Finding Again the World Page 4

  “And,” continued Auntie Mary, “we’re going to give you all the first clue on a slip of paper, then you must find the others. When you find the first hiding place you come to me for the second clue. And so on.”

  The first clue said, “Under a red **** near the cliff. (What Jesus called Peter.)”

  Everyone split up into small groups and wandered aimlessly about the beach.

  “What’s it mean?” said Pete.

  “I dunno. Where’s Rory?”

  “He’s walking around with that girl.”

  “Do you reckon there’s any more?”

  “What?”

  “Caterpillars.”

  “Yes, I should think there probably are.”

  Uncle Michael was standing near the fallen rubble at the base of the cliff. When people came near him he would cry, “That’s the spirit. Warm. Warmer. Oh, very warm! No. No. Cold, I’m afraid. Completely cold.”

  Most of the smaller children were playing at their own concerns, building castles, digging holes, or just sitting and patting the smooth sand happily.

  David and Peter, tiring of the search, sat down to play with the caterpillar. Uncle Michael called to them, “That’s not a warm place at all. Come on, fellows, you’d be very warm indeed over here!”

  They were just getting to their feet when Rory passed them and beckoned with a turn of his head. As they caught up with him they said, “What’s up?”

  “Come on. We’re going.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Let’s get going.”

  Rory’s face was set with a contained and infectious delight.

  “What is it, Rory?”

  Rory hurried on, the current of his excitement drawing them after him. They started to scramble their way up the cliff-path, Rory setting the pace.

  “Hey, you three!” shouted Uncle Michael. “You’re very cold up there.”

  They paused for a moment and looked down on him, then struggled on towards the lip of the cliff and the dunes beyond.

  They hurried to the hidden hollow in the dunes, almost running, caught by Rory’s excitement.

  “What did you do?”

  “What is it, Rory?”

  Rory unbuttoned his shirt and groped inside. He brought out a fountain pen. It was blue with a gold arrow for a clip.

  “Nicked it out of his jacket,” explained Rory.

  They examined it carefully. “Hey, it’s one of those good ones,” said Pete.

  “It’s a Parker 51,” said David. “They’re worth a lot of money.”

  “Let’s sell it,” said Pete.

  “Yeah, we could sell it at school,” said David.

  “No,” said Rory. His tone of voice made them look at him. “I nicked it; so I’m deciding what to do with it.”

  “What are you going to do, then?”

  Rory stood considering. Then he stuck the pen into the sand. “I’m going to throw rocks at it,” he said. Pete and David hung back while Rory threw a stone. He missed and, almost frantically, started to hunt for stones and pebbles.

  Pete and David watched him. Their silence seemed to drive him on. He tore and grubbed for stones at the roots of the tough dune grass as though he were possessed. Standing twenty paces off, he threw the stones from his pile as fast as he could bend to pick them up, and as he threw he began to laugh.

  He became more and more incapable as his laughter consumed him and Pete and David started to pick up the wild­thrown stones. Soon the stones were raining down around the pen and the echoes of their laughter filled the air.

  “Got it!” shouted Pete.

  David ran to set it up again.

  “And again!” shouted Rory. “Bombs away!”

  With a lucky shot David smashed the top part of the pen away.

  “It’s mine!” shouted Rory. “Leave it alone!” And picking up a heavy rock he held it directly above the stump of the pen and let it go. The rock hit the pen at an angle and smashed the casing. Ink spurted out onto the sand and Rory stamped on the broken pieces driving them out of sight. His eyes were shining with excitement. He stamped on the fragments until his foot had worn a small crater in the sand. Then suddenly, without warning, he rushed at Pete and grabbed him in a wrestling hold.

  “Give in?”

  Pete grunted and squirmed and bucked, trying to throw him off.

  “You wait, bloody Callaghan.”

  Rory worked his knees into Pete’s arms.

  “Give in?”

  “Come on, Rory. Get off. You’re hurting.”

  Rory rolled off into the warm sand and pillowed his head on his hands. David propped himself up and lighted a cigarette. The heat seemed to roll in waves. High up against the sandstone cliff the black shapes of the swallows flickered like the blink of an eyelash. With a sigh of contentment, David unbuttoned his shirt and settled down to let the warmth soak through him. Swimming in the darkness behind his closed eyes were gentle globes of light, red and glowing.

  Pete said, “We could try for those swallow nests this afternoon.”

  “Swifts,” murmured David.

  “Swallows.”

  “Mmmm,” sighed David happily.

  KEYS AND WATERCRESS

  David, with great concentration, worked the tip of his thumbnail under the fat scab on his knee. He carefully lifted the edges of the scab enjoying the tingling sensation as it tore free. His rod was propped against his other leg and he could just see the red blur of his float from the corner of his eye. He started to probe the centre of the crust.

  “Had any luck?” a voice behind him said suddenly.

  Startled, his thumbnail jumped, ripping the scab away. A bright bead of blood welled into the pit. The sun, breaking from behind the clouds, swept the meadow into a brighter green and made the bead of blood glisten like the bezel of a ring.

