by MARY HOCKING
He was not talking about the stranger now, he was simply finding an outlet for his own pain. Rhoda got up and looked round the garden in a brisk, businesslike way. Just for a moment she had thought that something had really upset the boy, but it seemed it was only another outbreak of self-pity. A smart city type had scored off him; if nothing worse than that ever happened to him he was going to get through life a lot easier than most folk. But with Gabriel little irritations were easily inflamed and soon turned septic.
‘You can help me to weed the borders since you came too late to repair the car,’ she said to him.
He muttered a few blasphemies under his breath and went down the path, slamming the gate behind him. She watched him walk down the hill. Poor Gabriel! He was not physically formed for splendid tempers, his thin body had a vagrant, uncared-for look. She supposed he was on his way to the draper’s shop where he would be sure of a better audience; old Amy Causer would be shocked, reproving, sympathetic and anxious, but she would not make mock of him. ‘That boy will find life hard,’ Miss Causer maintained. Rhoda thought that she was right. In which case, one might as well prepare him for it.
The borders badly needed weeding, but she was a reluctant gardener and now she paused, leaning on the low stone wall which fronted the cottage. The tide was coming in; it brought a fresh breeze, the first relief from the heat of the day. She looked out across the bay. Her cottage was near the cliff-top, the last in the row; it had a magnificent view second only to the view from the Jory farm. It was the one thing that had kept her in Polwithian after her husband died. She had felt then that if she had to live with other people on top of her she would die, too; like most of the Jorys she needed room to breathe. While she was standing at the gate the telephone began to ring in the hall. She was strong-minded about the telephone, however, and only answered it when she was in the mood. Just now, she had weeding to do. She ignored its strident clamour and knelt down by the border.
She did not finish until after five o’clock and then there was just time to make tea and mark a few school books before she went to the chapel to arrange the flowers.
The chapel was sandwiched between the grocer’s shop and a fishmonger’s. It was a squat, red-brick building and only its particularly dedicated kind of ugliness indicated that it was a place of worship. A notice-board announced that morning service would be taken by the Reverend Jonas Harkness and that evening service would also be taken by the Reverend Jonas Harkness.
Rhoda entered by one of the side doors. There was no centre aisle, the pews stretched nearly the width of the hall leaving narrow gangways on either side. There was a balcony at the back and at the front there was a platform which ran the width of the building. Below the platform, jammed in a corner, was an upright piano. A rostrum raised high in the centre of the platform indicated the godlike importance of the preacher; the Communion table was almost hidden by the rostrum, its only decoration being an embroidered linen cloth. The wall at the back of the platform was covered by a green baize curtain which concealed the door from the vestry and in which the minister became entangled every Sunday when he made his entrance.
Rhoda turned on the lights because the building had very little natural light. Then she mounted the platform, pulled the curtain aside and went into the vestry. There were vases in a cupboard. She put the vases on the minister’s table and began to arrange the flowers that she had brought from the garden. She was at ease in the chapel because she associated it with her childhood which had been a happy one. Also, in this bare, uncluttered place without architectural distractions, she sometimes found it conceivable that, in the cool of the evening, the Lord God walked abroad. When the flowers were arranged to her satisfaction she went into the cloakroom and filled the vases with water. Then she returned to the chapel.
It was no longer empty. There was a man sitting in the front pew that was reserved by tradition for the Jory family. Rhoda looked down at him and he looked up at her.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘I came to sit quietly.’
He spoke pleasantly enough, in a deep, rather hoarse voice, but the effect of the words was to make her seem to be the intruder. She came to the front of the platform and hesitated, reluctant to relinquish the small advantage of height.
‘Don’t let me disturb your meditations,’ she said.
‘I wasn’t really meditating. I was studying the architecture.’
‘You like it?’
‘It has an awesome austerity.’
‘Are you a Roman Catholic?’
‘Oh no!’ he assured her. ‘Just a pagan.’
Water slopped on to the platform. She had been holding the vases for some time and her hands were no longer steady.
‘May I help?’
He got up and came towards her. He was a big man and he had the confident acceptance of strength which some big men have and which makes them seem gentle. The eyes that looked into hers were not gentle; but they were direct and, in an odd way, innocent. Rhoda handed him one of the vases.
‘On the window-sill, please.’
He moved to the narrow side window while she placed the other vase on the Communion table. They turned at the same moment and their eyes met again. She was beginning to feel that she had known him for a long time.
‘Wouldn’t it be better to have that vase on the lower ledge of the rostrum?’ he asked. ‘It’s almost hidden from view on that table.’
‘We tried it once; but Mr. Harkness is a rather too emphatic preacher.’
He laughed. The laughter, though not unkind, was decidedly profane. She said:
‘You’re the man who upset Gabriel Harkness.’
‘News travels fast.’
She was beginning to feel rather vulnerable on the platform. She came towards the steps and he held out his hand to help her down; she braced herself before she took it, but even so a little shiver of excitement went through her as their fingers touched. It wasn’t because you laughed at him that Gabriel hated you, she thought. The man said:
‘The youngster had his revenge.’ He touched his cheek which was cut and bruised.
