Devil By The Sea (18 page)

When he reached the field, there were lights in the windows of the caravans. As he passed, a chained dog barked sharply and
he cowered low to the ground. He heard the ordinary everyday sounds of the caravan site: the screaming curses of a matrimonial
quarrel, Radio Luxemburg turned on loud, the sad cry of a neglected child.

He pushed open the door of his home. Johnny, Johnny, he called softly and stumbled against the table. His hand groped for
the candle, the frail light flickered and threw his monstrous shadow on the dirty wall.

Johnny, he said smiling, and the bird lay on its back in the sandy tray, the helpless legs curled stiffly upwards. He touched
it and it was as hard as a stuffed bird and cold.

He could not believe it was dead. He called its name and prodded it with his finger until it rolled on its side. The little
eyes were covered with a faint veil, like the layer of dust on polished wood. He picked it up and held it tenderly against
his cold cheek. His face darkened suddenly and he threw it away from him in disgust. Dead, he said, dead, and, staggering
to the open door, retched on the ground.

A slow and terrible anger filled him. Johnny would not be dead if the red-haired child had not shouted at him. He would not
have run away, he would have been able to feed his bird and it would have sung its pretty song.

He left his caravan and made his sure way through the gathering dusk, towards the Downs.

“He’s dying,” said Alice, in Auntie’s room. She had come in suddenly and found the old woman kneeling before the open playbox.
Alice saw the sea-shore rubbish, the childish treasure. So that’s where she goes in the afternoons, she thought, that’s her
secret. The filthy old woman! And then, with fear, will
I
come to this in the end?

“You should have knocked.” Auntie slammed down the lid and looked up indignantly, her eyes dead as gutted candle ends.

“Fat lot of good that would have been,” Alice muttered and thought: she’s afraid of me; I’ve found out her nasty little game
and she’s afraid. She doesn’t care about anything else.

“I said, he’s dying,” she repeated harshly, “dying. That’s important. Not this.” She kicked the side of the playbox with her
toe.

Auntie watched her anxiously for a moment for signs of disgust. Then, “No, it isn’t important,” she said, suddenly smiling
and then hiding the smile. She got up slowly, placing her massive body between Alice and the playbox. “Is there no hope?”
she asked.

“None. He’d been drinking. I smelt his breath. He wasn’t supposed to drink.” She went on wildly, her composure vanishing.
“He
knew
he shouldn’t drink. He had no right to do it. Leaving us like this, without any money. So upright, you’d think, such a responsible
man. That was the front he showed, wasn’t it? He had to be generous, he couldn’t bear to seem poor. He had to act grandly,
like a gentleman. Such airs—and he leaves us paupers. There won’t be a penny,” she exaggerated.

“You mustn’t talk like this,” cried Auntie, shocked. “Not now.”

“It’s all right for
you,”
said Alice rudely. “You’ve got plenty of money. You haven’t anything to worry about.”

Her retort lacked fire. She was shamed by her outburst as people are always shamed by their own natural behaviour.

“Is that what you thought?” Auntie’s old voice was incredulous. “Is that what he told you?”

“Not exactly. But he didn’t contradict me when I said …” Alice reddened uncomfortably. “You mean it isn’t true?”

“I haven’t a penny,” said the old woman. There was silence. The heavy clock ticked the seconds away. Auntie stood still and
proud. “I’ll leave, of course, as soon as I can make arrangements.”

“Nonsense, you’ll do no such thing. What sort of a bitch do you think I am?” Alice was moved but she was incapable of expressing
her feeling gracefully. “You’ll stay. I want you to.
My
kind don’t get rid of their old people. It’s only
the rich who shut them up in nursing homes.
We
can’t afford to.”

“It’s good of you,” said Auntie, stiffly. Her mouth was shaking. Alice saw this with appalled pity.

“You poor old thing,” she said awkwardly and ran from the room. She met Mrs. Peacock looking for her on the landing. There
was no need for words. Alice went straight to her husband’s bedside.

“Charles?”

His face looked defenceless and much younger. The skin on his flat cheekbones was youthfully pink. The soldierly moustache
looked absurd above the kind, weak mouth. She saw a slit of light beneath his lids. “Darling,” she said, with genuine love,
pressing his hand, and the light was gone. She waited, trembling. Surely something stronger, more dramatic, must happen when
life went out of the body? Had it happened? What had gone, if so, and what remained? She took the pocket mirror from her handbag
and held it before his lips. She thought it misted slightly and then she knew she was wrong. Awed, though she had seen her
mother die, she crossed his hands on his breast.

