Devil By The Sea (14 page)

Alice said indignantly, “Charles, you aren’t listening …”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not feeling too well. I’ll
telephone Edward this evening. Of course, you’re perfectly right.”

“You really think so?” Alice was surprised at his easy acquiescence and a little sorry that she had been so insistent. She
became aware that she did not really think it necessary for Peregrine to go and that she had relied on Charles’s making light
of the matter. She said, abashed, “They need only go for a week.”

Standing, she adjusted her hair in the looking-glass above the mantelpiece. She was flushed and looked very attractive and
alive; emotion became her. Glancing at Charles, she thought: how different we are. There are not so many years between us
and yet he looks quite old and finished, a dry stick. She wondered, with fear: can he be really ill?

He was looking into the fire. He said, “Alice, do you ever feel cut off? From other people, I mean.” He frowned into the flames,
trying to find the right words to reach her. It seemed suddenly tremendously important that she should understand him. “It’s
as if we were each enclosed in a bubble. When I had pneumonia that time, it was like that. You know the other people are there,
you can see them, talk to them, but that’s all there ever is. So much goes on that you can never understand and the awful
thing, the really terrible thing, is that you don’t
want
to understand, you don’t care.” He regarded her earnestly with shy, soft eyes. Seeing the frozen look on her face, his hope
died.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, bridling. “I’m sure
I
care about other people. And understand them, too. It only needs a little imagination.”

“But aren’t you ever lonely?” he cried. He hesitated on the verge of telling her about his immediate worry; his treacherous
heart.

Then she gave a high, indignant laugh. “Really, Charles, you
are
morbid. You’re tired, that’s the matter with you. You think too much about yourself, worrying over your health like a stupid
old woman.” She went on in a forced, motherly tone, proud of her ability to manage him when he was in a silly mood, “Pull
yourself together and be sensible, now. I’ll make you a nice, hot drink.”

It was announced at breakfast that Hilary was to spend the morning with her father. The barely concealed anxiety with which
her reaction was awaited, coupled with the air of mystery and bustle that had pervaded the house since the early morning,
might have caused a more perceptive child to wonder at this sudden “treat”. However, Hilary, who appeared to be in a dulled
and downcast mood—not, Charles thought, simply sulky but rather
absent
as if she were inwardly and completely occupied with some problem of her own—merely expressed her satisfaction at Peregrine’s
exclusion from the expedition and went upstairs, as she was told, to put on a clean frock.

Charles said, “Is there anything wrong with her?” He spoke in an undertone because Peregrine, who was a slow eater, was still
buttering his first slice of toast.

“With Hilary?” Alice stirred an extra spoonful of sugar into her coffee. She had a very sweet tooth. “Why? Was she behaving
oddly?”

“No. I just thought she looked …” The words faded in the moted sunlight falling on the breakfast table. He stared at the brown,
smiling sides of the earthenware coffee jug, wondering exactly how she had looked, what it had been that made him uneasy about
her. “A little tired, perhaps,” he finished, relaxing and rolling his napkin into his ring.

“It’s just one of her moods. She’s a bad-tempered little
pig.” Janet was in a mood herself. Her expression was dark and lowering. She did not want to be Peregrine’s nursemaid for
a week. She had expected Alice’s kindness of the night before to open the gates to a new and happier era: she resented being
sent away like a naughty child.

Alice ignored her remark. “I expect she’s just tired,” she said to her husband, adding in a meaningful tone, “after yesterday.”

“Early to bed, to-night.” Charles stood, smiling at his wife. Her kissed her tidily on the side of her unpainted, morning
mouth.

“Come along, Daddy,” cried Hilary from the door. “We don’t want to be late, do we?”

She wore her best dress of yellow muslin, seed pearls, patent leather shoes.

“Really, Hilary, what a get-up.” Alice clashed her cup in the saucer. “You’re not going to a party.”

Hilary glared. “It doesn’t matter.” She twirled round in the doorway.

Relieved, Charles saw that her trouble, whatever it was, had vanished. She had shed her small burden with her grubby frock
and now appeared simply and childishly excited at the prospect of an outing. She grinned at her father and thrust her hand
into his.

“Good-bye,” they cried. The front door slammed. Draped in his damask napkin, Peregrine waved mournfully from the dining-room
window. The day was bright and glittering, the hard, salty wind blew in their faces. On the Downs, the coloured kites tore
into the sky.

