‘Everybody in this town will feel just the same as I do. Public opinion is something you can’t ignore –’
‘Vain loud voices,’ Aunt Madge was heard to say. ‘ House of mourning … Not yet cold …’
‘If takin’ offence is to be mentioned, what about when your Albert was in St Mawes soon after Lizzie had been ill with pneumonia …’
Anthony, still withdrawn, again the only spectator, suddenly realised in a flash of inspiration what was missing at this gathering today. It was the presence of Tom Harris.
One might say or feel hard things about Tom, but he would at least have kept the meeting in some sort of order. He would never have allowed himself to be dragged into the arena, to be pulled into the thick of the quarrel, as Mr Cowdray had done. His presence alone would have prevented this awful squabble. Give him his due, Anthony thought; give him his due, Pat, he’s a cut above all these. Well might she sit there with her brown eyes down and a pulse beating in the white curve of her neck.
Strangely enough, it was the boy himself who provided the first effective check to the wranglers. In boredom he got up from his prickly stool and walked to the window and stood looking out. Something in his attitude there by the window, his hunched shoulders, his hands in his pockets, seemed to be an unspoken commentary upon the unseemly arguments going on behind him. One by one the quarrellers fell silent, stood about in sudden self-consciousness and constraint.
Miss Veal picked up her bag, felt for a handkerchief and blew her nose loudly.
‘Well, you know my views. I was brought up to be blunt and I’ve been blunt all my life. I believe in honest dealing. That’s more than some people do. What I’ve said to your face I’ll say behind your back. You know what action I’m going to take. So there’s nothing more to be said. I’ll bid you good afternoon. Are you coming down the street, Peter?’
The thin man looked from one to another of his relatives and hesitated.
‘Yes, I reckon so,’ he said at last.
‘And you, Polly Emma?’
‘Thanks, dear, I think I’ll wait for the trap. Albert is calling for me in the trap.’
Aunt Louisa went across and kissed Patricia on the forehead.
‘Don’t worry, dear. Don’t worry at all,’ she said firmly. ‘ She won’t if you don’t,’ said Perry.
But his sister ignored the remark and walked with dignity from the room.
There were still two hours of daylight left, and Anthony presently escaped from the house and ran down to the derelict wooden jetty which led out into the harbour from the wall of the quay. This jetty was submerged when the tide was in, and was one of Anthony’s favourite haunts. He could sit here and watch the water lapping up through the cracks, covering one slippery black board after another, and he could imagine himself stranded on a desert island – or trapped in a cellar under the Thames while the river rose.
Fancy was a pleasant companion after the grim and dusty happenings in the house, and his mind turned to his imaginings as a parched man to water. To be free of the chains of reality, to slip them off and wander at will, to be independent of time or space or hunger or heat, to make life up as you went along, to fashion life as you wanted it, romantic and exciting and bright with the obvious colours, no second thoughts, no reservations, no avarice, no frustrations, no hidden complex motives, no adult deceits: a world of good and evil where each was plainly marked for what it was, in which good always triumphed and the ill-fortunes that you suffered, however tragic and toilsome they might be, were edged about with the silver thought that you could change them at will.
Anthony felt that he wanted to re-write the world. It was not right that there should be death for good people, and permanent unchangeable sadness and incurable illness, and strange muffled hatreds which hid themselves for years under a cloak of everyday behaviour. Or, if there had to be death, then it should only come to good people when they were very old and tired and when all their children were grown up and had children and grandchildren of then-own. And especially there should be no bitterness which went beyond the grave, no tawdry squabbling over a dead man’s goods, no remarks which made insinuations and left a stain.
Tonight the tide was going out so he could not play his favourite game. He had hoped to find his friend Jack Robbins somewhere about the quay.
