The Wind Off the Sea

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘How do you do, sir. Richards, the landlord.’

  ‘Mr Richards.’

  ‘Mr Rafferty.’

  ‘Are you over here on what I understand you call your vacation?’

  ‘Well yes in one way, Mr Richards, and no in another. Initially it was business. I’m with the military and had to attend some meetings in Paris and Munich about this Berlin business.’

  ‘Which seems to be worsening by the hour,’ Richards said, beginning to turn on some lights in the lounge bar. ‘It looks like the Russkis mean business.’

  ‘Let’s hope not, but I must admit it isn’t getting any better. Anyway, having concluded my business I thought I’d allow myself a few days’ vacation here in England on my way home. Visit some old stamping grounds.’

  ‘You were stationed here, sir?’

  ‘No, no – just a place I visited once. And rather fell in love with.’

  ‘Our little Bexham?’

  ‘No, Bexham I have not visited previously. No, I stayed at a lovely old inn quite near here, I believe. The Golden Eagle, I think it was called.’

  ‘Of course. In Middlehurst. A very fine establishment. And are you travelling by yourself, sir? Or accompanied by your family?’

  ‘My family are all back in the States,’ Michael Rafferty replied. ‘My children, that is. I lost my wife nearly two years ago now.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir,’ Richards said, removing the tea towels off the beer pumps and raising the flap in the bar. ‘How very sad.’

  ‘It was a great blow,’ Michael Rafferty agreed. ‘We’d been childhood sweethearts. It didn’t seem at all fair, I must say. I’d survived four years of hell and high water, and my poor wife who had been without a day’s illness in her life dropped dead suddenly of a brain haemorrhage. Here—’ Michael Rafferty had got to his feet and followed Richards over to the bar, taking his wallet out of his pocket. ‘These are my children,’ he said, producing several photographs. ‘And this was Carena. This was my wife Carena.’

  Richards found himself looking at the picture of a very pretty woman, open-faced, smiling easily but with very resolute eyes. It was a look that reminded Richards so much of someone that for a moment he felt as though he knew the dead woman, as if he had seen her almost every day of his life.

  ‘Charming,’ he heard himself murmuring as Michael Rafferty put away his snapshots. ‘What a charming young family. And what a terrible tragedy.’

  ‘Yes,’ Michael agreed. ‘Yes, it was. It was so utterly unexpected. And I guess that’s what made it so unbearable. The very – the terrible sudden shock.’

  Both men fell to silence, Michael left with a memory and Richards with a sense of puzzled bewilderment.

  ‘Still, life has to go on,’ he heard his visitor saying, as he turned to regard the wonderful view out along the quays and over the estuary which was now running up to high tide. ‘There’s no point in standing still. None at all.’

  Richards nodded but said nothing, now going about the business of opening the bar officially, unbolting the two front doors that stood either side of the big bay window. At the end of the jetty he could see a group of figures, young women, some with their children and some alone, standing there gossiping, just too far away to be recognisable.

  ‘So what do I owe you, Mr Richards?’ Michael enquired. ‘For that excellent tea.’

  ‘Half a crown should cover it, sir,’ Richards replied. ‘One shilling and ninepence for the sandwiches and—’

  ‘No need to break it down, I assure you.’ Michael laughed. ‘Cheap at the price for such a delicious confection. There we are, and thank you.’

  Michael handed Richards half a crown, and returned to his table to slip sixpence under the cup for the service. Then he hesitated, knowing that he simply had to ask the question before he left, because asking the question had been the whole point of his visit. And if anyone knew the answer it must surely be the landlord of a hostelry that quite obviously dominated the life of the village. Either he or the vicar, and Michael knew that as far as his question was concerned he might be better off asking the landlord.

  ‘I wonder if you happen to know a young woman by the name of Mathilda Eastcott?’ he asked, as lightly as he could. ‘At least I think that was her name. Mathilda Eastcott – yes, I’m sure it was. I only really knew her as Mattie.’

  ‘Indeed, sir?’ Richards regarded him from under his carefully combed and tufted thick black eyebrows. ‘You must have known this young lady quite well to address her thus.’

  Michael managed to conceal his smile of delight at the positively Shakespearean quality of the landlord’s reply and just nodded instead.

