Chapter Two
MARK
‘The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea.’
Proverbs XXX. 19
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Mark was angry with his parents. At thirteen he considered himself old enough to tour France on his bicycle with his friend Ellison. That his parents… his mother in particular… should condemn him instead to a fortnight at the seaside village of Cromlech seemed the height of unreasoning injustice. That Ellison’s parents had been equally obstructive served only as a mild palliative, and, anyway, Ellison was not staying in Cromlech, so that Cromlech was quite intolerable.
Mark brooded, kicking a stone in front of him down the rough path which led from the panoramic cliff-top to the beach. Two further insults smouldered in his breast. Not only was a teacher from his school staying at his hotel, but, through the treachery of Mark’s father, Mark had been compelled to accept an invitation from this loathsome interloper to visit the cathedral town of Torbury, a complete waste of a whole fine day. What was worst of all, the wretched teacher was a woman!
‘Hope her beastly breakfast chokes her!’ thought Mark, referring to his teacher. ‘Silly clot!’ He swung his towel moodily at a clump of sea-pinks. ‘My last bathe for twenty-four hours, I expect! Hope I get cramp and drown! That’ll show them!’
His thoughts continued along an already well-worn track. If only it had been a decent master… Mr Taylor, perhaps, or Mr Roberts… he would not have minded so much; but of course it would have to be old Semi-Conscious! Faintley! What a name! Fancy anybody with a name like that not changing it! Of all the cissy-sounding names ever inherited by human beings, Faintley seemed to Mark, during these embittered hours, the most ridiculous and undesirable.
The path wound right and left in its serpentine progress down the cliff. Sometimes it broke into a cascade of broad, uneven steps, and occasionally, at a bend, there was a seat and a view of the coast. Mark, intent on his wrongs, and also on his swim, ignored these amenities and flopped his rubber-shod feet uncompromisingly downhill.
Trees and shrubs grew thickly; ferns appeared in modest, dim, damp places; over the bay the gulls swooped, hovered and cried. There was a very faint mist on the sea. In spite of himself, Mark began to feel better. He glanced at his wrist-watch, a present for a respectable end-of-the-year report (although even that old Semi-Conscious had tried to muck up with her usual bit of sarcasm and a C where Mark would have awarded himself a B minus). He noted that the time was half-past six. Breakfast at the hotel was not until nine. He would swim for about twenty minutes… it was too cold to stay in long in the early morning… and then when he was dressed he would walk along the sands to the far arm of the bay. He had spotted a path which led over the further headland. It might be a private path. He jolly well hoped it was… a spot of trespassing would just about fit his mood.
But his mood was altering rapidly. It occurred to him that he and Ellison had brought to perfection… or near it; you could not pull it off with Snotty Joe, the senior assistant… the art of losing the teachers-in-charge on school outings. It would be rather a rag to lose Faintley, and have a day out by himself. He had plenty of money. He had been saving it secretly for weeks in the hope of making that cherished trip to France.
He decided he would show his father and Miss Faintley that you could take a horse to Torbury but you could not get it into the Cathedral if it did not want to go!
Almost happy at last, Mark took the last flight of steps with a leap and a stumble, and began to plough through dry sand. He pulled off his sweater and shorts, remembered to unstrap his wrist-watch, kicked off his shoes. The fresh air played round his bare shoulders. Gosh… it was cold! He had better get in quick! The tide was making, so that was all right, thank goodness. It was not a good thing in those waters to swim on an outgoing tide. Mark summoned his resolution… his thin body was sensitive to cold… took a breath and dashed boldly forward and into the icy, green sea.
He had been swimming for about twenty minutes and was lazily floating on his back when an addition to his first plan occurred to him. Suppose he could contrive, somehow or other, to make old Semi-Conscious look a fool! He realized that the close co-operation of one’s form-mates was usually necessary to ensure the success of such an enterprise, nevertheless he toyed with the idea and had arrived at the unchivalrous stage of visualizing Miss Faintley, in the hands of two large vergers, being frog-marched in ignominy from the Cathedral when, turning over with the intention of taking a final quick swim before making for the shore, he became aware that his privacy had been invaded by a young woman. Mark was in no mood for this. He despised the whole sex, and had no intention of sharing the sea with an Amazonian girl, particularly with one who obviously could give him forty yards in a hundred and still beat him.
He dog-paddled into shallow water and waded out, but the young woman swam towards him and called out cheerfully:
‘Hullo! How did you find it?’
‘Cold,’said Mark.
‘Oh, I don’t know. It doesn’t seem bad to me.’ She turned from him, ducked into a wave and went out to sea like a torpedo. Mark watched in envious admiration; then, afraid that she might turn, and, seeing him watching, imagine that he admired her prowess, he picked up his towel and began to rub his hair. He was dry and dressed in a very few minutes, but by the time he had tramped along the sand to the opposite side of the bay (it was much farther off than he had supposed) the tide was so high that it was impossible to get round the bend and climb up the headland path.
He turned and walked back along the beach. The girl was still in the sea. Mark, in spite of a strong natural aversion to females, had the instincts of a sportsman. He stood at the edge and waved. The girl caught sight of him and came swimming in.
‘I say,’ shouted Mark, ‘it isn’t safe to stay in much longer. The tide’s nearly turning, I think.’
‘Thanks for telling me. Where are you staying?’
‘The Whitesand.’
‘Good. So are we.’
‘I haven’t seen you there.’
‘Came late last night in my cabin cruiser and turned up at the Whitesand at two a.m. Had to knock them up. They weren’t pleased. Well, see you later on, I expect.’
She made for the shore. Mark shuffled away through loose sand, sat down on the first set of steps, shook surplus sand out of his shoes and tramped stolidly skywards towards breakfast. Her cabin cruiser! It only needed that! And he had to go to Torbury Cathedral with the Faintley!
The beginning of the excursion with Miss Faintley was fully as futile and exasperating as Mark had known it would be. To begin with, although the bus ride took fully an hour and three-quarters, Miss Faintley refused to travel on top.
‘No, Street,’ she said, ‘I dislike the smell of stale tobacco smoke.’ And, to Mark’s intense annoyance, she even gave him a slight but unmistakable push to ensure that he really did go inside the bus.
‘All right. You wait,’ thought Mark. He insisted upon taking the gangway seat and upon paying Miss Faintley’s fare as well as his own. He was so ruffled that he contemplated paying full fare for himself by way of asserting his independence, but reconsidered this rash plan and paid a half-fare as usual. During the journey Miss Faintley chatted unceasingly. Mark gave her half his attention. The other half was busy with plans of escaping as soon as he possibly could. It ought to be fairly easy. Torbury was a big place. There would be bookshops on the way to the Cathedral. The Faintley would be certain to want to look at books. She always did, even on school outings; yes, even on the one to the Science Museum, Mark reminded himself.