  “Had any luck?” the old man said again. David twisted round to look at him. He wasn’t in uniform and he wasn’t wearing a badge and anyway he was far too old to be a bailiff. Unless he was a Club Member—and they could report you, too. And break your fishing rod.

  David glanced down the river towards the bridge and the forbidding white sign. “I’m only fishing for eels,” he said “With a seahook.”

  “Slippery fellows, eels,” said the old man. “Difficult to catch.”

  “I haven’t caught any yet,” said David, hoping the old man wouldn’t notice the grey eel-slime on the bank and the smeared fishing-bag.

  The old man started to sit down. Wheezing harshly with the effort, he lowered himself until he was kneeling, and then, supporting himself on his hands, laboriously stretched out each leg like a dying insect in a jam jar. His anguished breathing eased slowly away into a throaty mutter. David felt more confident because he knew he could run nearly to the bridge by the time the old man had struggled to his feet.

  Taking a blue silk handkerchief from the top pocket of his linen jacket, the old man dabbed at his forehead. “My word, yes!” he said. “Extremely slippery fellows.” He took off his straw hat and rubbed his bald head with the blue handkerchief.

  “They’re a nuisance,” said David. “The Club Members don’t like catching them.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because they swallow the hook right down and you can’t get it out,” said David.

  “You’ve hurt your knee,” said the old man. The bead of blood had grown too large and toppled over, trickling down his knee to run into the top of his stocking.

  “Oh, that’s nothing,” said David. “Only a scab.”

  “Yes,” said the old man reflectively, “it’s a pleasant day. A beautiful sky—beautiful afternoon clouds.”

  They sat silently staring across the flow of the river. Near the far bank in the shallows under the elderberry bushes the huge roach
and chub basked in the sunshine, rising every now and then to nose soft circles in the water.

  “Do you know the name of clouds like those?” asked the old man suddenly. “The proper name, I mean.”

  “No,” said David.

  “Well, the correct name is cumulus. Cumulus. You say it yourself.”

  “Cumulus,” said David.

  “Good! You won’t forget, will you? Promise me you won’t forget.” There was a silence while the old man put on his spectacles from a tin case. Then, taking a fountain pen and a small black book from his inside pocket, he said, “But boys forget things. It’s no use denying it—boys forget. So I’m going to write it down.” He tore a page from the notebook and printed on it: Cumulus (clouds).

  As David tucked the paper into his shirt-pocket, he looked across at the old man who was staring into the water, a vague and absent look in his eyes. David watched him for a moment and then turned back to his float, watching the current break and flow past it in a constant flurry. He tried to follow the invisible nylon line down into the depths where it ended in a ledger-weight and a turning, twisting worm.

  “Every evening,” said the old man, speaking slowly and more to himself than David, “when the light begins to fail, the cattle come down here to drink. Just as the night closes in.”

  “They’ve trampled the bank down further up-stream,” said David.

  “And I watch them coming across the fields,” said the old man as though he hadn’t heard. “I see them from my window.”

  The old man’s voice died away into silence but suddenly, without warning, he belched loudly—long, rumbling, unforced belches of which he seemed quite unaware. David looked away. To cover his embarrassment, he started reeling in his line to check the bait and the clack of the ratchet seemed to arouse the old man. He groped inside his jacket and pulled out a large flat watch. With a click the lid sprang open. “Have you ever seen such a watch before?” he asked. “Such a beautiful watch?’’ He held it out on the palm of his hand.

  “Do you know what watches like these are called?”

  “No,” said David. “I’ve never seen one before.”

  “They’re called Hunters. And numbers like these are called roman numerals.”

  As the old man counted off the numbers on the watch-face, David stared at the old man’s hand. The mottled flesh was puffy and gorged with fat blue veins which stood beneath the skin. He tried to take the watch without touching the hand which held it.

  “What time does the watch say?” asked the old man.

  “Half-past four,” said David.

  “Well, then, it’s time we had our tea,” said the old man. “And you shall come and have tea with me.”

  “Thank you,” said David, “but I’ve got to go home.”

  “But tea’s prepared,” said the old man, and as he spoke he started to struggle to his feet. “Tea’s prepared. In the house across the bridge—in the house with the big garden.”

  “But I really have to go,” said David. “My mother’ll be angry if I’m late.”

  “Nonsense!” said the old man loudly. “Quite untrue.”

  “Really. I do have to. . . .”

  “We won’t be long,” said the old man. “You like my watch, don’t you? You do like my watch.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Well, there you are then. What more proof do you need? And,” said the old man, “I have many treasures in my house.” He stared at David angrily. “You would be a rude boy to refuse.”

  “Well . . .” said David. “I really mustn’t be long.”

  “Do you go to school?” the old man asked suddenly.

  “Parkview Junior,” said David.

  “Yes,” said the old man, “I went to school when I was a boy.”

  As David was sliding the rod-sections into the cloth case, the old man gripped his arm and said, “You may keep the watch in your pocket until we reach the bridge. Or you could hold it in your hand. Whichever you like.” Then stopping David again he said, “And such a watch is called a. . . ?”

  “A Hunter,” said David.

