and stared at him in open appraisal. It was hard to say how she was taking all this. I had a feeling she was tense, but barely a hint of that broke through her politeness. "You certainly look like my father," she said.

  "So do you," Winfield replied.

  "Then I expect we are brother and sister." She smiled again. "What shall we do about it?"

  Winfield downed his Scotch. "Tell me about him, for starters," he said.

  "All right." She thought for a moment, then reached into her bag and took out a wallet. She fumbled through it for a moment, and then found a photograph that she passed to Winfield. "Here he is, perhaps ten years ago," she said. "Quite a resemblance, don't you think?"

  Winfield nodded and passed it back. I caught a glimpse of it as Kathy put it away—a somewhat faded photo of a man in sunlight, squinting unhappily at the camera. It could have been Winfield, somewhat older, somewhat heavier. "Was he at Bromford when this was taken?" Winfield asked.

  "Why, yes. What else do you know about him?"

  He shook his head. "Almost nothing."

  "Well, let me see if I can summarize, then. He married my mum just before he started at Bromford, and that's where I lived until I was about nine. Then he went to Oxford to teach, and we went along—for a while, anyway. Then my parents broke up, and Mum and I moved away. He gave up teaching a couple of years ago, but he still lives in Oxford."

  "Do you see him much?"

  "Once in a while."

  "What kind of person is he?"

  She stared at her beer glass. Sum up your father for us in fifty words or less. "He's very... private. I'm sorry, it's rather difficult—"

  "I understand. Do you know anything about his work—what he was doing at Bromford, for example?"

  She shook her head. "That's one of the things he's private about. Besides, I'm very stupid about science. I mean, I understand that his work has to do with biology and genetics and such, but I don't know the details."

  "Why did he and your mother break up?"

  She looked at Winfield. Had he pushed too hard? But she simply smiled wryly. "I expect she found him too private."

  "I'd like to see him," Winfield said. "Is he too private for that?"

  "I suppose not," she replied—a trifle slowly, I thought, as if weighing her answer as she spoke it. And then more quickly: "Shall we go together? My Christmas holiday starts tomorrow, and we could leave after my last class. I can bring my gift and fulfill my daughterly duty. Would that be all right?"

  "That would be perfect." Winfield beamed. It was all turning out as he had hoped. "Shall we have another round to celebrate?"

  Kathy finished her beer. "Thank you." Winfield went to the bar to buy the drinks. She turned and looked at me a little hesitantly, searching for something to say.

  "So you want to become an actress," I said, helping her out.

  She smiled a perplexed smile. "How did you guess?"

  "Simple enough. A young woman doesn't get her copy of Chekhov that ragged unless she's learning a part. Nina, I suppose?"

  She looked down at her bag, then at me. Her smile widened. "That's very perceptive. Have you read Chekhov?"

  "Just a little," I lied, figuring I had shown off enough. Still, I felt mightily pleased with myself. "Does your father approve of your choice of careers?"

  The smile mostly faded. "I don't think he especially cares, to tell you the truth."

  "What about your mother?"

  "Oh, she positively loathes the idea."

  "It's not very pleasant to have your family oppose your chosen profession," I remarked, from experience.

  "What exactly is your profession, Mr. Sands?"

  "Call me Walter. I help people like Dr. Winfield find what they're looking for."

  "That's an interesting profession, Walter. Does your family support it?"

  "Their opinions are mixed, to tell you the truth."

  Winfield returned with Kathy's beer and his Scotch. Nothing for me, thank you. And the talking resumed. As before, it excluded me. I thought Winfield had performed rather well up to that point, but once the visit with his "father" had been arranged, he became more his usual self—opinionated, condescending, obnoxious. He wanted to impress his newfound relative, I think—to prove he wasn't a hick, despite his strange accent, to prove he deserved to be Cornwall's offspring, despite his strange background.

  It was hard to tell how his relative responded to the performance. Kathy was perfectly polite, friendly, charming; but I had a sense that she was at least partially using her acting ability, that behind the façade of good manners she was judging him, and her judgment was not altogether favorable. Was that a flicker of distaste on her features as he arose to get yet another Scotch? Did her eyes glaze momentarily with boredom as he gave his expert opinion on the current political situation in Britain?

