“He what?”
“Well, that’s the only way I can explain it. He caught this bloody awful disease, presumably from some woman with whom he’d, er, associated. But that wasn’t all.”
“There’s more?” Jamieson shook his head. “Poor Jilly.”
“Poor Jilly, indeed! For little Anne was only a few months old when this slut from Newquay arrived in the village with her loathsome child—a baby she blamed on George White.”
“Ah!” Jamieson nodded knowingly. “And the child was Geoff, right?”
“Of course. That same cretin, adopted by the Fosters, who shambles around the village even now. A retarded youth of some fifteen years—but who looks like and has the strength of an eighteen-year-old—who in fact is George White’s illegitimate son and young Anne’s half-brother. And because I’m quite fond of Jilly, I find that... that creature perfectly unbearable!”
“Not to mention dangerous,” said Jamieson.
“Eh? What’s that?” The other looked startled.
“I was out on my veranda,” said the old man. “It was just the other day, and I saw you with... with that young man. You seemed to be engaged in some sort of confrontation.”
“But that’s it exactly!” said Tremain. “He’s suddenly there—he comes upon you, out of nowhere—and God only knows what goes on in that misshapen head of his. Enough to scare the life out of a man, coming over the dunes like that, and blowing like a stranded fish! A damn great fish, yes, that’s what he reminds me of. Ugh! And it’s how Tom Foster uses him, too!”
“What? Foster uses him?” Jamieson seemed totally engrossed. “In what way? Are we talking about physical abuse?”
“No, no, nothing that bad!” Tremain held up his hands. “No, but have you seen that retard swim? My God, if he had more than half a brain he’d be training for the Olympics! What? Why, he’s like a porpoise in the water! That’s how Foster uses him.”
“I’m afraid I’m still not with you,” Jamieson admitted, his expression one of complete bafflement. “You’re saying that this Foster somehow uses the boy to catch fish?”
“Yes.” The other nodded. “And if the weather hadn’t been so bad recently you wouldn’t have seen nearly so much of the idiot on the beach. No, for he’d have been out with Tom Foster in his boat. The lad swims—in all weathers, apparently—to bring in the fish for that degenerate who looks after him.”
Jamieson laughed out loud, then stopped abruptly and asked, “But... do you actually believe that? That a man can herd fish? I mean, that’s quite incredible!”
“Oh?” Tremain answered. “You think so? Then don’t just take my word for it but the next time you’re in town go have a drink in the Sailor’s Rest. Get talking with any of the local fishermen and ask them how come Foster always gets the best catches.”
“But herding fish—” the old man began to protest.
And Tremain cut him off: “Now, I didn’t say that. I said he brings them in—somehow attracts them.” Then he offered a weak grin. “Yes, I’m well aware that sounds almost as silly. But—” He pursed his lips, shrugged and fell silent.
“So,” said Jamieson. “Some truths, some rumours. But as far as I’m concerned, I still don’t know it all. For instance, what was this awful disease you say George White contracted? What do you mean by ‘awful’? All venereal diseases are pretty awful.”
“Well, I suppose they are,” Tremain answered. “But not like this one. There’s awful and awful, but this was hideous. And he passed it down to his idiot child, too.”
“He did what?”
“The way ‘young Geoff’ looks now, that was how George White looked in the months before he—”
“Died?”
“No.” The other shook his head, grimly. “It’s not as simple as that. George didn’t just die, he took his own life.” And:
“Ah!” said the old man. “So it was suicide.”
Tremain nodded. “And I know this is a dreadful thing to say, but with a man like that—with his sexual appetites—surely it’s just as well. A disease like that... why, he was a walking time bomb!”
“My goodness!” Jamieson exclaimed. “Was it never diagnosed? Can we put a name to it? Who was his doctor?”
“He wouldn’t see a doctor. The more Jilly pressed him to do so, the more he retreated into himself. And only she could tell you what life must have been like with him, during his last few weeks. But since she’d already stuck it out for fifteen or more years, watching it gradually come out in him during all of that time... God, how strong she must have been!”
“Terrible, terrible!” said Jamieson—and then he frowned. “Yet Jilly and her child, I mean Anne—apparently they didn’t come down with anything.”
“No, and we can thank God for that!” said Tremain. “I think we’ll have to assume that as soon as Jilly knew how sick George was, she— or they—stopped... well, you know what I mean.”
“Yes.” Jamieson nodded. “I do know: they were man and wife in name only. But if both Anne and Geoff were born within a few months of each other—and if young Geoff was, well, defective from birth—then Anne is a very fortunate young woman indeed.”
“Exactly,” said Tremain. “And is it any wonder her mother’s nerves are so bad? My wife and I, we’ve known the White’s a lot longer than you, James, and I can assure you that there’s never been a woman more watchful of her child than Jilly is of Anne.”
“Watchful?”
Doreen had come back in, and she said, “Oh, yes. That girl, she can’t cough or catch a cold, or even develop a pimple without having her mother fussing all over her. Why, Anne’s skin is flawless, but if you should see them on the beach together next summer—and if Anne’s skin gets a little red or rough from the sun and the sand—you watch Jilly’s reaction.”
And Tremain concurred. “It’s a wonder Jilly so much as lets that kid out of the house...”
* * *
The subject changed; the conversation moved on; half an hour or so later Jamieson looked at his watch. “Almost time I was on my way,” he said. “There are some programmes I want to watch on TV tonight.” He turned to Doreen. “Before I go, however, you might like to show me that brooch of yours. You were, er, busy in the kitchen for a while when we were talking and I didn’t much like to open the box in your absence.”
“Yes,” she said. “It was very thoughtful of you to wait for me.” She opened the small velvet-lined box and passed it across to him. The brooch was pinned to a pad in the bottom of the box and the old man let it lie there, simply turning the box in his hand and looking at the brooch from all angles.
“You’re absolutely right.” He nodded after a moment or two. “Without a doubt it has a certain beauty, but it’s also a very odd piece. And it’s not the first time I’ve seen gold worked in this style. But you know...” Here he paused and frowned, apparently uncertain how best to continue.
“Oh?” she said. “Is something wrong?”
“Well—” he began to answer, then paused again and bit his lip. “Well, it’s just that... I don’t know. Perhaps I shouldn’t mention it.”
Doreen took back the box and brooch, and said, “But now you really must mention it! You have to! Do you think there’s something wrong with the brooch? But then, what could be wrong with it? Some kind of fake, maybe? Poor quality gold? Or not gold at all!” Her voice was more strident, more high-pitched, moment by moment. “Is that it, James? Have I been cheated?”
“At the price, whatever it was you paid? Probably not. It’s the meaning of the thing. It’s what it stands for. Doreen, this isn’t a lucky item.”
“It’s unlucky? In what way?”
“Well, anthropology was a hobby of mine no less than driftwood art is your husband’s. And as for the odd style and native workmanship we see here... I believe you’ll find this brooch is from the South Seas, where it was probably crafted by a tribal witch doctor.”