Dead Water

Other Kids Shunned Him Because of his Disfigurement. So Wally washed his hands in the Pixie Falls and – you’ve guessed it.

This is what they looked like before.

And here they are now.

Wally, seen above with parents, by Pixie Falls, says mysterious green lady ‘told me to wash them off’.

Parents say no other treatment given.

Miss Elspeth Cost (inset) cured of chronic asthma?

Local doctor declines comment.

(Full story on Page 9.)

Dr Maine read the full story, gave an ambiguous ejaculation and started on his morning round.

The Convalescent Home was a very small one: six single rooms for patients, and living quarters for two nurses and for Dr Maine who was a widower. A veranda at the back of the house looked across a large garden and an adjacent field towards the sea and the Island.

At present he had four patients, all convalescent. One of them, an elderly lady, was already up and taking the air on the veranda. He noticed that she, like the others, had been reading The Sun.

‘Well, Mrs Thorpe,’ he said, bending over her, ‘this is a step forward, isn’t it? If you go on behaving nicely we’ll soon have you taking that little drive.’

Mrs Thorpe wanly smiled and nodded. ‘So unspoiled,’ she said waving a hand at the prospect. ‘Not many places left like it. No horrid trippers.’

He sat down beside her, laid his fingers on her pulse and looked at his watch. ‘This is becoming pure routine,’ he said cheerfully.

It was obvious that Mrs Thorpe had a great deal more to say. She scarcely waited for him to snap his watch shut before she began.

‘Dr Maine, have you seen The Sun?’

‘Very clearly. We’re in for a lovely day.’

She made a little dab at him. ‘Don’t be provoking! You know what I mean. The paper. Our news! The Island!’

‘Oh that. Yes, I saw that.’

‘Now, what do you think? Candidly. Do tell me.’

He answered her as he had answered Patrick Ferrier. One heard of such cases. Medically there could be no comment.

‘But you don’t pooh-pooh?’

No, no. He didn’t altogether do that. And now he really must –

As he moved away she said thoughtfully, ‘My little nephew is dreadfully afflicted. They are such an eyesore, aren’t they? And infectious, it’s thought. One can’t help wondering –’

His other patients were full of the news. One of them had a first cousin who suffered abominably from chronic asthma.

Miss Cost read it over and over again: especially the bit on page nine where it said what a martyr she’d been and how she had perfect faith in the waters. She didn’t remember calling them the Pixie Falls but now she came to think of it, the name was pretty. She wished she’d had time to do her hair before Mr Joyce’s friend had taken the snapshot and it would have been nicer if her mouth had been quite shut. But still. At low tide she strolled over to the newsagent’s shop in the village. All their copies of The Sun, unfortunately, had been sold. There had been quite a demand. Miss Cost looked with a professional and disparaging eye at the shop. Nothing really at all in the way of souvenirs and the postcards were very limited. She bought three of the Island and covered the available space with fine writing. Her friend with arthritic hands would be interested.

V

Major Barrimore finished his coffee and replaced the cup with a slightly unsteady hand. His immaculately shaven jaws wore their morning purple tinge and his eyes were dull.

‘Hasn’t been long about it,’ he said, referring to his copy of The Sun. ‘Don’t waste much time, these paper wallahs. Only happened day-before-yesterday.’

He looked at his wife. ‘Well. Haven’t you read it? ‘he asked.

‘I looked at it.’

‘I don’t know what’s got into you. Why’ve you got your knife into this reporter chap? Decent enough fellah of his type.’

‘Yes, I expect he is.’

‘It’ll create a lot of interest. Enormous circulation. Bring people in, I wouldn’t wonder. Quite a bit about The Boy-and-Lobster.’ She didn’t answer and he suddenly shouted at her. ‘Damn it, Margaret, you’re about as cheerful as a dead fish. You’d think there’d been a death on the Island instead of a cure. God knows we could do with some extra custom.’

‘I’m sorry, Keith. I know.’

He turned his paper to the racing page. ‘Where’s that son of yours?’ he said presently.

‘He and Jenny Williams were going to row round as usual to South Bay.’

‘Getting very thick, aren’t they?’

‘Not alarmingly so. She’s a dear girl.’

‘If you can stomach the accent.’

‘Hers is not so very strong do you think?’

‘P’raps not. She’s a fine strapping filly, I will say. Damn’ good legs. Oughtn’t he to be swotting?’

‘He’s working quite hard, really.’

‘Of course you’d say so.’ He lit a cigarette and returned to the racing notes. The telephone rang.

‘I will,’ said Mrs Barrimore.

She picked up the receiver. ‘Boy-and-Lobster. Yes. Yes.’ There was a loud crackle and she said to her husband, ‘It’s from London.’

‘If it’s Mrs Winterbottom,’ said her husband, referring to his suzerain. ‘I’m out.’

After a moment or two the call came through. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Certainly. Yes, we can. A single room? May I have your name?’

There were two other long-distance calls during the day. By the end of the week the five rooms at The Boy-and-Lobster were all engaged.

A correspondence had got underway in The Sun on the subject of faith-healing and unexplained cures. On Friday there were inquiries from a regular television programme.