the sea. Philip thought he would give him a wide berth and hope not to be noticed. Then he saw that Fludd, in boots and cord trousers, was over his ankles in the rising tide. It is not easy to walk fast on sloping shingle. Philip changed direction and set off towards Fludd. The pebbles ground and whinged under his feet. Fludd shook his fist at the horizon, and took several steps forward, moving his arms like a windmill. He was now over his haunches in seawater, and splashing his hands in the blown crests of spray. Philip had never ventured into the water off this bank. He believed, without knowing why, that the steep slope continued, and plunged rapidly beyond a man’s depth, into treacherous currents. He began a blundering run down towards the potter, who took another two or three grinding steps forward, and was waist-deep. Philip could not swim. He began to calculate what would happen if he lunged at Fludd and fell over himself, into the sucking water. He scrambled down to where Fludd was, and howled into the wind “Come back, sir. Come back home now.”
For a moment they stood there, the old man swaying in the tide, and slapping at the surface with his great hands, the young man calculating furiously about balance and grip, moving forward always with both feet stable.
“Benedict Fludd—” he howled.
Fludd did turn round, his mouth snarling amongst his draggled hair, his torso lurching.
“Go home,” said Fludd, and fell sideways with a sluicing sound, onto the sea. He rose again, obviously on his knees on the shingle, and slipping down the slope of the beach, shouting at Philip that he was a pest and a fool. Philip walked forward, mincing safe step by step, and took hold of the sodden flannel shirt.
“You’d best come out now. You’d best come home.”
“Leave me be.”
“How can I?” said Philip, betraying crossness. “I’ve got to get you home. Help me.”
Benedict Fludd gave a kick—whether to help Philip, or free himself of him was unclear—and pebbles rolled thickly down under the water. Philip put his arms round the bulk of Fludd and pulled.
“You’ve got to help me,” he said with furious reason. “You’ve got to help yourself. Come on, now.”
And somehow they were scrambling together, and both on the dry land, which was not dry, but wet with the water that ran off them, and with the whipped water blown in the wind.
“You should have let me go on,” said Fludd, mildly enough. “I had the idea of just walking on and down and in. You did wrong to stop me.”
“Why?” said Philip. “Why are you like this? You are a great artist. You can do things most men can’t dream of.”
“It leaves me. I can do nothing. I think, I shall be unable—unable—unable for the rest of my life. And then I think, why drag it out?”
“That is just a mood. You’ve had it other times, the black mood. I’ve watched you. And then you’ve made amazing things. The sun and clouds pot, remember? And the one like flaming damask. Remember? Those pots wouldn’t be, if you’d drowned yourself.”
“You care more about the pots than about me.”
“And if I do, it’s because I’m like you. And this time, you nearly drowned both of us, which was unjust.”
It did not strike Philip as odd that he had made no appeal to Fludd to save himself for the sake of his wife and daughters.
Philip was glad to see Arthur Dobbin, one day when he was in Lydd, buying provisions. He told Dobbin that Fludd was “very depressed” and this appeared to be a result of the departure of Imogen for London. He asked if Frank Mallett might call. Dobbin cycled back to Puxty, and told Frank, who got on his own bicycle and went to Purchase House. Fludd was not in—he was out tramping in the Marsh again—so Frank was able to talk to Philip, who described Benedict Fludd’s frightening behaviour, and said that he was at his wits’ end, for he could not watch the potter all the time—that might drive him to further extravagances—and moreover, he needed to work, or the household would have no money. Philip said Fludd couldn’t abide to see a doctor—that was no good. Maybe Frank could talk to him. He added, on a sudden impulse, that Pomona was sleepwalking. “Mostly into my bedroom,” said Philip. “It’s embarrassing. I know what you think, but she is deep asleep, deep. Elsie won’t believe me, but you might.”
“The family puzzles me,” said Frank Mallett. “You and Elsie have saved it, so to speak. Major Cain may well have saved Imogen, but he has deranged the others. How is Mrs. Fludd?”
“I never know,” said Philip. He said “Sometimes I see her, when I’m trying to get Pomona back to bed. She comes down in a dressing-gown, with her hair down, and drinks brandy. She looks like a washboard.”
“A washboard?”
“Sort of crumpled and ridged. With no expression on her face.”
“To be truthful, I am a little intimidated by Benedict Fludd. I shall speak to him, of course. I shall also write to Major Cain.”
“I had hoped you might.” Philip frowned. “When he is working, he’s dangerous—pots are slow things, they need calm, they need ease—and he does everything at double pace. But he does it well at double pace, better than I ever shall, Mr. Mallett—he smashed a whole batch of good pots I’d made and painted—he swept it away.”
“He makes you angry?”
“No-o,” said Philip slowly. “I love him, in a way. But he puts the fear of God into me.”
Benedict Fludd grinned evilly at Frank Mallett, and said he had no need of his ministrations—yet. “I am not long for this world, young man, and I shall need you to shrive me. But you may as well keep away till then. I did not ask you to come here. I require solitude.”
“You are not alone in the house, Mr. Fludd.”
“And what do you mean by that? It is my house.”
“I came to visit Mrs. Fludd. And Philip Warren.”
“Oh, get out, before I throw something at you. I am in an evil temper, and best avoided.”
“It is hard on Philip.”
