The Sea, the Sea

‘But what about Pamela?’

‘Oh, haven’t you heard? Pam’s gone off with Marcus Henty. You know he’s become a gentleman farmer. The manor house life should suit Pam down to the ground.’

‘So I thought I’d better grab Peregrine before he started making passes at Angie!’

‘God!’ said Peregrine. They laughed crazily, Perry’s big wrinkled face red with the sun and the champagne. Rosina as usual was perched, now on the arm of Peregrine’s chair, swinging long bare legs, her white dress hitched up. She leaned over him, brushing his hair with her nose. They both twinkled at me, then regarded each other solemnly and went off into another fit.

‘I hope there’s a part for Peregrine in Fritzie’s Odyssey,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he could enact the old dog.’

‘Oh, that’s off,’ said Rosina.

‘Fritzie’s changed his mind?’

‘No, I’ve changed mine.’

‘We’re going to Ireland,’ said Peregrine.

‘To Ireland?’

‘Yes, to Londonderry. We’ve had enough of West End show business. We’re going to bring theatre to the people.’

‘Oh my God!’

‘Don’t you mock, Charles. This is going to be the beginning of something great-’

‘So you’re giving up the Calypso part, Rosina?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

I said, ‘You’ve impressed me, at last.’

‘The beginning of something great,’ said Peregrine. ‘We’re going to write the plays ourselves and get local people to act them. The Irish are natural actors, and there’s a darling little theatre that’s only a bit bombed-’

‘I’m not mocking,’ I said. ‘I think you’re brave, both of you, I wish you the best of luck. No, no more champagne, thanks, it’s made me drunk already.’

‘Charles never had a head for drink,’ said Peregrine, pouring himself some more.

‘I’m not a monster in your mind any more, I hope?’ I said to him.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I killed the monster when I pushed you into the sea. I’m glad you survived, really. All’s well that ends well.’

‘Ah, but when is the end? I must be off. Thanks for the champers.’

‘I’ll see you to the door,’ said Rosina. She skipped out, and I saluted Peregrine and followed.

Rosina’s white dress turned out to be a sort of shapeless prophetess’s robe made of some very light fabric which practically floated on the air all round her. She held out her arms and flapped it, then drew it closely about her. We came out and stood a moment in the sun on the stony verge of the road. Rosina’s feet were bare.

‘So you think this’ll work, I mean you and Peregrine?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ she said. ‘There was never anything the matter between us except jealousy.’

‘A big matter. And ubiquitous.’

‘Well, it’s a sign of love. Peregrine was simply obsessed about you, then he married that Pam simply to annoy me. And, you know, I couldn’t bear Peregrine being so passive about your stealing me away, I always wanted him to fight for me.’

‘The Helen of Troy complex. It’s fairly common.’

‘And when I heard he’d killed you…’

‘He boasted of it?’

‘Naturally-’

‘Well, good luck to you. Tell me, Rosina, that day when you went off and said you were going to see Ben, did you go?’

Rosina peered up at me with her intense crossing eyes. She chuckled and hugged the white robe more closely around her. ‘Yes.’

‘And what happened?’

‘Oh nothing happened. We had a tremendous talk.’

‘I would call that a happening. What about?’

‘Charles, you ask too many questions,’ said Rosina, ‘and you want something for nothing, you always did. But I can assure you of one thing-your bearded lady is a lucky woman. That man is extremely attractive.’

‘Oh-!’ I turned away with a wave. I would have given a lot for a tape-recording of that ‘tremendous talk’-if it really took place. It then occurred to me for the first time to wonder, had Ben and Hartley come together through sexual attraction?

‘Charles!’ Rosina had run a little way after me, padding on the grass verge with her bare feet, her white robe fluttering free.

I waited.

‘Charles, darling, tell me, I must know. When you came here today were you going to offer yourself to me?’

‘You ask too many questions,’ I said.

I could hear her laughing merrily as I walked on. Her having given up that film part, that had the hard touch of reality all right.

That evening the clouds gathered, the sun vanished, and it began to rain. The madcap English weather which had been putting on a passable imitation of June now decided to play March. A cold wind blew from the sea and brought the rain in aggressive irregular patterings, like flung pebbles against the back windows. The house was full of odd sounds of straining and creaking and the bead curtain kept up an irregular prattle of sudden flurried clicks. I looked for the Irish jersey and finally found it among the bedclothes and cushions which still lay on the floor of the bookroom. I tried to light the fire in the little red room, but my indoors store was exhausted and the outdoor wood was wet. I drank a lot of red wine after my lentil soup and went to bed early with a hot water bottle.

The next morning it was still raining a little but the wind had dropped and it was less cold. A thick clammy pearly-grey mist surrounded the house, it was impossible to see the end of the causeway. I carried the dustbins, which had not been cleared for some time, out to the road, and stood there for a while listening. The invisible countryside was a vast silence. I came in again, wet with fog and drizzle, and treated myself to a long breakfast of porridge with tinned cream and brown sugar, poached eggs, biscuits and honey (I had run out of bread) and several pots of hot tea. Sitting afterwards with a rug over my knees, my hand encountered in my pocket an object which my fingers were unable to ‘read’. I drew it forth and it turned out to be Hartley’s slide, which I had pocketed on the night when she ‘ran to me’. I stared at the almost senseless little thing and tried to grasp it as an omen, but it just looked pathetic and filled me with sadness and I put it away in a drawer in the red room.

I resumed my rug and began to review the situation.

One consoling and clarifying thought which kept returning to me as I tried to imagine Hartley’s state of mind, was that she might decide to wait until the last moment before making a dash for it. Let Ben go to Australia. It was certainly his wish, his idea, not hers. She could perhaps actually brush him off forever by slipping away just as he was about to sail. Then she would leap, like Lord Jim, down into my boat. Ben’s impetus would be greatest when he was all set to go, and he might then very well say: to hell with her. This view of the matter was ingenious and plausible. But could I rely on it sufficiently to remain inactive, and could I and dare I endure that much inactivity without a firm assurance from Hartley?

I decided I could afford to allow a span of two or three days more for Hartley to reflect upon the letter which I had left with her. I was glad she had that letter and I imagined it working upon her on my behalf like a little resident imp. I recalled too that I had the wit to give her my telephone number. Doubtless by now the woodwork class would know Ben no more, but he would surely have to leave the house sometimes to go somewhere, to pick up tickets, visas, money; and even though he might take Hartley with him he could not supervise her every move. Surely she could get away to a telephone and ring me up. Very few words would be necessary: Wait, I will come. Imagining those words carried me over one or two bad patches. And the constant possibility of the telephone call made endurable the short period of sheer waiting which I had decreed for