Devil By The Sea (12 page)

He leaned back comfortably against the pipe and laid his hand on her knee. Dreamily, his eyes half-closed, he went on, “I
like little girls, but not when they run away or scream. I can’t bear it when they cry. You wouldn’t run away or scream, would
you?”

His eyes sought hers and she shook her head dumbly. She was afraid when he put his face close to hers and she said, to divert
his attention. “Where do you live?” It was the first thing that came into her head.

“Over there.” He waved his hand in the direction of the caravans, a field away. Beyond them, on the coastal road, Hilary could
see the roofs of the cars winking in the sun.

“Wally lives there, too,” she said. “He promised to show me his caravan one day.”

“Do you want to come and see where I live?” He made the offer casually but as soon as he had spoken the idea seemed to catch
his fancy and he went on in an urgent, coaxing voice, “I’ve got a bird. A soft, little, yellow bird. You can feed it if you
like. It feeds out of my hand. It won’t be frightened of you if you’re nice and quiet.”

He stood up and lifted her to her feet. His hands were hard and trembled against her body. She wanted to go with him and yet
she was afraid to go. She shrank from him and, at the same time, longed for him to enfold her with his love. Irresolute, she
put her finger in her mouth and stared at him.

“Come now,” he said, and took her hand.

“No.”

The wind blew in her face, the sky grew dark. She remembered Poppet, walking along the front under the perilous, cold sky;
Peregrine; the Devil’s cloven hoof. Fear beat like wings in her throat and burst from her mouth in a single shouted word.

His voice was thin. “You’re afraid.”

Somehow, she knew that was the danger point. She forced herself to stay still, to look up at him. “I’m not,” she said. “Only
just now, I have to go. I’ll come another time, if I may, but not to-day. It’s very important,” she went on, extemporising
wildly, “you see my grandfather is coming to tea this afternoon. He’s very rich and he loves me a lot, much, much more than
Peregrine although he’s much nicer than I am really.
You
know Peregrine, don’t you? You saw him the other day, at Uncle Jack’s. My grandfather is going to leave all his money to
me when he dies and not to Peregrine, so I must be there when he comes, mustn’t I? But I’ll come to-morrow, I promise. I’d
like to see your bird. Good-bye.”

She held out her hand. He did not take it. He did not move. He watched her with a surprised look on his thin face. Then his
eyes narrowed. “I remember
you,”
he said and took an undecided step towards her.

Slow drops of rain began to fall: one splashed on the top of her head and trickled through her hair on to her scalp, like
syrup. Very slowly, she began to walk backwards, watching him. He made no move towards her. When she was a few yards away
from him, she turned and walked towards the cliff. She wanted to run, her spirit raced ahead of her on desperate feet. He
had said: I don’t like little girls who run away or scream. She must walk slowly so he would think she was not afraid. Her
tongue felt thick and swollen and filled her mouth: if she tried to scream, no sound would come out of it. Dear God and Jesus,
if You let me get home or, if that’s too difficult for You, if You let me get to the Downs, I’ll be good always, I’ll do what
I’m told, I’ll do my homework, I promise, for Thine is the Kingdom, the Power and the Glory, for ever and ever, Amen.

No prayer goes unanswered if you pray with your heart, Nanny had said. She put all her strength into her prayer, seeing God
like Father Christmas, robed in red, sitting on a cloud.

She reached the edge of the field and came out on to the cliff top by the shelter. Then she turned, slowly and deliberately,
and saw him looking after her. It was raining hard, now, but he stood quite still. He looked sad and lonely, she thought,
and she was suddenly ashamed because she had run away from him. He was unhappy because she had left him, she knew. The thought
made her feel pleased and important. She waved her hand to him kindly and after a moment he raised his arm in reply, holding
it stiffly in the air like a benediction.

“I’ll come to-morrow,” she called and the wind blew suffocatingly into her open mouth. She looked along the cliff top towards
home and saw her father walking towards her. He walked with long strides, his big body top-heavy on his thin, old man’s legs,
his coat collar turned up round his neck. He was too far away for her to see his face.

