The Forgotten Story

  In a cottage on the opposite side of the square from the Tavern Inn two of the crew, Anderson and Mallett, had met again after having been separated by minor injuries and lack of dry clothes. They were both men who had been with Stevens in The Grey Cat for some years.

  They sat for a time before the fire, glad of safety and a pipe of tobacco and not anxious for speech. The two old people who owned the cottage had left them alone.

  ‘Funny thing,’ Anderson said at last. ‘Funny thing about old Veal’s brother, Perry Veal, or whatever ’e was called. Funny thing about ’im. You was near ’ im when ’e says ’e’ll swim. I’d got me finger broke an’ I’d not much mind for anythink else, like. But I sees ’ im wavin’ ’is ’ ands like a preacher. What was ’e wantin’?’

  ‘A line,’ said Mallett.

  ‘Well, wasn’t you wantin’ to give ’im one?’

  ‘O’Brien wasn’t. O’Brien didn’t want to. O’Brien thought as they might still get a rocket over. ’E didn’t see as Veal’d do it, champion swimmer or no. With the Old Man bein’ knocked out … Well, it was like this. You mind when we struck? D’you see ’ em come up on deck about five minutes before?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, it was like this. May come up first, more or less carryin’ the Ole Man. Then come Perry Veal staggerin’ as if ’e was in two ships and near gettin’ washed overboard first wave. You seen that. Then Mrs V. clawin’ ’er way up, ’at goin’ one way an’ bag the other. Well, two minutes later they was flattened up agin’ the after bulwarks along of me and Peter.’

  ‘That was when we struck.’

  ‘Aye. Aye, we struck just then. An’ over we went in a’eap, clingin’ for dear life as if we was all goin’ over the side. Then the mizzen topm’st cracked right over our ’eads, an’ she come up again, drainin’ all the sea off of her deck like Niagara Falls. I was next to Perry Veal and the old lady was the other side of ’im. ’E was brimmin’ over wi’ drink, I could see that. I don’t know ’ ow you was fixed, but where we was, tilted the way we was, we was sheltered from the worst of the wind. And we looks up and tries to see what the coast looks like before the next wave smacks over the top and washes the guts out of us. An’ then, mark you, I ’ears Perry Veal say to Mrs V., Where’s the Somethin’-or-other?’

  ‘Where’s the what?’

  ‘I don’t know what. I don’t catch what. And she says: “ Follerin’ me up. Just be’ind me.” Then they lies quiet for a few minutes while O’Brien tries to get the distress flares goin’.’

  ‘They was a wash-out.’

  ‘Like everythin’ else. Then, when we was splutterin’and breathin’ in a bit of air after a back-wash, I ’ears Perry Veal say again, Where’s the Somethin’? Bag, I thought, but ’e talked so thick.’

  ‘Boy, mebbe.’

  ‘Well, I might’ve guessed that if I’d knowed there was a boy except for Mike aboard. An’ she says, high-pitched an’ hoarse, “ ’E was follerin’ me up, I tell you!” Then Peter sighted the rocket crew on the cliffs, and for the next ten minutes I was watchin’ them too close for to have time to spare for Perry Veal. But when I looks next ’e was soil clingin’ there, lookin’ at ’er like as if ’e’d never moved in ten minutes. Just starin’ at ’ er till I thought ’e’d got a fit. Not lookin’ at the rockets fallin’ in the sea. Lookin’ at ’ er. Then O’Brien crawls over and says: “It’s a poor chanct we’ve got, bhoys. Every man for hisself if she breaks up.” Then Perry looks at ’im like ’e was dreamin’, an’ his face twitches, and then he looks at Mrs V. again, and when O’Brien ’as crawled away he shouts the same question at ’ er as before, though she’s ’alf drowned with water suckin’ about ’er waist. An’ when the water goes back she doesn’t answer ’im nothin’ this time, but just looks at ’ im one of ’er hoity-toity looks. Then –’

  ‘I know them. She give me one when she come aboard a couple of months ago.’