“Look,” Hilary shouted. “The kites …” She seized a whippy stick from the hedge and leaned on it, walking with an exaggerated
limp. “Old didee, old didee,” she chanted in an exhilarated voice, “old didee.”

“What’s that, what’s that?” Charles caught up with her
and bent his head. She looked up, ashamed. “Just a game.” She flung the stick into the gutter. “A baby’s game. I only play
it because Peregrine likes it.” She strutted importantly beside him. “Daddy, what are we going to do to-day?”

Her plain, freckled face was illuminated. Charles pitied her precarious happiness. The morning was bound to end for her in
shame and disappointment. She would find out soon enough that the present arrangement had not been made for her pleasure but
merely to get her out of the way. She had not been told of Peregrine’s departure because she would make a scene—and a scene
had to be avoided at all costs because Peregrine must be kept calm. He was inclined to be train sick.

“We’re going to the shop,” he said carefully. “And then perhaps we’ll get a taxi and go to an auction.”

“That’s not much of a treat,” she said flatly. “Can we go the Dairymaid and have an ice cream?”

“We’ll see. If you’re good.” Then, because she was an ugly little girl and because he guessed that life had not been and never
would be as easy for her as it was for her brother, he said, “I expect it can be managed.”

Cooper’s taxi was bouncy and old. The seats were blown up with air and billowed round them like feather pillows. Hilary sang
to herself, ate the liquorice allsorts that Miss Hubback had given her and watched the back of Mr. Cooper’s neck. It was as
red as a boiled crab and bristled with sharp black hairs.

They drove back from the auction, along the coastal road. As they approached Grey’s Field, Hilary stood up and shouted, “Oh,
stop, do stop, Mr. Cooper. The gipsies, look.”

There was no alternative. The first caravan was half-way
across the road, blocking their passage. Cooper bumped off the road and halted on dusty grass.

Charles said impatiently, “What’s all this?”

Hilary turned a glowing face towards him. “They’re leaving. They’ve got to. They’re being sent away. Wally told me. The man
the field belongs to doesn’t want them any more.”

“Nasty, dirty, thieving lot,” said Cooper.

“Poor gipsies,” said Hilary in a sentimental tone.

“I don’t suppose they mind, really,” Charles comforted her. “Gipsies are used to wandering all over the place.”

She wriggled her body inside her dress. “Wally says, if they don’t go, they’ll drive them away with sticks and guns. Bang,
shee-ow.” Hilary stretched out her arms and screamed like a dive bomber.

“Bloodthirsty, aren’t you?” said Cooper.

Charles was slightly revolted by this sudden change in her attitude. “Go and watch them if you like,” he conceded in a cold
voice.

She left the car and ran, yellow skirt flying, through a gap in the hedge and into the field. The coarse grass streamed like
water before the wind, and high above her head the long line of poplars turned their leaves, like silver-bellied fish, to
the sun.

There were about ten caravans in all. Men shouted at straining horses. Harness creaked and jangled, dogs, running belly to
earth beneath the wheels, yelped hysterically. The gipsies were drably dressed and dirty but their caravans were romantic
and magical. Gilded and painted, embossed with swags of golden grapes, they scraped their marvellous sides on the gate posts.
Through the open doors at the back, Hilary saw swinging crockery, painted panels, dark women.

Before such splendour, her heart rejoiced and sang. Here
was beauty, strange and wild. She longed to be going with them, over the hills and far away.

“What are you doing here?” said Wally, behind her. “You’ll catch it.”

“Does your mother know you’re out?” said one of his friends and gave a high, crowing laugh.

“My Daddy does. He’s waiting for me in the car.”

The four boys gathered round Hilary suspiciously like strange dogs. They wore jeans, check woollen shirts and furry Davy Crockett
hats. They carried sticks. One of them, the jester, swiped at Wally’s leg.

“Here, cut it out, will you?” said Wally fiercely.

Hilary stood close to Wally and gazed at him admiringly. Her day was crowned. He was her star, her love.

“Wouldn’t you like to be a gipsy, Wally?” she breathed.

Wally hesitated. He shared Hilary’s romantic feelings about the gipsies. He had a tender, poetic soul but would have died
rather than let it be known.