At the sight of him, her legs felt weak and her eyes misted over. Darting into the shelter, she knelt on the slatted seat
and gazed through the glass at the swelling sea. The rain was making black, pitted holes in the water. She began to sing,
“There is a green hill far away,” in a high, tuneless voice. The hymn answered her emotional
need and, as she reached the lines, “There was no other good enough, to pay the price of sin,” her voice quivered and failed.
A gush of warm tears overflowed her eyes and she felt cleansed and purified. When her father came into the shelter, she looked
up at him and said, in an indifferent voice, “Oh, it’s you.”

“My little girl,” he said in a hoarse voice. Lifting her bodily from the seat, he buried his face roughly in her neck. She
wriggled and he set her down, holding tightly on to her hand.

“Never do this again, never, never,” he said. His nails dug into her wrist. His strange, hot face, the pale tears in his eyes,
embarrassed her beyond bearing. She pulled away from his hand and when he would not let her go, bent her head and bit his
wrist. She heard his cry of pain and saw his face like a great, red sun swimming towards her. With an inarticulate wail, she
ran towards the cliff edge. When she came to the drop, she turned and put her hands before her eyes, hiding from his anger
and the enormous wickedness of her deed.

She looked as if she were cringing from an expected blow and Charles, who had never struck his children, was deeply moved.

“My poor little love,” he murmured, “my poor baby.”

Alice had recently been reading a book on child psychology. She had carefully rehearsed her scene with Hilary beforehand.

“Now dear. I think we must have a little talk, don’t you?”

Hilary, bathed and fed, shuffled in her chair before the nursery fire. Her eyes were bent sullenly on the floor. Alice felt
that the little talk would be better staged if she had the child on her lap and, sitting on a low stool, tried to draw
Hilary towards her. Hilary pulled away, pursing her lips and shaking her head. Annoyed, Alice clasped her hands round her
knees and addressed her with less sweetness than she had intended.

“You’re quite old enough to be talked to like a sensible person. It was naughty of you to run away, but that isn’t the important
thing. What is important, is why you did it. Do you know why?”

Hilary stared at her blankly.

“I’m going to tell you why. And you must listen carefully because if you understand
why
you ran away, then you won’t want to do anything like it ever again. Now—sometimes you are a rather silly little girl. You
think Mummy doesn’t love you. It isn’t true, of course, but all the same you sometimes want to punish Mummy for not loving
you. You thought, to-day, that if you ran away she would be frightened and unhappy and it would pay her out. That was why
you ran away, wasn’t it?”

Alice was pleased with her explanation. She felt it showed a thorough understanding of the child mind. When Hilary did not
immediately respond, she wondered whether the use of the third person had bewildered her. She leaned forward and spoke more
directly. “You ran away to frighten me, didn’t you?”

Hilary shook her head and said in a bored voice, “No. I didn’t.”

Vexed at what seemed deliberate obtuseness, Alice insisted. “It would be better if you told me the truth. Let’s try again.
You ran away to make me unhappy, didn’t you?”

Hilary’s eyes sought hers with a faint, imploring look. For a moment, Alice had her doubts and then, when the child answered,
“I don’t know. Perhaps,” they were easily dispelled. It was not a complete admission but it
was good enough: it laid the foundation for the rest of her argument.

“That’s better, dear. Now, listen to me. We all love you so there is not the smallest reason to be afraid of
that.
I love both my children. You and Peregrine. Sometimes you are a little jealous of Peregrine. Do you know what that means?”

Hilary breathed heavily through her nostrils. Alice knelt on the floor beside her. She was curiously excited. She wanted to
caress the child but desisted.

She said carefully, “Well, dear, it means that sometimes you wish you were a boy. Because you think I love Peregrine best.
Sometimes you even wish he wasn’t there at all so that you could have Mummy all to yourself. Isn’t that true?”

Hilary’s brow cleared. She even gently smiled as if this were a simple and perfectly impersonal question like three-times-eight
or who burned the cakes? She said helpfully, “Sometimes I wish he would die.”

Recoiling, Alice searched her face for some signs of sly, intentional cleverness. Seeing the unpretending truth, she cried
loudly, “Hilary, don’t you love your little brother?”