  ‘Then that’s when ’e breaks out. “God almighty!” he shouts at me, with the sea sprayin’ over us like bits of stones. “I ain’t in wi’ this bitch. See? I ain’t. God almighty! I’m gettin’ out o’ this. God almighty, I ain’t in wi’ this bitch!” Just like the sort of face Tim Chudleigh got when ’e took the D.T.’s. Then ’e lets go ’is ’ old, even though we’re just waitin’for another wave, and crawls after O’Brien back to the poop. An’ some’ow ’e ain’t washed off like a whitebait, and gets to the poop, and that’s when you sees ’im arguin’ with O’Brien.’

  There was silence after Mallett had finished speaking. They both drew meditatively and appreciatively at their borrowed pipes. Anderson had always been a slow thinker. But he usually got somewhere in the end.

  ‘Reckon there was somethin’ betwixt those two,’ he said at length. ‘I shouldn’t think ’twas all D.T.’s with Perry Veal.’

  Above the bar of the Tavern Inn was a long dusty passage with an elbow bend in the middle; this fed the bedrooms of the inn; and at about the time that the bespectacled reporter was thinking of slipping away from the bar and interviewing Mrs Veal, a tall, slender young woman came out of one of the rooms, closing the door softly as if not to disturb a sleeper. She was dressed in a long grey frock and still wore a grey hat with a veil, but no outdoor coat. She walked along the passage and, lifting up a corner of her skirt, ran quickly down the dark stairs, slipped past the bar and turned into the kitchen.

  Mrs Nichols looked up from her crochet-work and was inquiring:

  ‘ ’As ’e woke up yet, miss?’

  ‘About five minutes ago. I thought he might like something to eat. I wondered if I might make some gruel. That was what the doctor said, wasn’t it?’

  ‘ ’S, I think. But sit you down, dearie; I’ll make it for ’ee. No, no, no trouble ’tall. You must be wearied out coming all that way in Jess Parson’s wagon. I don’t knaw ’ow ’ee kept saw clean. No, no, I’ll make it. Sakes, I don’t, in ole Jess Parson’s wagon all cagged up in mud.’

  ‘I was lucky to have the lift,’ said Patricia.

  ‘Well, yes … I s’pose ’ee was frightened out of your life when you ’eard ’bout this ’ere shipwreck. But there wasn’t no need to worry, you see. They’ll be right as ninepence in the morning. Least … ’Twas a mortal shame that Mr Watsit was drowned. Relation of yours, wasn’t ’ e?’

  ‘My uncle.’

  ‘Dear life, now isn’t that sad? Well, well, that’s a poor job. Well, well, dear soul.’

  Conversation continued while the gruel was made. Dazed and uncertain herself, Patricia could only parry the polite little questions put by the polite little woman stirring the pan. She had only been here an hour and most of that time she had spent beside Anthony’s bed while he slept. There she was away from prying eyes, which she most wished to avoid. They had told her her stepmother was sleeping too, so she had not seen her yet. In any case she had a strange reluctance to see Madge until she had first talked with Anthony and learned more of this unexpected trip. Queer, her dependence in this crisis on Anthony. She felt that from Anthony she would get the truth as far as he knew it without subtlety and without evasions. That, she felt, she needed more than anything else.

  Also they had told her the facts concerned with Anthony’s survival, and although a doctor had examined him she wanted to reassure herself that he had come to no serious harm.

  The gruel was ready and she took it from the hands of Mrs Nichols and went out into the narrow passage leading to the stairs. As she reached the bend to go up the stairs, two men came in at the private door of the inn talking to Nichols the landlord, who had been called out of the bar. Pat shrank against the banister and started up the stairs. But to one of the men that figure was beyond mistake even in the gloom of the hall. She heard him mutter an excuse and spring up the stairs after her. He caught her at the turn of the landing.

  ‘Pat …’

  ‘Well, Tom …’ She turned half defiantly, half defensively, to face him.

  ‘What are you doing here, Pat; surely you were not on
the ship? I …’

  ‘I heard of it this afternoon. Anthony had written me a letter. I came over as quickly as I could. They’re – my relatives, aren’t they?’ She spoke quietly, unprovocatively.

  ‘Have you seen Anthony?’

  ‘I’m taking him this gruel.’ She took a step to move on.

  ‘Pat, I’d like a word with you. Is there anywhere we can go?’

  ‘I can’t stop now. I must take this in.’

  ‘Take it in and come out again, can you? I must have a word with you.’ He spoke as quietly and gravely as she. They were not talking like strangers, but like people who had known each other years ago. He had taken off his hat, and his hair gleamed in the dim light.

