“James! What a day to be out!” Had it been anyone else she would have added: “Lucky for me!”

Stevens had taken the hand she offered in a lifeless grasp. To his horror he realized that he was still holding it as he stammered: “I’ve come for some writing paper.”

His stammer, the distressed inflection of his voice and his hand holding hers, filled Lucy with hope. Her pleasant, rather long face changed in expression and she said with a coy undertone: “Now James, it’s hardly nice of you just to come here when you want to buy something.”

Stevens by now had dropped the hand and tried to pull himself together. “Well, you know, Lucy, I’m not very amusing yet as company.” Even as he said the words, Stevens had been disgusted with himself. ‘What an idiot I am,’ he thought. ‘What a fool to play up to her!’

“Now that’s not at all the right attitude, James,” Lucy had replied, her eyes filling with moisture. “You may not know it but count myself as a friend—and not just a fair weather friend.”

Wearied to the depths of his soul and unable to think of a reply, Stevens had bowed in acknowledgment.

For a moment Lucy had looked down on his fair, thin hair through which his scalp shone. How unlike other men in Star Harbour he was. How good-mannered and courteous. Perhaps after all she had not kept herself pure in vain.

For his part Stevens had, in bowing, looked down briefly on her straight, flat figure, respectably girdled and stockinged.

“By the way, James, I saw one of your pupils this afternoon—June Grey. She’s growing into such a nice girl.”

His pulse had leapt. Lucy continued mildly: “Yes, and she ran right out in the rain, after a little boy. Is he your pupil too? The one who lives in that house by the water? She was calling him Ronny.”

“Yes,” he had said automatically. Lucy had given him his answer. They were together. Perhaps they had even arranged it beforehand. Stevens had purchased his writing paper hurriedly and hardly recalled how he had finally quitted the gift shop to walk dejectedly beneath the rain.

Still thinking of that afternoon, he folded his letter and rose from his chair. It was not raining today, but a burning mist obscured the sun. He put the letter in an envelope and then weighed it thoughtfully in his hand. He did not have the address of Mrs. Villars and wondered how best he might obtain it. Lunchtime was over, and Stevens could hear from the back of the house a sound of dishes clinking. For an instant it was as if his mother were back there clearing up, but it was only Mrs. Russell who came for three hours every day. The difference struck him. ‘Did I really love her so terribly much?’ he wondered for the first time. As a revelation it came to him that he had never been passionately attached. Unlike some mother’s boys, he had found his mother neither pretty nor seductive. He had never had a moment’s jealousy on her account. It was only that their pale eyes, his and hers, looking into each others, could give a meaning to the world.

Stevens shrugged and left the house. The heat, as he drove towards the peninsula, lay at the side of the road like a parched beast. The shimmer of its breath burnt the grass. The trees were a dark, coarse green powdered over with dust, and the water as he skirted the bay looked leaden and unrefreshed. Finally he turned into the bumpy lane that ran through the woods to the boathouse. Now and then his tires spun on the dry sand which was blown into the ruts by the east winds. There was something desolate and still about these sandy woods.

Ronny, along with Jeremy and June, was in the stable grooming his horse. His bare feet made a squashing sound in the wet straw of Gambol’s stall which smelled of ammonia and dung. He was curry-combing the animal’s flank in a circular movement and then knocking the currycomb against the wall to make the dirt fall out. June sat on a pile of hay a little way off. She was wearing shorts which were unbecoming to her round, rather full thighs, and because of the heat had pinned her hair to the back of her head. This way of dressing it brought out the faulty proportions of her head, the small ears and skull masked by the larger face, with its straight, stern features and thick throat. As for Jeremy, he was repairing the lawn mower, which he used so seldom that it was covered with rust.

Stevens stood for a moment in the stable door, where Jeremy saw him although he made no sign. Finally Stevens walked forward.

“Good afternoon,” he said to Jeremy. “I wonder if you could give me Mrs. Villars’ address. I wish to write to her.”

Jeremy looked up. “You’ll be wanting to complain, I suppose,” he said pleasantly but without jocularity.

Stevens stared at him coldly. “And I suppose that does not concern you?”

“How do you know he’s going to complain?” asked Ronny, who had stopped work and was leaning against Gambol’s side.

“Yes, how do you know, Jeremy?” echoed June boldly.

“June,” said Stevens, “try not to imitate children. It is natural for Ronny to speak like that. In you it is neither amusing or cute.”

June turned scarlet and for some reason was immediately conscious of her legs. The worst of it was that Stevens was right; she had been imitating Ronny. As yet there were no women’s weapons which she could handle, and the old childish ones now seemed to be failing her. To her surprise Jeremy came to her defense.

“Well now, sir,” he said putting down his tools, “I don’t really see why you’re making such a point of Miss June’s being older than Ronny here. If we made such a fuss over a few years as that, none of us could speak to one another.” He had scored his point, but now with his particular turn of thought could not help adding: Anyway I guess in a hundred years we’ll all be saying pretty much the same things.”