  ‘She was my driver,’ he replied. ‘When I was in London during the war I was allotted a driver and this charming young woman – Miss Mathilda Eastcott – drove me everywhere, all the time I was stationed here. And I remember when we – I remember when we were talking about our homes and where we came from and all that stuff, she told me all about Bexham. Made it sound like a fairy tale – which indeed I have to say it is. I think this little harbour is one of the most enchanting places I’ve seen in England. Anywhere, in fact.’

  ‘Hence your visit, sir,’ Richards concluded, setting out fresh ash trays on the tables and stopping to stare out of the bow window when he came to that particular table. The group of young women had broken up now, and dispersed. Two of them were walking up towards the pub, with a handsome little boy between them, hand in hand with both the young women who swung him happily off the ground whenever they could. ‘Hence your visit.’

  ‘I thought I had to see it for myself,’ Michael replied. ‘And while I was here—’

  ‘While you were here, you thought you’d get back in touch with your pretty young driver.’

  ‘Why not? Life’s too short,’ Michael said, suddenly embarrassed enough to find himself colouring, which he saw Richards noting as he turned slowly to look at him. ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘Not at all, sir, forgive me,’ Richards replied, returning to his ash-tray duty. ‘It’s just that I thought – no, it was nothing at all, sir. Please forgive me.’

  Even so, Richards stole another glance at the trio that now stood almost at the foot of the pub steps. Judy Tate, Mattie Eastcott and who he now realised with shock was a miniature version of the man standing in the shadows behind him. In truth, if the child had been put to stand beside the tall American behind him, Richards knew that nine out of ten people would inevitably have come to the same conclusion. He sated briefly at his duster, wondering.

  ‘So?’ Michael Rafferty was asking him again. ‘This is a very small place, a close community I would imagine, so if young Miss Eastcott still lived here I would think you might well know of her and her whereabouts.’

  Richards straightened himself up slowly and nodded, one eye still on the action without.

  ‘You’re absolutely correct, sir. Miss Eastcott did come from these parts and did in fact dwell in Bexham right up until last year.’

  ‘Until last year?’ Michael asked impatiently. ‘Why – where is she now? What happened last year?’

  ‘Last year, sir, young Miss Eastcott fell in love with a childhood friend and got married. She then left our little village and has settled down very happily somewhere near Oxford.’

  ‘I see,’ Michael said, which he did indeed, although somewhat absurdly he still found himself wanting to ask if Richards was sure. He prevented himself from doing so, sensing how ludicrous such a question might seem. ‘I see,’ he repeated. ‘I’m very glad to hear it, Mr Richards. Very glad indeed. She was a very nice young woman, full of character and extremely courageous. So I’m very glad she’s found happiness, married and settled down. Very glad indeed.’

  ‘We all are, sir,’ Richards replied. ‘She was a most popular young woman and everyone was very fond of her. We all wanted nothing but the best for Miss Eastcott.’

  ‘Good,’ Michael concluded. ‘Now I must be on my way. Thank you again
for your kind hospitality, and for the pleasure of having tea here at your lovely old inn.’

  ‘Any time you’re passing, sir,’ Richards said, still with an eye on the two women and the little boy, all three of whom now looked as if they were intent on climbing the steps up into the lounge bar. ‘May I show you out?’

  ‘I rather think I shall go out the front way if I may,’ Michael said, throwing a spanner slap in the works. ‘I fancy a stroll to the end of the jetty and a good dose of fresh sea air.’

  ‘These steps are somewhat steep, sir – and a little treacherous for those who don’t know them.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about me, Richards. I’ve scaled the cliffs of Brittany.’ With a smile Michael Rafferty made for the right hand door, giving Richards the break he so desperately needed, seeing that Judy, Mattie and young Max were about to enter the left hand one.

  ‘Allow me, sir,’ Richards said, putting his not inconsiderable bulk between his departing visitor and the incoming party. ‘And pray do take care on the steps.’

  His professed concern was enough to make Michael look down at the steps he was about to descend, and so pay not the slightest attention to the two pretty young women and the handsome little boy who entered the bar behind him at the exact moment of his departure.