“God bless you,” she said, and it came to her with sudden pain that she did not believe in God. “Poor Charles,” she said his
epitaph, and turning saw Mrs. Peacock at the door of the room.

“She’s not back,” Mrs. Peacock said. “She’s been gone twenty minutes. She should have been back by now.”

For a moment, Alice did not know what she was talking about. Then she said, “She’s dawdling, the naughty girl.” She burst
into wild, shaking tears, the first she had shed. “It’s over,” she cried. “He’s gone.”

The shop was warm and bright. It sold groceries and sweets and ice cream although it had once been a draper’s
shop and along one wall there were still a number of fitted drawers labelled,
vests, night-caps
and, curiously,
infant’s bods.

The woman behind the counter was plump and pale. She wore a plastic collar round her neck for she had slipped a disc. This
appliance fascinated Hilary: she could not take her eyes from it.

“Half a pound of tea, dear,” The woman slapped two oblong packets on the counter. Hilary held out her scratched hand with
the money and the woman said, “Goodness me, what have you done? Fallen over in the dark?” She looked at Hilary more closely.
“Does it hurt, dearie?”

The kind, sympathetic tone brought tears to Hilary’s eyes. She nodded silently.

“Well, never mind. Your mummy will bathe it when you get home, I’m sure.”

“Give her something to make it better, Captain,” said a woman who appeared from a curtained doorway at the back of the shop.

Hilary wondered, as always, at this curious address and stared at the newcomer who wore what appeared to be a faded, girl
guide’s uniform. She was about fifty, as thin as a child and with a scraggy neck like a tortoise’s. A heavy, leather belt,
dangling whistles and scouting knives, hung round her meagre hips.

“Shall I? I wonder, now …” Captain gave Hilary a bright, meaningful smile. Hilary regarded her stupidly and the thin woman
leaned over the counter and said in a clear, loud voice as if she were speaking to a deaf person, “Sweeties? Don’t tell me
you don’t like sweeties, dearie?”

To Hilary their faces, one so thin and grey, one fat and the colour of lard, seemed to flicker and recede. Boiled sweets rattled
on the scales, a small paper-bag was pressed into her free hand.

“Thank you,” she whispered and lingered. The darkness pressed about the little shop, ominous as thunder. Glances passed between
the two women.

“Does her mother know she’s out, d’you think, Captain?” said the old girl guide.

“Does your mother know you’re out?” repeated the fat woman in a low, serious voice, not smiling now.

“She sent me,” said Hilary in a faint voice.

The women looked at each other again. Hilary heard their voices distantly like the whisper of talk from another station when
the wireless was on.

“Not right, d’you think? Not in the dark. Not now. Shall I go home with her, Captain?” said the thin one. Hilary saw them
clearly now, nodding and smiling. She saw the leather belt and the sharp knives. The thin woman’s eyes were queer: one was
blue and the other a green colour that changed under the light. Hilary knew the women well: she had spent her Saturday money
at their little shop since she had been able to toddle. But now they seemed quite unfamiliar and strange. The odd-coloured
eyes, the thin face, the eccentric costume frightened her. Hilary said, “I’m all right, really. Thank you. I
like
the dark.”

Their faces seemed to alter, to swell and move towards her. Hilary flung herself against the door that tinkled as she opened
it. The picture postcards, hung on tapes on the inside of the door, rustled in the wind. As she went, she banged into a tiny
figure.

“Wretched child,” said a muttering, venomous voice. Hilary was gone and the little creature went into the shop and banged
the door behind her. “I hate children,” said Miss Fleery-Carpenter, clutching her wolf fur round her skinny neck.