“You mean we’ll all be ghosts?” shrilled Ronny.

Jeremy did not answer him, only gave him a quiet look whose meaning was concealed by his round cheeks and the bright health of his eyes.

Stevens, who had tightened his lips at Jeremy’s rebuke. now relaxed them and seemed to take a new tack. Sitting down carefully on the slope of an old wagon tree, he smiled. His smile was unexpectedly youthful and charming, as the smiles of blond men sometimes are. He had nice teeth and a youthful, pink lining to his lips and gums. His mouth lost its faint wrinkles and his eyes grew warmer as they were drawn up by his grimace. “Well,” he said, “now that we’ve had misunderstandings all around, we might just as well cool off.”

“Go swimming you mean?” asked Ronny with the forced expression of one who is making a joke. He looked at June and they both giggled.

Stevens turned to Jeremy. “They are both laughing,” he said magnanimously, “at the hair on my chest.”

“I guess Miss June will get over minding that pretty soon,” said Jeremy.

Stevens looked shocked but suppressed it at once.

“I won’t ever have hairs on my chest,” said Ronny, “only a-”

“Only a what?” asked Stevens curiously.

“Only a heart.”

“That would be in, not on,” said Stevens mechanically.

“On, not in,” said June.

“On and in, both, why not?” said Jeremy, and Ronny wondered if he knew. The other day, the day after, when his skin had been all sore and swollen he had taken off his shirt in the stable. Perhaps Jeremy had seen. He looked at Jeremy, but the caretaker had risen and, with his lawn mower now repaired, was leaving them.

“Wait a minute, Jeremy,” called Stevens, “you have not yet given me Mrs. Villars’ address.”

“I can’t seem to remember it,” said Jeremy, giving Stevens a straight, full, slow glance. He continued on his way out.

Stevens controlled himself carefully. He stood up. “Perhaps your wife would know. I’ll go and ask her.”

Jeremy turned around again. Starting with the feet, his eyes travelled upwards bit by bit until they reached the lapels of Stevens’ jacket. There they stopped and lost interest. “I don’t know how it is where you come from, sir, but in my family the man rules the roost.”

“You mean you refuse to give it to me?” demanded Stevens, who had grown rather pale.

“If you like,” replied Jeremy quietly and almost to himself. He shrugged his shoulders as though wondering at his own complexity and went away. The lawn mower made a clicking sound as it wheeled in front of him on the stable floor, like a fussy conversation, a chattering, useless résumé of all that had passed.

CHAPTER TEN

Ronny awakened suddenly from a long dream. The moonlight lay across the floor of his room but did not quite reach the bed.

“Nor the moon by night.” The phrase came mysteriously into his mind. Where had he heard it? Why did it have for him now this submerged and rhythmic meaning, like a murmur of the blood in his veins? He tried to recall his dream but only a tangled and unreal impression remained. He rose and went to the window, drawn by those white rays. The moon was not at full; on the contrary, it was wasted as though by a disease. “Nor the moon by night.” Again the words came into his mind. Then he recalled that they were part of a Bible verse which he had been forced to learn at school. Something about the sun not burning thee by day nor the moon by night.

Yet the moon was burning him as he stood in its rays; scorching the heart tattooed upon his breast. In the moonlight it stood out plainly: a blue mark, a valentine printed on him by Flo. He tried to read the letters underneath it, but bending made the skin wrinkle and they were lost. Besides, a slight scab still covered them. Never mind. They were easy to remember: JUNE. Flo had wanted to put an arrow through the heart as well, but Ronny had not let him.

Although the tattooing had really hurt more the second day, the making of it had been uncomfortable too. They had gone to the back of the barber shop in a space enclosed by a curtain. Here delicate operations were performed, such as hair dyeing or an occasional permanent wave—things that men like to have done in private. Sometimes Flo did a tattoo job here as well, although most people who wanted such ornaments went to New York and had them done electrically. Flo traced the drawing on a paper with soft charcoal and then pressed the paper on the boy’s skin. When he took it off the drawing remained. Then he set to work with five fine needles wedged into a cork so as to keep them together. He moistened the needles first with his tongue and afterwards dipped them in his special Chinese ink. Then he inserted them obliquely into the skin along the drawing.

Ronny had been surprised not to feel more real pain. Flo, in fact, was the more nervous of the two. He was sweating and breathing hard as he traced the heart. Flo loved working on this tight, fine-grained young skin and did not want to have a failure.

“Just over my own heart, Mr. Flo,” Ronny had begged, “a real heart just over my own.” He himself could not say why he wanted this. Surely he had had a reason once, long ago, five minutes ago, but now he had forgotten what it was. Why not, as Eddie suggested, a rose for luck or a ship for hope? No, it must be a heart and over his own, with June’s name underneath it.

During this time June had seemed to lose all interest in the proceeding and had gone to stand at the door of the barber shop, gazing out at the sodden dock. Ronny could not know that she was fighting nausea. Eddie for his part was covered with lather, being shaved in the front room by a round, good-natured barber.