“Wouldn’t you like to be a gipsy, Wally dear?”
mimicked the biggest boy.

Wally frowned terribly. “Me? Jesus Christ!” He poked Hilary in the ribs and roared with laughter. “Fatty,” he said.

At the end of the procession of caravans came an open cart loaded with sacks and pulled by a piebald pony, a prancing dandy
in scarlet blinkers. On the top of the sack sat two men and a gipsy child. Her hair was long and ringleted, her eyes like
black prunes. She was waving frantically at someone they could not see, a handkerchief held in her small, brown hand. The
cart lurched in the ruts and she fell forward on her knees. Neither of the men made any move to help her and she rolled over
the tail of the cart and sprawled on the ground. There was a shout of laughter, the cart rumbled on.

The boys giggled. The little girl scrambled to her feet, spat out a dreadful word and ran after the cart. She caught at the
end of it, tripped, was dragged along on her knees. She screamed thinly.

“Jesus Christ! Cut it out,” shouted Wally.

The gipsy’s casual laughter floated back on the wind. One of the men, a scarf knotted on his bare chest, leaned forward lazily
and hauled her to safety. She regained her seat, weeping, and immediately continued her desperate waving. Her little hand
fluttered poignantly like a trapped bird. The cart moved on, into the road, vanished from sight.

The children were violently excited by this episode. One of the boys stood on his head and went red in the face.

“Did you hear what she
said?”
cried Hilary. “Wasn’t it rude? She said …”

“Shut up,” said Wally virtuously. “She don’t know no better. There won’t half be a row if your Mum hears you say that.”

“I say worse things than that sometimes,” said Hilary proudly.

“She was saying good-bye to
him,”
said the boy who had stood on his head. He waved his stick. The man was standing on the other side of the gate, hidden from
their sight until now by the gipsy cavalcade. He stood very still, looking through the gateway after the gipsy child, shrunken
inside his enormous coat.

Hilary saw him with excited dread. She clutched at Wally’s arm. “I told you I’d seen the Devil, didn’t I?” She gave a wild,
choked laugh and, flinging out her free arm, pointed to the man. “There he is, that’s him,” she screamed.

The jester laughed his high, crowning laugh. “Old devil, old devil,” he chanted.

The man looked in their direction. His face was thin and white. He did not move.

“That’s only Dotty Jim,” said Wally, scowling. He glanced uneasily at Hilary. “He’s mad. Sometimes, when the moon’s full,
he barks like a dog. I’ve heard him.” He pushed her away roughly. “Don’t maul me about,” he said.

“Old devil,” shouted the biggest boy. “See him run.” He picked up a smooth, white stone and threw it. It plopped harmlessly
in the long grass a few yards short of the man. For a moment, the children were shocked and ashamed. They were not bad boys,
nor were they angels. If the man had stood his ground, they would have melted away, pretending the incident had never happened.
But the man turned and ran. He limped fast and awkwardly over the rough ground, agitated hands flapping at his sides. He looked
as clumsy as a big, grounded bird. His flight was an irresistible spur to violence.

“Old devil.” The boy who had flung the stone picked up another and began to run after him.

“Cut it out,” yelled Wally after him. “He’s got a bad foot, can’t you see?” His pale face had gone crimson, his lips trembled.
The children saw, amazed, that there were tears in his eyes.

“Softy,” said another boy. “Cry baby.”

They all began to run, shouting and waving their arms. Wally sniffed, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. Momentarily,
he stood resolute, fighting his private battle. Then he stopped and picked up a bigger stone than had been thrown before and
followed them, whooping louder than anyone. The man stumbled and fell sprawling. He was up in a moment, his fearful face peering
over his shoulder. Wally’s stone, flung hard and true, caught him on the cheek and he gave a wild yelp like a hurt dog. Hilary
seized a stone and began to run. Her heart beat painfully in her throat. She threw the stone and screamed with excitement.

“I say,” roared her father’s voice from the gate. “Stop it at once, d’you hear?”

He ran after the boys, a ridiculous, angular figure in his neat, black suit. He was shouting. Three of the boys dived for
the safety of the hedgerow and disappeared. Only Wally, more susceptible to the voice of authority than the others, waited,
abashed. Charles caught up with him, seized him by the collar of his shirt and shook him violently.