“Give up teaching?” Lucy started and then pressing her hands together said: “Don’t, please don’t, do anything hasty, James.”
Suddenly he knew she was thinking of Grace Villars whom she had seen at the movies. Her attitude, her long, thin body in its summer print, made him angry and his own pity hardened his heart. “Lucy, you must allow me to know my business.” He waited an instant and then went on: “Besides, I didn’t come to speak of these things. I merely wished to ask you if you cared to come to a party with me tomorrow tonight.”
“On Grey’s Neck?” she asked, using the old Star Harbour name for the peninsula.
“How did you know?”
“Oh, where else?” she parried gaily. “Where else?”
This bright gaiety of Lucy’s, so out of keeping with her tight hands and the rigid set of her jaw, made Stevens more irritated than ever.
Jim Walsh drew in towards the boathouse around six-thirty the next day. He was excited and in an unexpected state of anticipation. From the beginning, that is from the party where he had renewed his friendship with Grace, something had been working inside of him. Sometimes, in fact most of the time, Jim did not think of it, but now and then into his old flesh crept the atavistic longing. ‘Woman,’ said this longing, ‘is but a vessel and through this vessel there must run without a break the male germ, the miracle that is father and son.’
Now, as the “High Kick” neared land, Jim took out his binoculars and looked towards the boathouse. He had not so much as set eyes on the place for seven years, and with a sigh he acknowledged that those seven years had led him into old age. They had also sufficed to turn the boathouse from a deluxe oddity into a grimy and rundown building. In another seven it would commence to be a ruin. Already, through his lenses, he could see the crumbling walls that bordered the water and the wild reeds that were closing in everywhere. Had it not been for Jeremy and Mary, he supposed, there would be no staying in the place anymore. Even so, Walsh did not think the actual boathouse would be of any use for his landing boat. He observed that the slide door, green with mould, was half down across the opening and guessed that inside all must be mud and sea grass.
“You’d better land me on the beach, over near those high reeds,” he said to his sailor.
Although, as Walsh had remarked, the water gate was half down, Ronny had meant to draw it down all the way. It had got stuck in the middle and would go no farther for all his straining.
It happened that Ronny had been left all alone on the afternoon before the party, while Grace had gone off with Mary and Jeremy to get last minute supplies in Star Harbour. The child had stood for a long time at the foot of the stairs, listening to the emptiness of the house, to the sounds of disintegration which were like groans in its bosom, to the constant sighing of the water beneath. Then he had gone out into the sun. Ronny had formed one of those resolves, perverse and sometimes criminal, which have led men to the gallows; one of those decisions made even more terrible because they are acted upon calmly and in an ordinary way. It is as though the subject’s own soul were hypnotizing his body and his brain, putting him in a trance. Something, at any rate, inside him whispers: ‘Enough! Suffer as you will for it, flesh and sentiment, this must end.’
Now, without hesitating, Ronny led Gambol from his stall. The animal was munching a mouthful of hay and continued in this exercise as Ronny led him through the reeds and towards the water. The tide was ebbing and it was shallow all the way around to the water door, never more than waist deep. Gambol followed his master trustfully. He liked being in the water where the flies did not bite.
Ronny drove Gambol into the boat garage, but did not go in himself. Standing waist high in the water, he strained at the rusty chain which held the door. After a while the door, slimy to the touch, came down a little way. Then it broke from its groove and became wedged across the opening. Inside, Gambol waited patiently. Ronny meant the horse to drown when the tide came in, but if Gambol knew this he made no sign.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
To the big room overlooking the bay Mary had brought many long candles. She was obeying Grace Villars although it seemed a silly waste of money. On a table at one end were laid out sandwiches, salty delicacies, and liquor. Jeremy and the sailor who had landed Walsh were acting as barmen. Out on the water the “High Kick” gleamed in the twilight. Her white paint turned her into a swan and she was only disgraced by the dingy “Arabella” anchored alongside. Both ships moved a little with the incoming tide as though resentful of their chains.
Eddie, Flo and Ruby had arrived at dusk, rowing themselves ashore, or rather, Flo rowing the other two. In landing they had seen Jim’s speed-boat lying high on the beach and half hidden by the reeds.
“This stuff’s spooky,” complained Ruby. For a minute they were hidden from each other by the hundreds of stalks rustling and dried of sap by the bitter salt sand in which they were rooted.
Ruby went on: “The guy’s supposed to be rich, living in a dump like this?”
“Oh it’s changed,” said Eddie. “Before it was like a castle and you landed right inside it.”
Ronny, who was sitting on a chair eating chicken sandwiches and watching the preparations, leapt up when Eddie arrived. But Eddie and Walsh were greeting each other.
“Son of a gun, Eddie! Still out of jail?” Jim clapped him on the shoulder. Eddie brought back poignantly those days when the fruits of wealth had still tasted sweet.
“It’s good to see you’re still a free man too, Mr. Walsh,” said Eddie in his soft, tender voice, his head tipped sideways as though in mockery.
“Yes, I guess we’re both a couple of rascals,” said Jim. He look enquiringly at Flo and at the heavy girl in pants.
“We came to the party, Mr. Walsh,” explained Eddie, reading Jim’s mind. “Ronny invited us.”
Jim was delighted. For some reason the fact that Ronny knew Eddie, had picked him out of the whole of Star Harbour, filled him with pride. And now Ronny himself was plucking at Eddie’s sleeve.
“Did you bring it?” he asked.
“Hello youngster, bring what?” As comprehension dawned, Eddie started to laugh. Then seeing the tenseness of the boy’s expression, he stopped and said seriously: “No Ronny, those things have to be done scientific. Don’t they, Mr. Walsh?”
“What are you talking about?” asked Jim, who had been examining Ronny closely and almost furtively.
“Well, Mr. Walsh, Flo here is a famous man with the needles. I guess he couldn’t resist practicing on the boy. Come on, Ronny, show Mr. Walsh what you got.”
Ronny made no sign that he had heard. His expression was one of deep thought, as though his mind were a prism and he was trying to wrest the secret surfaces around for inspection.
Then Flo, who had been standing behind Eddie as usual, darted forward and pulled up the short sleeved cotton sweater from Ronny’s waist. “Ain’t it fine?” he demanded proudly, pointing at the tattooed heart.
Ronny, startled out of his thoughts, flushed. “They said something would take it away,” he cried angrily. “I told them to bring it. That’s why I asked them to your party.”
“You’re all crazy, I guess,” said Ruby, and went off to the table to see what there was to eat.
“Who’s June?” asked Walsh.
“Oh, nobody in particular,” said Ronny in a hopeless voice. With a gesture of his hand he drifted off and sat down near the window.
“Well, I suppose it wasn’t quite right to do it,” said Walsh. “Those things don’t come out easily.” Then, feeling that perhaps he was showing a too paternal interest, he asked: “What did Mrs. Villars say?”
“About what, darling?” Grace came up and slipped her arm around Jim’s waist, throwing at the same time her baby-bright gaze at Eddie.
“Well, I hear the kid got tattooed,” said Jim. He felt self-conscious talking to Grace about her son in public.
“You do worry about that silly child,” said Grace wickedly. “He got a tiresome crush on a girl called June, but he’s getting over it now. I just threw them together.”
“Good-looking girl.” Eddie’s voice was like a malicious caress. ‘You’re a pretty little kitten, aren’t you?’ it seemed to say by inflection, ‘and I’ll just stroke your fur the wrong way a bit.’ Then, looking straight at Walsh, Eddie continued: “And that’s a fine boy, Mr. Walsh.”