The harbour itself was unusually empty for this time of day, and there were few big ships in. A solitary oarsman was rowing out from further up the creek and would pass close beside the jetty. A flight of starlings were wheeling and fluttering just above the rippling surface of the water, making dark shadows as they swooped, turning and manoeuvring with military precision, climbing the cloudy sky in a dense flock and then suddenly straggling out like children dismissed from drill. A group of them came to perch upon the roof of the house, arriving in ones and twos with a sudden swift dart and a flutter. One minute there was none, then they were all there like pegs on a line, chattering and arguing, turning their tails to each other and edging up and down. A moment later, as it seemed by a single instinct, they were up and away again, their short wings fluttering the air above the boy’s head.
He watched them out of sight beyond the clustered climbing grey roofs of the old town, then turned to see if the tide had gone down sufficiently to allow another step.
As he did so he recognised the solitary man in the boat. It was Tom Harris.
Chapter Sixteen
He had not been seen, for the rower had his back to him, but before he could make up his mind whether to call out or to make his escape, Tom turned his head and nodded and smiled. He began to pull on his right oar, which would bring him nearer to the jetty.
Presently they were within speaking distance. Tom glanced up at the tall grey house with the bow windows of the restaurants looking out over the harbour.
‘Hullo, Anthony. I’m just going over to Flushing. Like to come?’
‘Yes, rather!’ said the boy, and then hesitated. ‘How long will you be gone?’
‘I’ve only to collect some fishing nets. Should be back in an hour.’
For a second longer Anthony hesitated, wondering if, by continuing to associate with this man, he was being disloyal to Patricia. But during these last days Patricia had hardly spoken to him; she had never once mentioned the night of the fight; she had been preoccupied with her own concerns and had left him to his. Besides, she had never forbidden him to speak to Tom; how was he to know her mind?
With these sophistries he was content, and he stepped eagerly into the boat when Tom paddled it nearer. In a moment he was seated in the stern, enjoying the unusual experience of being a passenger and happy to ripple his fingers through the water and watch his cousin-in-law do the pulling.
Harris did not look as well as usual. There was still a slight swelling over one eye and a piece of plaster on his chin, but it was not these relics of battle which were responsible for the change. His eyes were tired and there was a hint of puffiness about his cheeks as if he had slept badly or been drinking.
Still, he engaged Anthony in conversation brightly enough – conversation which was adroitly steered away from dangerous subjects. The distance to Flushing was short, and there were no awkward silences on the way.
Flushing is a little old town built down to the very edge of its quay, and all day it quietly mirrors its grey slate and sash windows in the blue-grey waters of the harbour. Anthony was left to take stock of it while Tom went in search of his fisherman. Very soon he was back carrying a roll of net and they pushed off on the return journey.
Tom said: ‘Have you started school yet?’
The question no doubt was innocently meant, but its answer would entail considerable explanation. However, Anthony could hardly deny him this, having already accepted his companionship. He told the other how he had come to be here in the first place, that he had been expecting to join his father almost any day but that there was now some sort of delay, that just before Uncle Joe died there had been talk of sending him to s
chool in Falmouth but that his death had put a stop to all plans. Soon, he supposed, as soon as everything was settled up, he would be going somewhere, if only for a term or two.
He stopped, aware that he had been getting near a proscribed subject. But Tom did not hesitate.
‘Have they read the Will?’ he asked.
Anthony crimsoned, trying hard to make up his mind what to say. If he replied as he should he would give offence to a man for whom he had begun to feel a sneaking liking. But if he told …
‘Don’t answer me if you don’t warn to,’ Tom said. ‘You’re under no obligation to tell me. But of course I shall know all the details in a day or two. They can’t withhold information from someone directly concerned.’
The matter hadn’t struck Anthony that way.
He said awkwardly: ‘They read it this afternoon.’
‘Were you present?’
He nodded, still hoping that the subject might be allowed to drop there.
‘How was the money left?’ Tom said.
Underneath his casual tone there was a note of keenness, of anxiety.
