Dead Water

It seemed awful to go away and leave him there. When she looked back he waved to her.

III

That evening in the private tap at The Boy-and-Lobster Wally Trehern’s warts were the principal topic of conversation. It was a fine evening and low-tide fell at eight o’clock. In addition to the regular Islanders, there were patrons who had strolled across the causeway from the village: Dr Maine of the Portcarrow Convalescent Home; the Rector, the Rev. Mr Adrian Carstairs, who liked to show, as was no more than the case, that he was human; and a visitor to the village, a large pale young man with a restless manner and a general air of being on the look-out for something. He was having a drink with Patrick Ferrier, the step-son of the landlord, down from Oxford for the long vacation. Patrick was an engaging fellow with a sensitive mouth, pleasant manners and a quick eye which dwelt pretty often upon Jenny Williams. There was only one other woman in the private beside Jenny. This was Miss Elspeth Cost, a lady with vague hair and a tentative smile who, like Jenny, was staying at The Boy-and-Lobster and was understood to have a shop somewhere and to be interested in handicrafts and the drama.

The landlord, Major Keith Barrimore, stationed between two bars, served both the public and the private taps: the former being used exclusively by local fishermen. Major Barrimore was well-setup and of florid complexion. He shouted rather than spoke, had any amount of professional bonhomie and harmonized perfectly with his background of horse-brasses, bottles, glasses, tankards and sporting prints. He wore a check coat, a yellow waistcoat and a signet ring and kept his hair very smooth.

‘Look at it whichever way you choose,’ Miss Cost said, ‘it’s astounding. Poor little fellow! To think!’

‘Very dramatic,’ said Patrick Ferrier, smiling at Jenny.

‘Well it was,’ she said. ‘Just that.’

‘One hears of these cases,’ said the restless young man, ‘Gipsies and charms and so on.’

‘Yes, I know one does,’ Jenny said. ‘One hears of them but I’ve never met one before. And who, for heaven’s sake, was the green lady?’

There was a brief silence.

‘Ah,’ said Miss Cost. ‘Now that is the really rather wonderful part. The green lady!’ She tipped her head to one side and looked at the rector. ‘M-m –?’ she invited.

‘Poor Wally!’ Mr Carstairs rejoined. ‘All a fairytale, I daresay. It’s a sad case.’

‘The cure isn’t a fairytale,’ Jenny pointed out.

‘No, no, no. Surely not. Surely not,’ he said in a hurry.

‘A fairytale. I wonder. Still pixies in these yurr parts, Rector, d’y’m reckon?’ asked Miss Cost essaying a roughish burr.

Everyone looked extremely uncomfortable.

‘All in the poor kid’s imagination, I should have thought,’ said Major Barrimore and poured himself a double Scotch. ‘Still: damn’ good show, anyway.’

‘What’s the medical opinion?’ Patrick asked.

‘Don’t ask me!’ Dr Maine ejaculated, throwing up his beautifully kept hands. ‘There is no medical opinion as far as I know.’ But seeing perhaps that they all expected more than this from him, he went on half-impatiently. ‘You do, of course, hear of these cases. They’re quite well-established. I’ve heard of an eminent skin-specialist who actually mugged up an incantation or spell or what have-you and used it on his patients with marked success.’

‘There! You see!’ Miss Cost cried out, gently clapping her hands. She became mysterious. ‘You wait!’ she said. ‘You jolly well wait!’

Dr Maine glanced at her distastefully.

‘The cause of warts is not known,’ he said. ‘Probably viral. The boy’s an epileptic,’ he added. ‘Petit mal.’

‘Would that predispose him to this sort of cure?’ Patrick asked.

‘Might,’ Dr Maine said shortly. ‘Might predispose him to the right kind of suggestibility.’ Without looking at the Rector, he added: ‘There’s one feature that sticks out all through the literature of reputed cures by some allegedly supernatural agency. The authentic cases have emotional or nervous connotations.’

‘Not all, surely,’ the Rector suggested.

Dr Maine shot a glance at him. ‘I shouldn’t talk,’ he said. ‘I really know nothing about such matters. The other half, if you please.’

Jenny thought: ‘The Rector feels he ought to nip in and speak up for miracles and he doesn’t like to because he doesn’t want to be parsonic. How tricky it is for them! Dr Maine’s the same, in his way. He doesn’t like talking shop for fear of showing off. English reticence,’ thought Jenny, resolving to make the point in her next letter home. ‘Incorrigible amateurs.’

The restless young man suddenly said: ‘The next round’s on me,’ and astonished everybody.

‘Handsome offer!’ said Major Barrimore. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Tell me,’ said the young man expansively and at large. ‘Where is this spring or pool or whatever it is?’

Patrick explained. ‘Up the hill above the jetty.’

‘And the kid’s story is that some lady in green told him to wash his hands in it? And the warts fell off in the night. Is that it?’

‘As far as I could make out,’ Jenny agreed. ‘He’s not at all eloquent, poor Wally.’

‘Wally Trehern, did you say? Local boy?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Were they bad? The warts?’

‘Frightful.’

‘Mightn’t have been just kind of ripe to fall off? Coincidence?’

‘Most unlikely, I’d have thought,’ said Jenny.

‘I see,’ said the young man, weighing it up. ‘Well, what’s everybody having? Same again, all round?’

Everybody murmured assent and Major Barrimore began to pour the drinks.

Jenny said: ‘I could show you a photograph.’

‘No? Could you, though? I’d very much like to see it. I’d be very interested, indeed. Would you?’

She ran up to her room to get it: a colour-slide of the infant-class with Wally in the foreground, his hands dangling. She put it in the viewer and returned to the bar. The young man looked at it intently, whistling to himself. ‘Quite a thing,’ he said. ‘Quite something. Nice sharp picture, too.’

Everybody wanted to look at it. While they were handing it about, the door from the house opened and Mrs Barrimore came in.

She was a beautiful woman, very fine-drawn with an exquisite head of which the bone-structure was so delicate and the eyes so quiet in expression that the mouth seemed like a vivid accident. It was as if an artist, having started out to paint an ascetic, had changed his mind and laid down the lips of a voluptuary.

With a sort of awkward grace that suggested shyness, she moved into the bar, smiling tentatively at nobody in particular. Dr Maine looked quickly at her and stood up. The Rector gave her good-evening and the restless young man offered her a drink. Her husband, without consulting her, poured a glass of lager.

‘Hallo, Mum. We’ve all been talking about Wally’s warts,’ Patrick said.

Mrs Barrimore sat down by Miss Cost. ‘Have you?’ she said. ‘Isn’t it strange? I can’t get over it.’ Her voice was charming: light and very clear. She had the faintest hesitation in her speech and a trick of winding her fingers together. Her son brought her drink to her and she thanked the restless young man rather awkwardly for it. Jenny, who liked her very much, wondered, not for the first time, if her position at The Boy-and-Lobster was distasteful to her and exactly why she seemed so alien to it.

Her entrance brought a little silence in its wake. Dr Maine turned his glass round and round and stared at the contents. Presently Miss Cost broke out in fresh spate of enthusiasm.