“Would that predispose him to this sort of cure?” Patrick asked.
“Might;” Dr. Mayne said shortly. “Might predispose him to the right kind of suggestibility.” Without looking at the Rector, he added: “There’s one feature that sticks out all through the literature of reputed cures by some allegedly supernatural agency. The authentic cases have emotional or nervous connotations.”
“Not all, surely,” the Rector suggested.
Dr. Mayne shot a glance at him. “I shouldn’t talk,” he said. “I really know nothing about such matters. Other half, if you please.”
Jenny thought: The Rector feels he ought to nip in and speak up for miracles, and he doesn’t like to because he doesn’t want to be parsonic. How tricky it is for them! Dr. Mayne’s the same, in his way. He doesn’t like talking shop for fear of showing off. English reticence — thought Jenny, resolving to make the point in her next letter home — incorrigible amateurs.
The restless young man suddenly said: “The next round’s on me,” and astonished everybody.
“Handsome offer!” said Major Barrimore. “Thank you, sir.”
“Tell me,” said the young man expansively and at large. “Where is this spring or pool or whatever it is?”
Patrick explained. “Up the hill above the jetty.”
“And the kid’s story is that some lady in green told him to wash his hands in it? And the warts fell off in the night. Is that it?”
“As far as I could make out,” Jenny agreed. “He’s not at all eloquent, poor Wally.”
“Wally Trehern, did you say? Local boy?”
“That’s right.”
“Were they bad? The warts?”
“Frightful.”
“Mightn’t they have been just kind of ripe to fall off? Coincidence?”
“Most unlikely, I’d have thought,” said Jenny.
“I see,” said the young man, weighing it up. “Well, what’s everybody having? Same again, all round?”
Everybody murmured assent and Major Barrimore began to pour the drinks.
Jenny said: “I could show you a photograph.”
“No? Could you, though? I’d very much like to see it. I’d be very interested, indeed. Would you?”
She ran up to her room to get it: a colour slide of the infant class with Wally in the foreground, his hands dangling. She put it in the viewer and returned to the bar. The young man looked at it intently, whistling to himself. “Quite a thing,” he said. “Quite something. Nice sharp picture, too.”
Everybody wanted to look at it. While they were handling it about, the door from the house opened and Mrs. Barrimore came in.
She was a beautiful woman, very fine drawn, with an exquisite head of which the bone structure was so delicate and the eyes so quiet in expression that the mouth seemed like a vivid accident. It was as if an artist, having started out to paint an ascetic, had changed his mind and laid down the lips of a voluptuary.
With a sort of awkward grace that suggested shyness, she moved into the bar, smiling tentatively at nobody in particular. Dr. Mayne looked quickly at her and stood up. The Rector gave her “Good evening,” and the restless young man offered her a drink. Her husband, without consulting her, poured a glass of lager.
“Hullo, Mum. We’ve all been talking about Wally’s warts,” Patrick said.
Mrs. Barrimore sat down by Miss Cost. “Have you?” she said. “Isn’t it strange? I can’t get over it.” Her voice was charming: light and very clear. She had the faintest hesitation in her speech, and a trick of winding her fingers together. Her son brought her drink to her and she thanked the restless young man rather awkwardly for it. Jenny, who liked her very much, wondered, not for the first time, if her position at the Boy-and-Lobster was distasteful to her and exactly why she seemed so alien to it.
Her entrance brought a little silence in its wake. Dr. Mayne turned his glass round and round and stared at the contents. Presently Miss Cost broke out in a fresh spate of enthusiasm.
“Now, you may all laugh as loud as you please,” she cried with a reckless air. “I shan’t mind. I daresay there’s some clever answer explaining it all away, or you can, if you choose, call it coincidence. But I don’t care. I’m going to say my little say.” She held up her glass of port in a dashing manner, and gained their reluctant attention. “I’m an asthmatic!” she declared vaingloriously. “Since I came here, I’ve had my usual go, regular as clockwork, every evening at half past eight. I daresay some of you have heard me sneezing and wheezing away in my corner. Very well…Now! This evenings when I’d heard about Wally, I walked up to the spring, and while I sat there, it came into my mind — quite suddenly: ‘I wonder …’ And I dipped my fingers in the waterfall—” She shut her eyes, raised her brows and smiled. The port slopped over on her hand. She replaced the glass. “I wished my wee wish,” she continued. “And I sat up there, feeling ever so light and unburdened, and then I came down.” She pointed dramatically to the bar clock. “Look at the time!” she exulted. “Five past ten!” She slapped her chest. “Clear as a bell! And I know, I just know, it’s happened. To me.”
There was a dead silence during which, Jenny thought, everyone listened nervously for asthmatic manifestations from Miss Cost’s chest. There were none.
“Miss Cost,” said Patrick Ferrier at last, “how perfectly splendid!” There were general ambiguous murmurs of congratulation. Major Barrimore, looking as if he would like to exchange a wink with somebody, added: “Long may it last!”
They were all rather taken aback by the fervency with which she ejaculated: “Amen! Yes, indeed. Amen!”
The Rector looked extremely uncomfortable. Dr. Mayne asked Miss Cost if she’d seen any Green Ladies while she was about it.
“N-no,” she said, and darted a very unfriendly glance at him.
“You sound as if you’re not sure of that, Miss Cost.”
“My eyes were closed,” she said quickly.
“I see,” said Dr. Mayne.
The restless young man, who had been biting at his nails, said loudly, “Look!” and, having engaged their general attention, declared himself. “Look!” he repeated. “I’d better come clean and explain at once that I take a — well, a professional interest in all this. On holiday: but a news-hound’s job’s never done, is it? It seems to me there’s quite a story here. I’m sure my paper would want our readers to hear about it. London Sun, and I’m Kenneth Joyce. K.J.’s column, you know: ‘What’s the Answer?’ Now, what do you all say? Just a news item. Nothing spectacular.”
“Oh, no!” Mrs. Barrimore ejaculated and then added: “I’m sorry. It’s simply that I really do so dislike that sort of thing.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” said Dr. Mayne. For a second they looked at each other.
“I really think,” the Rector said, “not. I’m afraid I dislike it too, Mr. Joyce.”
“So do I,” Jenny said.
“Do you?” asked Mr. Joyce. “I’m sorry about that. I was going to ask if you’d lend me this picture. It’d blow up quite nicely. My paper would pay—”
“No,” Jenny said.
“Golly, how fierce!” said Mr. Joyce, pretending to shrink. He looked about him. “Now, why not?” he asked.
Major Barrimore said: “I don’t know why not. I can’t say I see anything wrong with it. The thing’s happened, hasn’t it, and it’s damned interesting. Why shouldn’t people hear about it?”
“Oh, I do agree,” cried Miss Cost. “I’m sorry, but I do so agree with the Major. When the papers are full of such dreadful things, shouldn’t we welcome a lovely, lovely true story like Wally’s? Oh, yes!”