  ‘I ought to stay with him. Besides …’ She did not finish the sentence but he understood it.

  ‘You may not have anything to say to me, but …’

  She hesitated. ‘Oh, it isn’t that …’

  ‘I’ll wait for you.’

  She entered the bedroom and found that in the interval Anthony had gone to sleep again. She waited five minutes in the hope that he might wake and give her the excuse not to return at once to the passage. When he showed no signs of doing this she put a plate over the gruel and left the room.

  She found Tom where she had left him.

  ‘There’s a sort of parlour in here,’ he said. ‘There’s nobody else about.’

  She followed him into a small room at the end of the passage. In one corner of it a table-lamp showed an ancient yellow light like something which had been burning for centuries. The room smelt of mildew and stale lavender.

  She went over to the window and stared nervously down into the square, where various horses were tethered and people moved about and talked in groups in the starlit, windy darkness. He stared at her and tried to think how best he might put what had to be said.

  But the sight of her had pushed the carefully formal speeches out of his head. When he had not seen her for some weeks he fancied that the old lure was fading, but as soon as he set eyes on her nothing else mattered.

  ‘It’s weeks now,’ he said, his thoughts coming to his lips. ‘It’s weeks now … How have you been getting on?’

  ‘Very well,’ she said almost inaudibly. ‘Thanks to you.’

  ‘To me …’

  ‘Yes. Miss Gawthorpe didn’t tell me she was your cousin.’

  ‘Oh …’ He hesitated, not quite sure of the tone of her voice. ‘So you know that?’

  ‘I found it out this week. It was kind of you to arrange for my future.’

  Now he knew that his ‘ kindness’ was not appreciated.

  ‘How did you know I was looking for a job?’ she asked.

  ‘I just heard.’ He was not going to let Anthony down.

  ‘I gave in my notice yesterday.’

  ‘You … but why? Miss Gawthorpe finds you very satisfactory.’

  ‘I might have known,’ she said bitterly, ‘ that I shouldn’t have been engaged without references. Thank you for standing sponsor for me.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense. Miss Gawthorpe wanted someone reliable. It happened that I knew of someone. She wouldn’t have taken you or kept you if you had not been suitable. There’s no reason at all to give notice. That’s absurd.’

  ‘I frequently am absurd.’

  He said: ‘ Seeing you now after so long revives … all the old hopes and dreams. For me, Pat, there’ll never be anyone like you. I’ve tried – to take a different view, but it’s no use.’

  ‘I’m sorry …’

  He took a step nearer and then stopped. ‘ This wasn’t what I had to talk to you about, but seeing you again … Before we drop it, Pat, tell me once more if it has to be all over between us. For my part –’

  She said: ‘After everything, how can there be anything more? No, Tom, how can there be? We’ve never – deceived ourselves. Tell me what it is you have to say.’

  Silence fell between them, and much more besides, the shadows of old memories. The memories, bitter and sweet, were like puppets, jerked into motion with a pseudo-life of their own but deriving from impulses outside themselves. There was no chance at all of ignoring them; they were a part of their relationship.

  She turned and walked towards the door with an instinct for escape. Her movement was hasty and impulsive, thrust on her by inadmissible emotions.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘If you’ve nothing else to say … I must see Madge. I haven’t even spoken to her yet.’

  He barred her way. He was torn between impulses. The issue was so vital to him that he wanted desperately to pursue it. But he knew that if he did so she would leave him, and it was impossible that he could let her go to see Madge.

  ‘Let me pass,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve got to tell you, Pat. I’ve got to tell you. Somebody has to. Your – your father’s body was exhumed the night before last. His and …’ He could not get beyond that.

  She put a hand on a chair and stood and stared at him as if suspecting some trick to detain her. Then she saw that he was completely in earnest. All the other feelings which had so engaged her a moment ago drained away, were engulfed in a great chasm of surprise and horror.

  ‘Dad? … What for?’

  ‘There was a suspicion about the cause of his death. You see … I began, the police began to make inquiries. I began … and that started …’

  ‘What suspicion?’

  ‘Something that wasn’t without cause. They’ve found more than four grains of arsenic in your father’s body.’