‘They … It … nearly all to Aunt Madge.’
‘And Patricia?’
‘Five – five hundred pounds. Look, Mr Harris, I –’
‘Tom is my name. Were there any other important bequests?’
‘No … Aunt Louisa was angry; she talked of doing something, fighting the Will …’
For some moments Tom had only just been keeping way on the boat. He seemed to have lost interest in his rowing. His brown eyes were fixed on the distant cliff line which had begun to haze over with the setting of the sun. He seemed to see more there than Anthony could.
‘It’s only what I expected,’ he said at length.
The boat began to drift. The boy shivered.
‘I ought to be getting back. They’ll wonder where I am.’
‘Well, I’m glad it’s turned out that way anyhow,’ said Tom.
The boy stared. He could not make head or tail of that remark. Tom’s questions had seemed to suggest only one thing, the obvious thing: that he had hoped all the money would come to Patricia, so that he would stand a chance of getting some of it himself. Tom’s eyes had been specially keen when he put the questions, if not with cupidity, then with what? Slowly it began to dawn upon him that if Tom had plenty of money of his own it would suit him better that Patricia should not also be independent. There would be more chance of inducing her to return to him if she was without money or prospects.
Anthony had felt a little disillusioned at Tom’s inquiries. Pumping him did not seem quite playing the game. At this development he did not know whether to feel relieved or further disillusioned. He wished most earnestly that he had never come. He wished that he had been left alone with his own make-believe.
‘Anthony. Will you do something for me?’
The boy looked across at the man. Their eyes met, and then the boy looked down at his finger-nails. Tom Harris had a very direct gaze and, meeting it, one could not believe him capable of the worst forms of trickery. It was the way you looked at a thing, the boy supposed. If he was in love with Patricia – well … if he was married to Patricia – and she had left him, would he not welcome any lever which might persuade her to return? All was supposed to be fair in love and war. Would he want to see her independent?
‘First,’ said Tom, ‘ I’d like you to give her this letter.’
He stared at the envelope offered him.
‘But then she’ll know I’ve been out with you.’
‘There’s no crime in that. But I might have met you in the street.’
He slowly accepted the letter and put it in his breast pocket.
‘Thank you. The second thing is something rather bigger, Anthony. It may come to nothing, but then …’
He stared at the glow among the clouds. The sun was already down. Soon it would be dark. The light was moving off the water, moving away as if someone were gently rubbing it out.
‘I trust you,’ Tom said. ‘There’s something very frank and honest about you, and I feel that young as you are, you wouldn’t willingly let anyone down. Well, I can’t come to the house; you know that and the reason for it. Patricia is alone in the world now – except for, except for a stepmother and an uncle who don’t really count. I’m anxious about her and about what she’ll do. I should like to be by her side to help and – and to advise. As I can’t be there, I want to feel that there is someone there, someone I can trust. I want you to be that person.’
Anthony murmured something inarticulately. He was warmed and pleased by Tom Harris’s words. Everyone is gratified at being paid a compliment, but with Anthony the sensation was something more. Ever since his mother died he had been one apart, and desperately lonely. He had moved among ordinary people and behaved in an ordinary manner, but he had had no sense of belonging. Even Patricia, who had been so kind, had not needed him. He had been in her life but not of it.
‘It may not be very easy,’ said Tom, ‘and there may not be much you can do. You’re only young and no one can expect you to reach big decisions on your own. But I do feel you can help me just by being there.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘When you get in,’ Tom said, ‘and think this over you may feel that all I’ve asked is that you should spy upon people to my advantage. But I don’t want you to look at it that way. I don’t care anything about my own advantage, I’m only concerned with Patricia’s – though I’d like her to come back to me, of course. But she’s young and hot-tempered and impulsive, and this is a testing time. I want you to come and see me now and then and talk to me. Come to see me in Penryn. It’s only fifteen minutes’ walk and we can have a cup of tea together and talk about how things are going at Veal’s. Will you do that?’