  As he left, Richards shut the door, flooded with an enormous sense of relief. At once he turned to the new arrivals and swept them up to the bar well out of sight of the window.

  ‘Is something the matter, Mr Richards?’ Mattie asked.

  ‘I do hope not,’ Richards said. ‘Although your father did sound a little agitated.’

  ‘Daddy? What are you talking about? Daddy can’t have been in already – you’ve only just opened.’

  ‘He telephoned me – said if I saw you I was to ask you to return home immediately. And no, he didn’t say why – so if I were you, Miss Eastcott—’

  ‘It’s all right, Richards!’ Mattie called back over her shoulder as she hurried out of the bar and down the side corridor, with Max firmly attached to one hand. ‘I’m on my way!’

  Judy stared after her, then back at Richards. ‘Think I should go with her?’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother, Mrs Tate,’ Richards replied suavely, lying through his teeth. ‘As far as I could gather Mr Eastcott had simply misplaced the can opener.’

  Having served Judy with her usual gin and tonic, and made sure his American was still way down the far end of the jetty, Richards slipped off to his office to quietly telephone Lionel Eastcott. Without putting him fully in the picture, he told him just enough for Mattie’s father to appreciate that there was danger lurking down in the harbour, so he should keep his daughter at home until well after dark.

  ‘Thank you, Richards,’ Lionel said gruffly. ‘I shall owe you several large Angostura and tonics for this.’

  ‘And don’t worry, Mr Eastcott.’ Richards sighed. ‘I shall claim each and every one of them.

  There was continuing drama the other side of the Atlantic, too, Waldo at the moment managing considerably less well than Richards had in solving his own dilemma.

  ‘If you won’t give me a divorce—’ he said yet again.

  ‘Which I will not—’ his wife repeated yet again.

  ‘Then what do you want, Dolores?’

  ‘More money?’

  ‘If you agree to a divorce, Dolores, I shall make sure you’re a very rich woman. Your lawyers have the proposed settlement. You’ve seen the figures.’

  ‘This isn’t just about money, Waldo.’

  ‘It isn’t? You surprise me. I’m not the guilty party, remember? You were the one who was unfaithful. On our honeymoon, too. You could at least have waited till we’d got home.’

  ‘You’re going to have to prove I was unfaithful, Waldo dear,’ Dolores said, tightening her smile.

  ‘You mean I’m going to have to prove you have been consistently unfaithful, Dolores.’

  ‘You said it, Waldo.’

  ‘Why won’t you give me a divorce? You know our marriage was a disaster. You know it never even existed. So come on – be reasonable.’

  ‘Why do you want a divorce?’

  ‘Why do you think?’

  ‘You want to get married again?’

  ‘That really is none of your affair, Dolores.’

  ‘I do hope you haven’t been unfaithful, Waldo. It could cost you.’

  Waldo said nothing for a moment, suddenly mindful of the fact that had Dolores been smart enough she could have kept him under surveillance. She could certainly afford to have done so, yet even though the thought had startled Waldo he knew at once it couldn’t be the case. Had it been so Dolores would not have hesitated to file against him immediately, such was her truly appalling lust for money.

  ‘OK, here’s how,’ he said. ‘Suppose we look again at this proposed settlement.’

  ‘Waldo sweetie,’ Dolores interrupted, lighting up a fresh king size smoke. ‘As far as your proposed settlement goes, you know what you can do with it.’

  ‘Cable for Mr Waldo Astley! Cable for Mr Waldo Astley!’ a bellhop announced, accompanied by the ringing of his bell and a show of Waldo’s name chalked on his call board. ‘Cable for Mr Waldo Astley!’

  Waldo excused himself and made for the desk, tipping the bellhop a buck on his way through and being rewarded with a delighted smile from the boy and a touch to his pill box hat. Collecting the cable, which had been sent over from his hotel, he tore it open, knowing that if it was from England it was bound to be bad news. When he saw from whom the cable came, he became certain of the sort of tidings it bore.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ he whispered after he had read the contents twice. ‘Oh, dear God,’ he said even more quietly, and crumpled the telegram in one hand.

  When she finally arrived back at Cucklington House early that evening, Meggie found Rusty waiting for her, with fires lit in all the rooms Meggie normally used.