‘The little devil!’
‘At the time I wasn’t thinking about him. But that, no doubt, was part of the trouble.’
He was astute, but tolerant. More tolerant, Rhoda judged, than she would ever be. Her thoughts running on, she said:
‘We’re not a very hospitable people. That must have occurred to you by now.’
‘The old lady in the draper’s shop was very kind.’
‘Amy Causer? She’s by way of being a minor saint.’
‘Does she worship here?’ he asked idly.
He was not really interested in the answer; he was studying the plaque on the wall that listed the past chapel officials.
‘Was this place built to the glory of God or in honour of the Jorys?’ he asked.
‘The two have been said to be synonymous.’
He laughed again. Rhoda walked slowly down the gangway and he followed her. It was cooler in the street now, she shivered as the breeze flicked her sunburnt arms.
‘Are you staying here long?’
‘Probably.’
‘You find it attractive?’
‘The absence of welcome is stimulating.’
He looked at her directly as he said it; but it was not a challenge, he was too sure of himself for that. She pulled the door to behind them.
‘Be careful,’ she advised. ‘Beneath our rough exteriors we do not have hearts of gold.’
‘But you do have hearts?’
She looked at him sharply, surprised by something in his tone. His smile was amiable but his eyes seemed to have hardened.
‘No doubt I shall see you again,’ he said.
‘It’s a small place; we can hardly avoid it.’
She turned abruptly away. As she walked up the hill her pulse was racing, but she would have found it hard to say why he had made her so angry.
Back in the cottage she settled
down to mark the remainder of the children’s books. Indoors it was still oppressively hot and she found it hard to keep her mind on the essays. She went across to a side table on which there was a chessboard which had been there for many years now, the figures engaged in their eternal conflict. Her husband had taught her to play chess because it was a discipline and she needed discipline. As a corrective, it had not worked because it was her emotions and not her mind that were undisciplined; but she had learnt to enjoy the game. Tonight, however, it failed to hold her attention. At nine o’clock she decided to walk up to the headland. As she was about to leave, the telephone rang again. This time she answered it.
‘I rang you earlier, Rhoda my dear, but you were out.’ Amy Causer’s voice quavered with suppressed excitement. ‘Such a strange thing happened this afternoon.’ Rhoda bit back the desire to tell her that she knew about the stranger’s encounter with Gabriel. The front door was open; she could smell the cooling earth. She closed her eyes and listened. ‘Quite a deep cut,’ Miss Causer was saying. She rambled on, and then Rhoda heard, ‘And he asked about Melita.’
‘Melita!’
Amy Causer said, ‘I thought you should know.’
‘Thank you.’
At last, Rhoda put down the receiver. She went out of the door, shut it, and walked slowly down the path. At the gate she looked down the road and saw the village huddled at the edge of the bay, the lights of the cafe on the jetty reflected in the water. She could hear the sound of voices on her neighbour’s television. She turned and walked towards the headland. It was very calm now. The long grass hardly stirred and the sound of the waves receding from the rocks was soft as an indrawn breath. Melita! It was quite extraordinary, but she had almost forgotten Melita.
Chapter Three
It was misty over the sea and the line of the coast was a suggestion rather than a reality. It would be another fine day, but at half past six in the morning there were few people about to appreciate this and on the headland there was no one but the man. He had walked round the wall surrounding the square, grey house; the curtains at the windows were drawn and in the rambling garden nothing stirred. The wall was high, nearly six foot, but he could see over it comfortably. At the end of the lawn there was a Himalayan cedar, its branches sweeping the grass. In front of the cedar was a wicker garden seat, an obdurate survival of many winters as well as summers to judge by its worn frame: a part of someone’s daily routine, it had the fixed look of a thing which has taken root. Beyond the cedar the garden ran wild to the cliff’s edge. The house was magnificently situated, and yet the man noticed that most of the windows faced north-east giving a view over the moorland. A contrary folk, the Jorys.
The man walked beside the stone wall until it came to an end at the cliff’s edge. He looked down and saw, far below, jagged rocks thrusting out of the sea like the black teeth of some submerged monster. A harsh coast this, no friend to man; nevertheless, it pleased him. It was possible to get some way down the cliff, there were shelves where tussocks of heather grew. He went down. When he came to the last ridge of heather he saw that there was a way down the rock face to a ledge some two hundred feet above the sea. A precarious descent, but not impossible to someone with sufficient knowledge of climbing. He made his way down to the ledge and sat looking at the rocks below. The sea never went out from these rocks, but it was calm this morning and the water moved gently, caressing its implacable enemy. The mist was receding and the sky was faintly pink. The birds were coming across the rocks; he saw a seagull, very arrogant, a perky sparrow hopping from rock to rock, an oyster-catcher standing like an old man reflecting.
He watched the birds for some time and then decided to go back. He looked up at the headland; the way back was not going to be as easy as the way down. The fact that he might be trapped just below the Jory farm struck him as rather amusing; in this position, he would be entirely at their mercy. Did he jump or was he pushed? Involuntarily, he looked down again.
