The Body on the Beach (The Weymouth Trilogy) (5 page)

Mr Berkeley was paying her the respect of listening intently to her story and perhaps it was this that had encouraged Kathryn to say so much. The circumstance of their meeting – the intimacy necessarily and almost instantly acquired as a result of this – and the comfort provided by the gentle lapping of the sea behind them had perhaps lulled her into articulating what should, had the situation been a more usual one, most definitely have remained unsaid. Perhaps they both realised this, for instead of asking further questions regarding her obvious regrets about her marriages, Mr Berkeley decided to return to safer ground and pick up on the issue of her birthday instead.

‘So you say your birthday is in April? My sister, Jane’s, birthday is in April as well – on the 27
th
. She will, if my memory serves me correctly, be three and twenty this time – she is a little less than seven years my junior.’

‘How strange – then we are not too far apart. Mine is on the 24
th
, and we must have been born in the self same year, for I shall be three and twenty this time as well. It must have been a good year for babies, Mr Berkeley – and certainly a lot better than
the
one a few years previous to it – the one in which you yourself were born!’

‘I am mortified that you should even think such a thing, Mrs Miller – let alone suggest it. May I tell you that 1775 was a particularly good year for babies – particularly male ones - and most particularly for those born in the Weymouth area. You shall have to ask my sister, when you meet her. I am sure she would endorse my view, if you were only to press her hard enough.’

It was perhaps this conversation
which
finally suggested to Mr Berkeley
that it might be advisable to contact
his sister to assure her of his
safe arrival at Preston. That this
had no
t occurred to him
before was apparently due to the fact that his own plans for returning to Belvoir
had remained
quite
uncertain, so that his sister was unaware of the exact date
on which she should
expect him. But scarcely had they returned to the house than he made his request for materials and asked, most politely, whether perhaps Tom might be prevailed upon to deliver a letter to
High Street
– a letter
in which he requested
her to
arrange a carriage and pair from Belvoir, together with a selection of the clothing that she should find there awaiting his return, in order to fetch him home the following week. This the obliging Tom instantly agreed to do
the following day (particularly as this was a Saturday and his errand would provide the perfect excuse to part with some of his money in the company of many of the locals in his favourite Black Dog hotel).

At one time Friday evenings had traditionally been celebrated by music and dancing in the kitchen at Sandsford House. This tradition had fallen by the wayside since Giles’ arrival there as he was not especially fond of
music or
dancing and preferred to keep Kathryn to himsel
f in the parlour rather than sit in the kitchen
with Sally, Tom and Bob
. But now that
Giles
was
safely up in Town Kathryn felt able to indulge in one of her favourite past-times once again
. So,
his letter now written, she somewhat diffidently suggested that Mr Berkeley might like to join them in the kitchen to hear Tom upon his flageolet – a suggestion to which Mr Berkeley
acceded
with some alacrity.

Kathryn’s intention had been merely to listen to Tom and maybe sing along to
the music
for a while. However, it
quickly
became apparent that Mr Berkeley and Sally had other ideas, for no sooner had Tom launched into an enthusiastic (if not altogether technically correct) rendition of his favourite country dances than they were up on their feet and dancing together around the broad kitchen table. After this it proved impossible to keep Bob quietly upon his stool. Up he rose, too, dragging his not totally unwilling mama to her feet and requiring her to join in the fun. Round and round the table they danced, all four of them, joining hands and falling over stools and chairs as they grew increasingly flushed and giddy. And then, somehow, they separated again and now Sally was dancing with Bob, Mr Berkeley with Kathryn, holding hands and spinning each other round until they were all quite dizzy and entirely out of breath. Laughing and panting, Mr Berkeley eventually had to admit defeat and stumble in a somewhat disorientated manner to the settle. Kathryn decided to sit there with him and there they st
ayed
, giggling together like children, as Bob finally succumbed to the whirling of the room and collapsed in a riotous heap on the colourful clippy rug by the fire. Sally came over to join them on the settle,
swaying in a disorderly fashion
and
breathing heavily
. Mr Berkeley squashed closer to Kathryn and offered her a seat at his side. And there they remained, Bob still lying on the rug, chortling gleefully, with Sally and Kathryn squeezed together with Mr Berkeley on the settle, his arms around their shoulders, all tapping their feet and rocking
in unison
as Tom’s fingers flew quicker and quicker up and down th
e ancient wooden pipe
.

Finally, however, the entertainment had to stop. Tom took his flageolet
away
, Sally began stacking up the fire for the night and Kathryn had the task of getting a most reluctant little boy into his bed.

At first he was
distinctly inclined to argue with her. He was not at all tired. It was still quite early. It was stupid to have to go to bed when one was wide awake. But then Mr Berkeley took him to one side and whispered something into his ear. The little boy’s look transformed instantly from one of mulish obstinacy to one of
total
compliance. Puzzled but pleased, Kathryn took his hand and led him up the stairs.

‘What did Mr Berkeley say to you, Bob?’ she asked him as she took off his things and tucked him under the blanket, with a kiss. ‘You
appeared quite naughty
for a moment
but
have suddenly turned into a very good boy for me indeed.’

‘Mr Berkeley said that if I was a very good boy and went to bed without complaining he would come up later and tell me a story,’ he said, eagerly. ‘Have I been a very good boy, mama? I have tried to be. Will you tell him that I have been a good boy so that he will tell me a story and cuddle me good night?’

Kathryn smiled down fondly at her little boy and nodded.

‘How kind of Mr Berkeley to offer to do that,’ she said. ‘And yes, of course I will tell him. I somehow get the impression that it will be just as much a treat for him as it is for you.’