  ‘Waldo?’ she asked, as she draped her coat over a chair in the hall. ‘I take it this is more of Waldo’s crystal ball stuff.’

  ‘Dr Wright rang Mr Richards, which apparently Mr Astley had instructed him to do should there be any need while he was away, and Mr Richards rang me,’ Rusty replied, stoking up the fire in the drawing room while Meggie poured herself a large gin and tonic. ‘With Mr Astley being away, I can do your housekeeping, if that’s all right, Meggie?’

  ‘What about Tam? What about Peter?’

  ‘Peter’s fine with the idea, and believe it or not Mum and Dad agreed to look after Tam – but not at their house. Mum’s coming to stay with us.’

  ‘Good Lord.’ Meggie grinned with open surprise. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got the tiger by the tail.’

  ‘Seems that way.’ Rusty shrugged.

  ‘What brought about the change?’

  ‘I’m pregnant again,’ Rusty said shyly.

  ‘But I thought—’

  ‘Me too,’ Rusty interrupted. ‘But it seems I was wrong. Seems I was wrong before too – I wasn’t the only one that went a bit off the rails. Seems that Mum couldn’t handle it either. Which was why she acted so funny. She and Dad. That and what everyone was saying to them – that it was all my fault.’ Rusty shrugged happily. ‘Says she’s tickled pink. And when I said suppose it’s a little girl? she said it’s what you want, isn’t it.’

  ‘Good,’ Meggie said. ‘Well done you.’

  ‘Right.’ Rusty grinned. ‘So is that all right then? Me helping you out?’

  ‘Can’t think of anything more all righter,’ Meggie replied. ‘Just tell me when and if I’m being an even bigger bore than ever.’

  Sensing that she needed some time to herself, Rusty tactfully withdrew and went to prepare a light supper along the lines of Richards’s suggestions, some fresh Dover sole and homemade treacle tart, the sort of meal that could easily be eaten off a tray by the fireside. While she was gone, Meggie sat in her favourite high-backed chair by the fire, nursing her drink and surveying the small table by her side that w
as now covered with her pills and medicine bottles. Looking at the French carriage clock above the fireplace she saw it was time for her next fizzy, as Henry Wright had christened them. She rather liked these fizzies as they induced a slow feeling in her of happy euphoria. And after a couple of days such as Meggie had just experienced she most certainly felt like a bit of euphoria.

  * * *

  ‘Is this expected to make a drastic difference?’ Dolores wondered, having undone Waldo’s cable, read it and tossed it back at him.

  ‘I wonder what keeps you alive, Dolores,’ Waldo said carefully. ‘It certainly isn’t a heart.’

  Dolores stared. She hated Waldo. Most of all she hated him for being such a goody-goody.

  Dolores smiled. She smiled directly at Waldo and kept on smiling. ‘What if I still say no to a divorce?’

  ‘I will make sure I become a widower.’

  ‘You don’t meant that,’ she murmured.

  ‘You don’t know that I don’t mean it, do you, Dolores?’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Double the settlement,’ she said suddenly, and picked up the pen.

  They both knew what would happen next. Waldo’s lawyer would book them on a plane to Rio where the divorce would be put through quicker than the flight. After which Waldo would take the next plane to England. Meanwhile, he took a cab to his favourite bar and drank himself into a state of semi-oblivion.

  As he stood in the Reverend Anderson’s untidy study, covered in books and old pieces of paper with scribbled ideas for sermons written in an indecipherable hand, Hugh Tate could not help feeling like a small boy up before his headmaster. This feeling was brought home to him even more forcibly by the way that Stephen was staring at him over the top of his spectacles, a deeply worried frown furrowing his brow, making poor Hugh feel all the more as though he had been caught breaking bounds.

  ‘I’m all for it, of course, all for it,’ he said. ‘These are my parishioners and I feel like you that they are entitled as much as anyone to a church wedding. But.’

  ‘But what?’ Hugh stared at Stephen, who averted his gaze to look down at the carpet.

  ‘The bishop, you know,’ Stephen said, and since he groaned after he had said it Hugh took it that his friend the vicar did not altogether agree with what he was going to have to say. ‘He’s a bit of an awful stickler, Hugh. An out and out traditionalist, and the long and the short of it is—’