‘Yes,’ said Anthony.
‘Good man.’ Tom slowly resumed his rowing.
‘How shall I find where you live?’
Tom gave him instructions. ‘If you have any difficulty ask for the Harrises. Everyone knows us.’
Tom Harris seemed only to want a thing and you were prepared to give it him. Perhaps it was in such a mood that he had persuaded Pat to marry him. But the first stirrings of criticism were already awake in Anthony’s mind.
‘I don’t know what Pat will say if she ever gets to know.’
Harris looked up thoughtfully.
‘I think I know what she’d say. That you were a traitor to your own family carrying tales to me, wouldn’t she?’
Anthony nodded.
‘WelI,’ said Tom, ‘ it’s not a pretty position for any of us. But I don’t think in the long run that you will ever regret helping me. And I think you’ve a fairly good sense of right and wrong. It’s entirely up to you what you tell me and what you don’t. I have no means of judging whether you are telling me everything or only a part, but I’m prepared to leave that to your good sense. Only remember that I’m trying to help Pat. Even if she wants to free herself from me altogether, I still want to help her.’
‘That’s what I want,’ Anthony said stoutly.
‘Then it’s a pact?’ Tom rested an oar beneath the other elbow and extended his free hand.
They shook hands. Anthony was glad then that it was going dark, for some sort of emotion had brought tears to his eyes. If Tom was appealing to his sentimentality he was not aware of it.
They were almost at the jetty.
‘One last word,’ the other said. ‘I want you to promise me that if anything really important should happen you’ll come to me at once. Whether it’s day or night doesn’t matter. Slip away and come straight to me.’
Anthony felt that he was constantly being asked to concede fresh ground. He had yet to learn the first lesson of all conspirators, that there is no such thing as limited co-operation.
‘How do you mean, important?’
The boat grounded gently in the mud.
‘I’ll leave that to you,’ Tom said abruptly. ‘Nothing so far
as I know is likely to happen. But if anything should, well, you’ll easily recognise it as something that I would be anxious to know.’
Now that it was time to go Anthony felt reluctant to leave the intimacy of this newly founded partnership. It seemed to him that he had taken on a good deal with far too little to guide him. The terms of definition were still so vague. That so much should be left to his own initiative and judgment was flattering but a little oppressive. He knew many questions would come to his mind as soon as he got indoors, but now, while there was still time to ask them, he was tongue-tied.
‘No second thoughts, Anthony?’ Tom’s teeth gleamed white for a moment. ‘Great men never indulge in them. Remember, I’m relying on you. And again, many thanks.’
The boy climbed out of the boat and smiled back into the dusk. Then he leaned upon the bows of the boat and pushed it gently into the water.
‘All right, Tom,’ he said, and watched the shadowy figure turn to row away. Then he himself turned and picked a path among the mud and the seaweed towards the dark bulk of the house.
Only Fanny was in the kitchen. She was reading Home Chat, and her feet, toes together as usual, were on Aunt Madge’s favourite footstool.
‘Hullo,’ she said. ‘Where’ve you been? ’ Ad your supper?’
‘No … Is there anything left?’
‘A pasty. ’Tisn’t ’ ot, but there’s plenty of meat in it.’
He picked up the pasty and absently took a bite, his mind still busy. Instinctively he drew nearer to the fire, for his hands and feet were frozen.
‘Did they ask for me at supper?’
‘No, I didn’t ’ear ’ em.’
‘Where’s Miss Patricia now?’
‘Gone out. Mr Pawlyn came round.’
The letter was burning a hole in his pocket. The brilliant idea came to him that instead of handing it direct to Pat he would slip it under her bedroom door. Then she might not even think of asking if it was he who had put it there. He couldn’t quite understand what had driven him to promise Tom what he had done. Pat would look on it as plain treason. He was torn between two loyalties.