Hilary was aware that she had disappointed her mother. “I suppose so,” she answered, her doubtful eyes watching Alice’s face.
Then, with a pleading smile, she thrust out her arm so that the pink flannel fell away and pointed to a red mark on her baby
flesh. “Look,” she said with a faint, placating whine, “I burned myself, too. We were only playing a game.”

“Nonsense,” said Alice strongly, “Do you expect me to believe that?” Her head was throbbing. How bad a mother had she been
for her children to hate one another? She longed to hurt this stupid, passionless child who had
exposed her failure so plainly. “It is very wicked of you to talk like that,” she said in a low, spiteful voice. “It was very
wicked of you to hurt Peregrine. Mummy only had Peregrine so that you wouldn’t be a lonely little girl without any brothers
or sisters. Mummy suffered terribly when he was born and all her pain was for you.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Your little
brother is a holy trust,” she whispered.

Hilary burst into loud, raucous weeping. When soft, loving arms were folded round her, she did not resist, but clung tightly
to her tormentor. Rocking her gently, murmuring soothing words, Alice felt satisfied and calm. She had achieved her object,
not the direct pleasure of causing pain, but the resulting fulfilment of her urgent maternal need—a positive response from
her unresponsive child. She knew she had been cruel and, later, this would disgust and shame her, but now, in her assured
position of comforter, she was rich and secured against the world. Drawing the child deeper into her embrace, she said softly,
“It’s all right, darling. Mummy loves you. Do you love Mummy?”

“Yes, yes,” Hilary moaned, her hot face buried in the scented breasts.

Such an emotional exchange was unusual between mother and daughter for both were deeply shy: Hilary’s admission aroused in
Alice a storm of proud, possessive love. “My own darling,” she murmured, and with a consciously tender gesture kissed the
defeated brow.

Hilary woke in fear. She crawled up from sleep through a dark tunnel and, waking to the light, was unable to remember what
had frightened her.

The storm had blown itself out and a pale sun filled the room. Through the open window, she heard the late holiday-makers
on the Downs, their voices ugly and unfamiliar with lazy, suburban vowels. Come here now, this minute, or I’ll give you what-for.
In the high, blue sky, she watched a seagull floating, turning in the sun. Idly, she floated with it, for a moment she felt
the warm wind on her own breast. She thought, who am I? Wonderingly, she touched the cool flesh of her arm.

She remembered the man, a terror, haunting her dreams, and turned over on to her face.

A little later the curtains were closed and the room was dim. Peregrine, in his night clothes, was standing by her bed. As
she opened her eyes, she surprised a secret expression on his face as if he had been watching her for a long time. She hated
the thought that he had seen her asleep and sat upright, saying, “I wasn’t really asleep, you know. Just thinking.”

He took her lie without a flicker of disbelief. “Daddy and I brought you a present,” he recited hoarsely and fumbled beneath
his pyjama jacket.

The tabby kitten danced, stiff-legged, across the counterpane and stalked Hilary’s delighted hand among the bed-clothes. Half-away,
looking into the sea-green eyes, Hilary thought, who am I? A cat, a wild cat, a tiger in the undergrowth. She touched it.
Its fur was so soft that it was like nothing else in the world. It fled joyously to the end of the bed and crouched flat-bellied
with twitching tail.

“Is it really mine? Then I’ll call it Hilary.”

He frowned. “You can’t. It’s a girls name.”

“Why not? All right, then, it isn’t mine. You said it was a present.”

“It is,” he pleaded. “It’s yours, really. I bought it with my own shilling. You can call it what you like. Only it can’t stay
here now. Daddy said it must live in the kitchen because it might do things under the bed.”

She might have known there would be a catch in it. Nothing was ever freely given. There was a rotten core to all delight.

“Take it away, then,” she said stonily.

He stammered, “I h-have to. It’s not m-my fault. I wasn’t supposed to show you now at all. Mummy said wait till the morning.
She said you were asleep.” His voice became confident and injured.

She relented. “All right. You’d better take it. We’ll fetch it in the morning when we wake up.”

He departed, the kitten bouncing on his shoulder, the cord of his dressing-gown trailing on the floor. When he returned, he
advanced boldly to the end of her bed and asked, “Did you like my present? You didn’t say thank you.”

“Why do you always have to be
thanked?”
she asked irritably.