  Madge Veal had been sitting before the fire without stirring for nearly an hour when the knock came on her bedroom door. She had a faculty for remaining perfectly still like a brocaded effigy in a waxworks; at such times her personality was purely negative, it seemed scarcely to exist; her body was like an empty house in which a single night-light burned to show that the owner would be back.

  She had asked for the fire as a special favour, saying that she was cold in bed and felt she had caught a chill. But in fact it was not so much the warmth she needed as the encouragement of the brightly flickering flames. All her life she had found comfort in gazing into the fire; it stimulated her thoughts, and this evening her brain was rusty and tired and disjointed like an old railway line which has been long in disuse.

  For years her thoughts had known the comfortable tracks to follow; one ran along them for months almost without consideration; strict guidance was unnecessary, conscience and instinct doing all the necessary work. To be jolted on to unfamiliar lines was, she felt, grossly unfair, and subconsciously she was trying to think herself into a state of mind in which she could abjure the necessity of following them to disagreeable conclusions.

  When the knock came it was not unwelcome as a diversion; the effigy slowly came to life and put on an extra dressing-grown before calling, ‘Come in.’

  A thin man with gold-rimmed spectacles gingerly entered, and she at once regretted not having added her pearls. She pulled a scarf up under her various chins and looked down at him from above them.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mrs Veal?’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘You’ll pardon my intruding, ma’am. I could find no one to bring me. I represent the Western Daily Post.’

  ‘Yes?’ She had become very jealous of her dignity.

  ‘I’m taking down a few personal notes about the shipwreck. I was told the position of your bedroom. I hope I don’t intrude.’

  ‘You may come in,’ she said coldly. While he moved further into the bedroom she eyed him up and down and the thought came to her that she would have been glad of someone to talk to, if only it could have been someone intelligent and understanding like Perry. Had reporters any intelligence?

  He began to make the conventional inquiries about her health and safety, and while she answered him the need to unburden her grievances became steadily more important.

  ‘You were the owner of the ship, ma’am, weren’t you? Very sad indee
d. Did you often travel in her?’

  ‘Oh …’ Mrs Veal waved her hand. ‘From time to time. Since my dear husband’s death, of course, not the inducement.’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Bristol,’ said Mrs Veal. ‘Business there. My poor brother-in-law. A wicked wicked shame. The captain had no right … expose to danger. Should have made for port earlier. My poor brother-in-law …’

  ‘Mr Perry Veal. A great pity. I understand he was lost trying to swim ashore with a line.’

  The reporter discreetly waited as Madge Veal began to fumble among the many folds of three dressing-gowns and presently produced a handkerchief.

  ‘I look upon it – shall always look upon it, gave his life for me. Great gentleman. Said to me: “I must go, Madge. I’ll bring you help. Never fear.” “ Never fear,” was what he said.’

  The reporter made a note of the words. ‘What were your feelings when the ship struck, Mrs Veal?’

  ‘Only man ever understood me. My dear husband, deeply sympathetic, but his brother Perry, finer mind. Great loss. I mourn, Mr – er … Many ways, wish I had been taken. I look to the afterlife and reunion.’ She dabbed at her nose. ‘ Many fine spirits. Passed on. One wishes that one were in closer contact. I often think. Very sensitive to such things. Deeply sensitive. Coarse-fibred people.’

  The man glanced up. In an appropriately sympathetic voice he said: ‘ How long had you been at sea when –?’

  ‘Suffered,’ said Aunt Madge, turning up her eyes. ‘All my life suffered. Persecution, grievous thing, Mr – er … When my dear sister died. Eve of her thirtieth birthday. Acute gastritis. With her to the end. People said. But what did I gain who lost a sister. Were devoted. Devoted. My mother and I were all in all to each other after that, but were we not indeed before?’

  ‘Your nephew, I believe, was very fortunately rescued later? If –’

  ‘Been determined,’ said Mrs Veal, ‘all my life to go on, follow the straight path. The straight and narrow. It invites the scoffer, philistine, scurrilous tongues. Sustained by conscience. An unhappy woman, Mr – er … You see before you one. Stung by scorpions.’ She waved a hand at him, forgetting for the moment that she despised him, remembering only that he was the audience she must have. The experiences of the last three days had upset her more than she thought. Her cheeks trembled with indignation. ‘ Your paper. Put that in. Stung by scorpions. We all have our crosses. Hi try … Consolation in conviction. The lonely people of the world.’