The Mudflats of the Dead

single bed of the least possible width, a chest of drawers, a chair and half a dozen wire coathangers hung on a brass rod behind a curtain. There were no facilities for washing. Palgrave pointed this out. ‘No room for a fitted basin,’ said his guide. ‘Bathroom on the next floor. I’ll show you. Anyway, this is the only room that isn’t booked up, so it’s take it or leave it, I’m afraid, sir.’

Palgrave paid the modest deposit, went down to lunch and found the meal satisfying and well cooked. In the afternoon he cruised around in his car, visited a stately home, had his tea there, dined at The Stadholder, his inn, and got back to the Saltacres cottage at just after nine. Here a surprise awaited him.

The others were out – at the pub, he supposed – but his studio couch had been opened up and the bed made, and on that bed were a pair of alien pyjamas and a nightdress, and at the foot of the bed two suitcases not his own. He could make nothing of this display, but he found it disquieting and waited impatiently for the return of Adrian and Miranda.

When they came in, Adrian looked apprehensive and Miranda flustered and embarrassed.

‘Oh, you’re back, Colin,’ she said, with an attempt at brightness. ‘Would you like some supper?’

‘I’ve dined, thanks. I say, Miranda, what’s all this?’ he waved his hand at the suitcases. Miranda waved her own hand in agitation.

‘I know! I know!’ she wailed. ‘But, Colin, what could I do?’

Adrian shot an apologetic glance at Palgrave and, in the craven manner of most men faced with a domestic tangle, muttered something about changing into his slippers and went upstairs.

‘Well,’ said Palgrave, ‘what could you do about what?’

‘There has been an overlap in the letting. These people say they have it in writing that they booked the cottage for a fortnight from today and we have it in writing that it is ours until midday on Saturday. Adrian, always despicable, poor boy, when there is trouble, says we must move out and go home. I said to him — ’ Palgrave sat down on the bed and she came and sat beside him and took his unresponsive hand – ‘I said what about Colin? What about Camilla? Both pay their way and expect to be here for the rest of the week.’

‘True enough. And so?’

‘I do not give way. We have as much right to the cottage as these other people. I suggested that there should be a compromise and after a little argument they saw that there was nothing for it but to agree.’

‘How many of them are there?’

‘Only the two of them, Colin, a doctor and his wife.’

‘So what’s the compromise?’

‘Well, a simple one, really. The woman can sleep in Camilla’s room. There are two beds in there. You and the man – he is young and clean and charming – will share the studio couch.’

‘I’m damned if we do!’

‘Oh, Colin, it is only for a night or two.’

‘If it was only for one night the answer is still the same.’

‘Well, the only other thing,’ said Miranda, ‘is for the new ones – they are Londoners and very nice people – to have the studio couch, and for you to take the other bed in Camilla’s room. You could rig up a blanket as a screen between the beds. Adrian would help you.’

‘And how long is that going to keep Camilla out of my hair?’

‘Oh, Colin, you said you could deal with her and I’m sure you can.’

‘Look, Miranda, I see your difficulty but I want no part in helping you out of it.’

‘At least come into the kitchen and be friendly. We will all talk it over with them and see what is best to be done.’

‘Oh, they’re in the kitchen, are they?’

But when he went into the kitchen a further shock awaited him. He had raised a startled query when he had learnt that the interlopers came from London, but reflected that, after all, London is a large and sprawling place. All the same, he had lived in it for several years and taught at one of its schools. It would be just his rotten luck that these people might even be the parents of one of his pupils. Meeting parents on Open Days or at Parent Teacher Association meetings was bad enough. To encounter them on holiday was intolerable. Something told him that disaster loomed.

He could not refuse to accompany Miranda to the kitchen, but there the situation was even worse than he had anticipated, for he recognised one of the newcomers at once. The girl was Morag Kintyre, to whom he had been engaged and whom he had discarded in favour of his Muse. She greeted him calmly, but with a thrust from a verbal dagger which she did not even know she was holding.

‘Hullo, there, Colin!’ she said. ‘When are we going to see your second book reviewed? We’ve been looking out for it. It isn’t everybody who knows an author. Cupar, darling, this is the famous Colin Palgrave I’ve often talked about.’

‘My second book is not quite ready yet,’ said Palgrave, forcing himself to adopt a light tone. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he went on, addressing Miranda, ‘I’ve had all I can use, I think, in this place, so I’m moving on tomorrow. Actually I’m clearing out tonight, so you two – ’ he smiled at the married couple – ‘couldn’t have come at a better time if you want to take up your option.’

‘Oh, dear!’ said Morag, her face falling. (She was prettier than Palgrave had remembered.) ‘Don’t say we’re turning you out!’

‘We can surely fix up something for a day or two,’ said her husband.

‘No, honestly, it’s all right. I’ve already settled for a room in a pub at Stack Ferry. I was over there today and liked the place. Besides, now that my basic theme is settled, I need to be on my own to get the book finished.’

‘But what about tonight?’ asked Miranda.

‘Not to worry. I shall be all right. Why don’t we all go to the pub and get matily bottled? The drinks are on me. We’ll have a farewell party.’

But, the impromptu party over, and himself uncomfortably settled with a rug on the back seat of his car, he wished he had not been quite so precipitate in refusing the offer of the second bed in Camilla’s room. If she had shown an embarrassing desire for his company, well, he had dealt drastically enough with that situation twice before, so he supposed he could have dealt with it again — ‘if she dared to try it on, the little tramp,’ he told himself, pulling the car rug around him and trying, for perhaps the twentieth time, a slighly rearranged position on the back seat.

With an attempt to fill his mind with something other than his own bodily discomfort, he began to think about Morag, but found neither ease nor pleasure in his thoughts. What right, he asked himself, had she to marry somebody other than himself and then to look so happy and relaxed about it? What right had she to look so much prettier, her dark hair silkier and more shining, her eyes deeper and more lustrous, her mouth more tender and alluring than ever he could remember any of these disturbing things? She had not been like this when she was supposed to be in love with him. In fact, he had often been discomfited by her tough, uncompromising outlook.

His thoughts became intolerable. He cast the inadequate car rug aside, put his shoes on, opened the car door and got out on to the road. The moon was up, the sky was clear, there was a night wind blowing across the marshes. He remembered Camilla’s urge to swim by moonlight. ‘Right on the broad lovely track of it, and I could swim for ever and ever,’ she had said to him once. ‘Moonlight on the sea makes me crazy. I could die for the sheer, crazy joy of being drowned in it.’

As though the memory of the girl’s wild words had conjured up the girl herself, there she was, actually walking towards him along the deserted road.

‘I guessed what you were going to do when Adrian told me you had taken them for a farewell party,’ she said, coming up. ‘Guess what I’m going to do.’

Palgrave laughed.

‘Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania,’ he said. ‘I suppose you’re going swimming.’

‘Come with me, do! It’s warmer in the sea than out of it, once the sun goes in.’

‘Oh, all right,’ he said. ‘It will help to get through a bit of the night. It’s damned uncomfortable and draughty in the car. One has to leave a window open to let some air in, and I’ve nothing to cover me up except one small rug that’s only meant to go over my passenger’s knees.’

‘Well, poor old Colin had the chance of something better, I expect, and turned it down,’ she said mockingly. ‘Afraid for his precious virtue, was he?’

‘No. He just doesn’t go to bed with schoolgirls, as I’ve told you before.’ By this time they were on the