  I wasn't quite sure, because I realized that my insights were not altogether to be trusted where she was concerned. I found myself rooting for her. I wanted her to be nice, and I wanted her to have some taste—especially when it came to men. If she was charmed by Winfield, then she would grievously disappoint me. I tried to steel myself for the disappointment.

  After a few more drinks, Winfield suggested that they go out to eat. Kathy politely agreed, and suggested an Indian restaurant nearby. I tagged along. Winfield gave me a look that suggested my presence was unwelcome, but I ignored it. After all, he hadn't given me my per diem. At the restaurant, Winfield kept drinking and talking, Kathy kept listening, and I kept watching Kathy.

  Winfield lurched off to the men's room at one point, and Kathy and I were left alone again. "Dr. Winfield certainly has a large capacity," she observed.

  "This is a big day for him," I said, feeling unexpectedly loyal. "I think maybe he's overexcited."

  "And tomorrow will be an even bigger day, I expect."

  "Yes, it will."

  She looked at me. "Will you be coming tomorrow, Walter?"

  I had assumed I would, but the asking of the question put the answer in doubt. Was the case over? Was I free? At the moment I wasn't quite sure I wanted my freedom. "I guess it's up to Dr. Winfield," I said.

  "It might be a good idea," she said.

  I wasn't quite sure why, but I didn't want to disagree. "Yes, it might."

  When the meal was over, Winfield proposed going back to the pub, but Kathy begged off. "I'm sorry, Charles, but I have early classes, and I have to do some preparation. Shall I meet you and Walter tomorrow? Three-thirty, let's say, at the ticket windows in Paddington Station."

  "Soun's great," Winfield slurred. "Sure you won't—"

  "Quite sure, Charles. It's been such an exciting evening, though. I'm really looking forward to tomorrow." She gave him a sisterly peck on the cheek, smiled quickly at me, and was gone.

  Winfield glanced at me, then his gaze slid past, and he headed off in the direction of our hotel. I was headed in that direction myself, so I kept him company. "Beautiful girl, huh?" he said.

  "Yes, indeed
."

  "Y'know, she's my daughter, sort of, if y'look at it the right way."

  "You must be very proud."

  He ignored me. "'Sbeen a long time coming. A long, long time." His dark eyes were moist. I felt a snowflake land on my cheek.

  "What'll you do when you meet him?" I asked.

  "He'll teach me," Winfield said. "We'll work together."

  "Making more clones?"

  "I'll carry on. He won't live forever. But he will—we both will. We'll make more lives for us to live, an' maybe one of them'll be amazing. Our genius, over and over and over. See?"

  I saw. The snow fell slowly, as if hesitant to intrude on our conversation. "What is he doing at Oxford, do you think?" I asked. "Kathy said he was retired."

  "I dunno. He's a very private man. I'm private too, y'know."

  I wanted to point out to Winfield that the case didn't make sense. If someone had tried to kill him in Boston for asking about Cornwall, why was Cornwall apparently retired and living a quiet life in Oxford? But Winfield was too drunk to care about such things. I let it slide.

  Winfield made it back to the hotel and passed out on his bed as soon as we entered our room. I pulled off his shoes and coat and left him there. Then I sat by the window and watched the snow falling.

  The traffic hissed by below; Winfield grunted and snored. I had a long night ahead of me. I considered taking my five pounds from Winfield's pocket and going out, but somehow I lacked the energy.

  I wondered again: was the case over? Looked like it. Asked a couple of friends for help, made a few phone calls. Simple. If there were things that didn't make sense, they didn't particularly matter. Real life, I figured, was not as tidy as fiction.

  So why did I feel so strange? Was this how a private eye feels after the last chapter, when he sits in his office and realizes that those characters he's been dealing with are gone forever from his life? Maybe.

  And maybe my mood had nothing to do with the case. Maybe it had to do with real life, pure and simple.

  Maybe it had only to do with Kathy Cornwall.

  She was prettier than any of the stained and dog-eared pinups in Art's Filthy Bookstore. She was young and alive and untouched by the chaos and disease that had permeated my life. Imagine—studying to be an actress! She was a dream I had never dreamed I would dream.