The darkness outside was complete. Pale lamps splashed islands of safety along the pavement. She had only to run now, and
she would be safe, run and no one would see her in the dark. Clasping her sweets and the soft packets of tea, she reached
the first lamp and thought: under the light, he can see my hair. She crossed the road. Here there were no lamps, only the
grass verge at the edge of the Downs. She splashed her feet in the puddled gutter. Then she heard the footsteps. They followed
her, matching their pace to hers, footsteps that were not quite even, one step heavier than the other so that each second
step seemed only an echo of the first. She began to run, the cold rain-water splashing on her bare legs but running, she could
not hear the footsteps and that frightened her. So she walked as fest as she could, not daring to look round, hearing the
footsteps gain upon her, slowly, slowly, counting the lamp-posts on the other side of the road. She saw, in her mind, the
man behind her; his long coat blacker than the surrounding night; his terrible face, white as bone. She did not cry, she was
beyond tears now. Nothing could be worse than not knowing, she thought and suddenly turned defiantly to face him. She did
not see him. She saw only the long, wide road, the stirring trees, the yellow, puddled light from the lampposts and the thin
woman from the shop whirring slowly towards her on a bicycle. She saw the spindly legs, bare to the thighs beneath the short
guide dress, the kind, evil face bent towards her.

“You forgot your change.” The words seemed to hold some dreadful, hidden purpose. Hilary thought:
He
can take any shape, he can look how he likes. She ran with wild fear behind her, reached the last lamp-post, reached, hurling
herself against the gate, scattering the gravel, her house. Pounding on the door, the brass knocker echoing in the
street, she heard voices calling her on the wind, Hilary, Hilary. The door opened and she fell forward into the hall, saved
by Mrs. Peacock’s hand. A grey streak, a phantom, fled past them into the night.

“The cat, the cat’s out.” Mrs. Peacock stood at the open door and peered out into the dreadful dark.

“Shut the door.” Hilary clutched at the rough stuff of her apron.

“It’ll get run over.” Mrs. Peacock spoke reproachfully, stepped out into the porch.

“Shut the door, shut the door,” Hilary shrieked at the top of her lungs, clapping her hands over her ears.

“Hush,” said Mrs. Peacock. “What a dreadful noise. Aren’t you ashamed to make a noise like that? Your poor Daddy….” She shut
the door and glanced uneasily at the stairs, putting her finger to her lips.

“I want Mummy,” said Hilary in a lower tone. She had gone very white, the freckles stood out on her skin like stones.

Mrs. Peacock bent and wiped Hilary’s running nose with the corner of her apron. “Not now, lovey. She’s busy.” She took the
child’s cold hand and led her into the kitchen. “Where have you been all this time, that’s what I’d like to know. Worrying
us all. Now you stay with me for a while. I tell you what—we’ll make a gingerbread man. There’s a bit of dough left over in
the larder and I’ll find you some currants for eyes. You can light the oven all by yourself.”

The mixture of scolding and kindness bewildered Hilary. She stamped her foot. “No,
no.”
The angry colour came back into her face.

Mrs. Peacock sniffed.
“Someone’s
in a naughty temper, aren’t they? You’ll stay here as you’re told, my girl, and no nonsense. Your Mummy’s busy.”

“Daddy, then,” said Hilary, forgetting, and pouting her lips.

“He’s very ill,” said Mrs. Peacock in solemn tones. Her heart softened as she thought of the child’s dreadful loss. She placed
thin, loving arms about the small body. “What’s the matter? Let’s see if we can make it better?”

“It was dark,” said Hilary in a tiny voice. “The dark. And
he
was there, the Devil. I know he was. He takes little girls away. He was waiting for me.”

She looked hopefully into the small, owlish face. She saw blankness and incomprehension. She saw the thin lips tighten impatiently.
“Oh, let me
go”
she said, wriggling, and pushed hard at the flat chest.

She was big and strong for her age and the sudden movement took Mrs. Peacock by surprise. The woman stepped backwards and
jarred her hip-bone on the sharp corner of the kitchen table.

“Well,
I
don’t know,” said Mrs. Peacock crossly. “What a silly story.” Her hip was extraordinarily painful and her eyes watered. She
continued spitefully, “I don’t know what your mother would say, I’m sure. I would have thought a little girl would have behaved
better than this with her poor Daddy so ill.”

“He’s dead, isn’t he,” stated Hilary calmly. She saw nothing wrong in mentioning this fact but her disinterested tone shocked
Mrs. Peacock deeply.

“Don’t you
care?”
she asked, drawing a long breath and glaring at the child.

“No,” said Hilary in a stony voice and burst into tears.

“I don’t know what to do with her,” said Mrs. Peacock. “It’s a terrible thing to say of a little child, but she has no heart.”