  The old man relaxed his hold on David’s arm and said, “Excellent! Quite excellent! Always be attentive. Always accumulate facts.” He seemed very pleased and as they walked slowly along the river-path towards the bridge made little chuckling sounds inside his throat.

  His breath labouring again after the incline from the bridge, the old man rested for a few moments with his hand on the garden gate. Then, pushing the gate open, he said, “Come along, boy. Come along. Raspberry canes everywhere, just as I told you.”

  David followed the old man along the path and into the cool hall. His eyes were bewildered at first after the strong sunlight, and he stumbled against the dark shape of the hall-stand.

  “Just leave your things here,” said the old man, “and we’ll go straight in to tea.”

  David dropped his fishing-bag behind the door and stood his rod in the umbrella-stand. The old man went ahead down the passage and ushered him into the sitting room.

  The room was long and, in spite of the French windows at the far end, rather dark. It was stuffy and smelled like his grandma.

  In the centre of the room stood a table covered with green baize, but tea was laid out on a small cardtable at the far end of the room in front of the French windows.

  Bookshelves lined the walls and books ran from ceiling to floor. The floor, too, was covered with piles of books and papers; old books with leather covers, musty and smelling of damp and dust, and perilous stacks of yellow National Geographic magazines.

  A vast mirror, the biggest he’d ever seen, bigger even than the one in the barber’s, stood above the fireplace, carved and golden with golden statues on each side.

  David stared and stared about him, but his eyes kept returning to the lion which stood in front of the fireplace.

  “Do you like it?” asked the old man. “It’s stuffed.”

  “Oh, yes!” exclaimed David. “Can I touch it?”

  “I’ve often wondered,” said the old man, “if it’s in good taste.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “Oh, Africa. Undoubtedly Africa. They all do, you know.”

  “I think it’s terrific,” said David.

  “You may stay here, then, and I will go and put the kettle on,” said the old man. As soon as the door had closed, David went and stuck his hand into the lion’s snarling mouth and stroked the dusty orbs of its eyes with his fingertips. When he heard the old man’s footsteps shuffling back down the passage, he moved away from the lion and pretended to be looking at a book.

  “Do you take sugar?” asked the old man as they sat down at the cardtable in front of the French windows.

  “No thank you,” said David. “Just milk.”

  “No? Most interesting! Most interesting. In my experience, boys like sweet things. A deplorable taste, of course. Youth and inexperience.”

  He passed the teacup across the table and said sternly, “The palate must be educated.” David didn’t know what to say and because the old man was staring at him looked away and moved the teaspoon in his saucer. Putting down the silver teapot, the old man wrote in his notebook: The love of sweetness is an uneducated love. Handing the note across the table he said, “Facts, eh? Facts.” He chuckled again inside his throat.

  “And now,” he continued—but then broke off again as he saw David staring out of the window into the orchard. “If you’re quite ready? We have brown bread. Wholemeal. Thin­cut. And with Cornish butter.’’ He ticked off each point on his fingers. “To be eaten with fresh watercress. Do you think that will please you?”

  “Very nice, thank you,” said David politely.

  “But it’s not simply a matter of taste, you see,” said the old man fixing David with his eye. He shook his head slowly.

 
“Not simple at all.”

  “What isn’t?” asked David.

  “Not at all simple. Taste, yes, I grant you,” said the old man, “but what about texture? Umm? Umm? What about vision?”

  “What isn’t simple?” David asked again.

  The old man clicked his tongue in annoyance and said, “Come along, boy!” He glared across the table. “Your attention is lax. Always be attentive.’’ He leaned across the cardtable and held up his finger. “Observe!” he said. “Observe the tablecloth. Cotton? Dear me, no! Irish linen. And this.” His fingertips rubbed slowly over the facets of the bowl. “Waterford glass—brilliant. Can you see the colours? The green of the cress and the drops of water like diamonds? Brilliant. A question of the lead-content, you see. You do see, don’t you. You do understand what I’m telling you.”

  “Well . . . please,” said David, “what’s a texture?”

  And once again the old man took out his notebook and his fountain pen.

  When tea was finished, the old man wiped his lips with a linen napkin and said eagerly, “Well? Do you think you’re ready? Shall you see them?”

  “Please,” said David, “I’d like to very much.”

  The old man pulled on the thick, tasselled rope which hung by the side of the window and slowly closed the red velvet curtains. “We don’t want to be overlooked,” he whispered.

  “But there’s no one there,” said David. The old man was excitedly brushing the green baize and didn’t seem to hear. With the red curtains closed, the room smelled even more stuffy, hot and stifling, as if the air itself were thick and red. And in the warm gloom the lion lost its colour and turned into a dark shape, a pinpoint of light glinting off its dusty eye. As David crossed over to the table he saw himself moving in the mysterious depths of the mirror.

  “Come along, boy!” said the old man impatiently. “We’ll start with the yellow box. There. Under the table.”

  The old man lifted the lid of the box and took out three small leather sacks. They were like the pictures in pirate books and as he laid them on the baize they chinked and jangled. Slowly, while David watched, very slowly, the old fingers trembled at the knots, and then suddenly the old man tipped the first sack spreading keys across the tabletop.