The birds no longer had the scene to themselves. A girl was sitting on the rock that jutted farthest out; she sat with her legs curled under her body, contemplating the sea, as much in her element as the oyster-catcher on the adjacent rock. She came often, probably every morning, he was sure of that; she was so much a part of the scene. He wondered how she had got there. While he was thinking about this he realized that he was in no doubt as to her identity. How she had got there might be a mystery, but he was quite certain whence she had come. He found himself unexpectedly moved by this knowledge. She had been so completely overlooked: they had spoken of Silas, of old Mrs. Jory and Catherine, reluctantly they had remembered Melita, but no one had thought to mention Anna Jory. He looked down at her, searching for some hint of sadness in her but failing to find it. She was completely alone, of course; but something about the way she sat there told him that she was used to this and did not mind solitude. She wore a short black dress, no shoes or stockings; her long dark hair reached almost to her waist. She could have sat there a hundred years ago and would not have seemed out of place.
If this was a romantic novel she would have come here to swim, he thought, and now she would stand on that rock and slowly strip off her dress. Even at this distance he could see that her body was strong and well-developed. While he was indulging in a little harmless lechery, she turned and looked up. She regarded him in silence for a moment, as though some monstrous cactus had suddenly sprouted on the cliff face.
‘That is a very dangerous place to be.’ Her young voice rang out clear as a bell and about as indifferent. ‘Are you stuck there?’
It seemed too good a situation to pass up. He said:
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Then don’t move. Do you understand that?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a cliff path farther round the headland. It will take me about ten minutes to climb it and then I’ll be with you.’
She sounded authoritative. He had no doubt at all that she would do exactly as she said, he had the feeling that she usually did exactly as she said. He watched her moving across the sharp rocks; agile as a mountain goat was, he supposed, a fair description except that she looked so much more desirable. Desirable . . . It was not a term he had meant to apply to her. But it was hot and the landscape was harsh and as old Miss Causer had so truly said, ‘Men are men.’
The girl had disappeared round the headland. The rocks had a blank, incomplete look as though the balance of a painting had been destroyed. He tried to imagine her scrambling up the cliff path, excited by this change in her morning routine. He had a feeling that she was not too concerned for his safety: that clear voice had sounded like that of a person to whom human beings have not as yet assumed a great deal of importance.
She had estimated her time of arrival accurately. In just under ten minutes he heard her moving among the tussocks of heather. She reached the rock face and looked down at him.
‘Oh good! You’re still there.’
She sounded relieved; but rather as though he represented a challenge which she did not want to be denied her.
‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’
‘Take your time,’ he said, suddenly rather anxious, ‘I shan’t go away.’
He watched her as she made the descent. She was quite fearless, but an amateur, and there were moments when his heart almost stopped beating. To give advice would have been fatal: she was not, he suspected, an advice-taker. By the time she had joined him on the ledge he was as breathless as she.
‘We’ll rest a moment,’ she said. ‘I ran all the way up the cliff path.’
He looked at her. She had an oval face and large dark eyes which she had no doubt inherited from her mother; the firm mouth and strong chin were probably a part of the Jory inheritance. She was more interested in her surroundings than in him.
‘I’ve never been down here,’ she admitted. ‘It’s splendid, isn’t it? I feel like an eagle.’
‘You’ve never been down this far?’
As he recalled the hazardous descent he had just witnessed the sweat broke out all over his body.
‘Oh, don’t worry!’ she reassured him, ‘I’ve climbed all over these rocks. We’ll get back all right.’
She leant her head against the rocks and closed her eyes. She looked like a sun goddess, but her words were earthbound.
‘I had a terrier called Termagant who fell over the cliff. I thought of him all the time I was coming up the cliff path.’
‘Did he die?’
‘Oh, most certainly! I buried him in the heather. They wanted me to leave him in the sea, but I couldn’t bear to think of him being dashed against the rocks over and over again.’
So she had carried him up the cliff path, broken and bleeding and had dug the grave and buried him herself. It occurred to him that this was by no means the weakest of the Jorys.
‘Were “they” annoyed?’ he asked.
It was a mistake to question her. She had been swept along by the pleasurable excitement of this small adventure and she had accepted him as an essential, but unimportant, part of it. Now he had intruded into her private world. For the first time she looked at him as though aware of him as a person.
‘I think we’d better go,’ she said.
‘If you’re ready.’
‘I’ll tell you where to place your hands and feet; just take it slowly and don’t move if you’re not sure of yourself.’
‘I think I shall be able to manage.’
She wanted to get away from him as quickly as she could, but something held her. Her expression was bewildered, even a little hostile.
‘You’re not frightened.’ It was an accusation rather than a question.
‘You’ve restored my confidence.’
She stared at him. She was not used to people, other than her own folk, but she was not a fool. He looked back at her, his eyes traced the proud, high curve of the cheek-bone, the resolute line of the jaw, its obstinacy tempered by the softness of flesh. Colour came into her face and a pulse began to beat in her throat. She had a beautiful throat, smooth as satin save for a line round the middle; it was maddening to discover that beautiful little crease in her throat in a restricted situation like this. She said suddenly: