“Ah-hah!” The other narrowed his eyes, thrust his chin out. “So then, Mr. Jamieson. You’ve been alistenin’ ter rumours, eh? And what did them waggin’ village tongues tell you... that Tom Foster makes um’s poor dumb freak swim fer um? And that um gets um ter chase up the fish fer um? Hah!” He shook his head. “Well it ain’t so! That ’un swims cos um likes ter swim, and cos um wants ter swim—and in all weathers if I dun’t be watchin’ um! That’s all there be ter such tall stories. But if you be askin’ does um know where the best fish can be found? Then you’re damn right um do, and that’s why I gets the best catch—always! So then, what else can I tell you?”
“Nothing, Tom,” said Jamieson. “But there is something you can do for that youth. If he wants to swim, let him—you don’t need to let the village see it. And if he gets... well, infested again, you saw me working and know what to do. But whatever you do, you mustn’t let him dry out like that again. No, for it seems to me his skin needs that salt water...”
* * *
It had stopped hailing, and protected by the building Anne was waiting just outside the door. Since the door had been standing ajar, she must have heard the old man’s and Foster’s conversation. But she said nothing until they were in the car. Then:
“He had fish-lice?” It wasn’t a shocked exclamation, just a simple enquiry.
And starting up the car Jamieson answered, “Oh, people are prone to all kinds of strange infections and infestations. I’ve heard it said that AIDS—a disease caused by immune deficiency—came from monkeys; and there’s that terrible CJD that you can get from eating contaminated or incorrectly processed beef. And how about psittacosis? From parrots, of all things! As for that poor boy: well, what can I say? He likes to swim.”
“It’s very strange,” she said, as Jamieson drove out of the village, “but my father... he didn’t like the sea. Not at all. He had those books about it—about the sea and other things—and yet was afraid of it. He used to say it lured him. They say he killed himself, suicide, and perhaps he did; but at least he did it his way. I remember he once said to me, ‘If a time comes when I must go, it won’t take me alive’. Toward the end he used to say all sorts of things that didn’t make a lot of sense, but I think he was talking about the sea.”
“And what makes you think that?” Jamieson asked her, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, and aware that she was watching him, probably to gauge his reaction.
“Well, because of the way he did it... jumped off the cliff at South Point, down onto the rocks. He washed up on the beach, all broken up.”
“How awful!” The old man swung the car onto the lonely road to Jilly White’s house. “And yet you and your mother, you continue to live right here, almost on the beach itself.”
“I think that’s because she needs to be sure about certain things,” the girl answered. “Needs to be sure of me, perhaps?”
Jamieson saw Jilly standing on the doorstep and stopped the car outside the house. He would have liked to carry on talking, to have the girl clarify her last cryptic remark, or learn more about the books she’d mentioned—her father’s books, about the sea. But Jilly was already coming forward. And now Anne touched the old man’s arm and said, “It’s best she doesn’t know we were at the Fosters’. If she knew about Geoff’s fish-lice, it might only set her off again.”
Then, lifting her voice a little as she got out of the car, she said, “Thank’s again for the ride.” And in a whisper added, “And for what you did for Geoff...”
* * *
The winter dragged on. Jamieson spent some of the time driving, visiting the local towns, even going as far afield as Falmouth and Penzance. And to break the boredom a little, usually there would be a weekly “social evening” alternating between Jilly’s, the Tremains’s, and Jamieson’s place. The old man even managed to inveigle Jilly into joining him and the Tremains in a visit to the dilapidated Sailor’s Rest one night.
On that occasion Anne went with them. She was under-age for drinking—even for being in the pub—but the proprietor knew her, of course, and served her orange juice; and in any case it wasn’t as if the place was about to be raided.
Their table was close to a great open fireplace where logs popped and hissed, and the pub being mainly empty, the service couldn’t be faulted. In an atmosphere that was quietly mellow, the country food bought fresh from the village bakery was very good. Even Jilly appeared clear-headed and in good spirits for once, and as for the Tremains: putting their customary, frequently unwarranted snobbery aside, they were on their very best behaviour.
That was the up-side, but the down-side was on its way. It came as the evening drew to a close in the forms of the fisherman Tom Foster, and that of his ward the shambling Geoff, when the pair came in from the cold and took gloomy corner seats at a small table. It was doubtful that they had noticed the party seated near the fire on the far side of the room, but Foster’s narrowed eyes had certainly scanned the bar area before he ushered his ward and companion to their more discreet seats.
And as suddenly as that the evening turned sour. “Checking that his enemies aren’t in,” said Tremain under his breath. “I can understand that. He’s probably afraid they’ll report him.”
“His enemies?” said Jamieson. “The other village fishermen, you mean? Report him for what?”
“See for yourself,” said the other, indicating the barman, who was on his way to Foster’s corner with a tray. “A pint for Tom, and a half for that... for young Geoff. He lets that boy drink here—alcohol, mind— and him no older than Anne here. I mean, it’s one thing to have that... well, that poor unfortunate in the village, but quite another to deliberately addle what few brains he’s got with strong drink!”
Anne, visibly stiffening in her chair, at once spoke up in the youth’s defence. “Geoff isn’t stupid,” she said. “He can’t speak very well, and he’s different, but he isn’t stupid.” And staring pointedly at Tremain, “He isn’t ignorant, either.”
The headmaster’s mouth fell open. “Well, I...!” But before he could say more:
“John, you asked for that,” Doreen told him. “You’re aware that Anne is that youth’s friend. Why, she’s probably the only friend he’s got! You should mind what you say.”
“But I...” Tremain began to protest, only to have Jamieson step in with:
“Oh, come, come! Let’s not ruin the pleasant evening we’re having. Surely our opinions can differ without that we have to fight over them? If Tom Foster does wrong, then he does wrong. But I say let that youth have whatever pleasures he can find.”
“And I agree,” said Doreen, glowering at her husband. “God only knows he’ll find few enough!”
With which they fell silent, and that was that. Things had been said that couldn’t be retracted, and as for the evening’s cosy atmosphere and light-hearted conversation: suddenly everything had fallen flat. They tried to hang on to it but were too late. John Tremain took on a haughty, defensive attitude, while his wife turned cold and distant. Jilly retreated quietly into herself again, and young Anne’s presence continued to register only by virtue of her physically being there— but as for her thoughts, they could be anywhere...
* * *
After that, such get-togethers were few and far between. Their friendship—the fact that the Tremains, Whites, and Jamieson stuck together at all—continued on a far less intimate level, surviving mainly out of necessity; being of the village’s self-appointed upper crust, they couldn’t bring themselves to mingle too freely with those on the lower rungs of the social ladder.