Kathryn stood in the shadow of the doorway and watched as Mr Berkeley sat on Bob’s bed, his arm around him gently, telling him some story about a young gentleman who had single-handedly rescued a young lady’s cat from the hands of ruffians, with no thought to his own safety, and then run off with both of them to escape the clutches of the fiendish warlock who resided nearby. She listened to his rich, deep tones as the story progressed. She looked at the way his face moved as the candle illuminated it. She returned his smile when he noticed her standing there. She stood there for a long time, very still, watching and listening, absorbing the scene. But though she stood watching and listening for a very long time it is also true to say that she should
later
have been quite unable to relate anything of what the story was about, or anything about how it had ended,
even were her li
fe to depend upon it
.

Considering the nature of his personal engagement at the inn it was perhaps a little fortunate that Tom was able to ride Giles’ horse back from its extended stay in the stables at the
Weymouth
Crown the next day, rather than having to stumble back along the rutted and somewhat treacherous road to Preston on foot. It was even more fortunate that he remembered to deliver Mrs Wright’s response into her brother’s hands when he got back, in which she assured him of her very great pleasure in his safe arrival (though perhaps a little puzzlement about the exact mechanism by which he had ended up at Sandsford House) and confirmed that she should be more than happy to pick him up on the Monday afternoon, having collected a carriage (and clothing) from Belvoir House in order to do so.

Mr Berkeley felt well enough on the Sunday to accompany Sally, Tom, Kathryn and Bob on their weekly ramble up the trackway to Preston Church and back.
Tom took his place in the village band in readiness for the hymns whilst the others took their seats in the pews.
Bob, certainly, was less reluctant to attend than was usual – perhaps bribed somewhat by the gentleman’s promise of a game of ducks and drakes on the beach after the service. To be sure, Mr Berkeley did look a little incongruous and not a little self conscious, sitting next to Kathryn in Mr Arthur’s smock and
breeches, and the ever-obliging
Tom’s old coat
and boots
, but it was his very presence, rather than the odd state of his attire
,
which excited the greatest interest in the somewhat embarrassingly small congregation then
assembled
in the pretty little church. Indeed, the stares of Mrs Page, the farmer’s wife, resplendent in her best Sunday outfit (which, rather unfortunately, originated in the depths of the previous century and really required a powdered wig in order to set it off as it was intended) were so constant that Mr Berkeley felt obliged to bow and smile at her like an old acquaintance. This Mrs Page found most disconcerting until she learned at the lych gate after the serv
ice of the gentleman’s recent
appearance from abroad. The odd garb, the odder manners and the entirely intriguing situation resolved in an instant, in Mr Berkeley being a foreigner, she went happily on her way to share the news and a dish of tea with her friends and relations back at Sutton Farm.

The game of ducks and drakes on the seashore was so much a success that Kathryn was obliged to walk down there herself at about four o’clock in order to fetch them both home for their dinner. Sally and Tom always had Sunday afternoons off so it was Kathryn herself who typically cooked the meal. She could hear Mr Berkeley’s deep voice, roaring with laughter, a good few minutes before she could actually see him
on the rocks and when she fina
lly got to the foot of the hill she found him in the company not only of Bob but also a ragamuffin assemblage of all the cottage children happily joining in the game as
well. So absorbed were they
in their gleeful activities that for a few minutes no-one actually noticed Kathryn standing there
on her own
. She watched them all, fondly. For a moment or two she laughed at their antics. But then a deep sadness descended on her as she realised with a start that this, surely, was what family life should be all about and as she realised, even more starkly, that this was not at all the kind of family life that she and Bob were having to endure with Giles.

Turning to seek some further stones to replenish his rapidly dwindling supplies, Mr Berkeley at last spotted her as she stood by herself on the rocks, her muslin gown blowing gently around her legs in the breeze. He instantly smiled and positioned himself next to her. He was panting a little, the exertions of the activity being a little too much for his weakened constitution, but he looked full of laughter and life as he shared the moment with her, watching the children continue their game.

Kathryn smiled as well.

‘I fear you have not entirely grown up yourself, Mr Berkeley,’ she teased, watching as Bob managed to fall over just as a wave was coming in, catching him unawares, his breeches becoming enveloped in the
sudden
rush of cold water. ‘I am persuaded that you have enjoyed your little game just as much as the children.’

‘Probably more,’ he admitted cheerfully. ‘And you are quite correct, of course. What gentleman ever really does grow up? I think there is ever a small child in all of us – although perhaps some men are better at repressing it than I am.’

Kathryn thought about this for a moment. She was not totally convinced that George had ever really been a child, even when young. And as for Giles – well, he certainly displayed the tantrums of a three year-old but she couldn’t pretend that she found these quite as appealing as she had found Mr Berkeley’s uninhibited exuberance
on the beach
that afternoon.

‘Maybe,’ was all she could say, cagily. ‘I daresay life would be exceedingly dull without a child to liven it up.’

She called Bob over to them, thinking that the dinner would spoil should they remain on the beach for many minutes more.
Perhaps unsurprisingly,
Bob seemed a little reluctant to comply. She waited for a little while, loath to spoil his fun, but once it was obvious that Bob had no intention of obeying his mama Mr Berkeley crept stealthily down the beach and positioned himself deftly behind him. Then, with a sudden roar, he grabbed him around the middle and tickled him without mercy. Bob let out a squeal of delight. In an instant he found himself being raised high into the air and deposited, dripping, upon Mr Berkeley’s broad shoulders, from whence he was transported
deftly
back up the hillside, his
impressed and
laughing mama at their side.