Devices and Desires (9 page)

He said: “He’s only one voice, and a pathetically uneducated and ignorant one.”

“But he’s having his effect, and you know it. We’ve got to match passion with passion.”

His mind fastened on the word. We’re not, he thought, talking about nuclear energy, we’re talking about passion. Would we be having this conversation if we were still lovers? She’s demanding from me a commitment to something more personal than atomic power. Turning to face her, he was visited suddenly, not by desire, but by a memory, inconveniently intense, of the desire he had once felt for her. And with memory came a sudden vivid picture of them together in her cottage, the heavy breasts bent over him, her hair falling across his face, her lips, her hands, her thighs.

He said roughly: “If you want a religion, if you need a religion, then find one. There are plenty to choose from. All right,
the abbey is in ruins and I doubt whether that impotent old priest up at the Old Rectory has much on offer. But find something or someone: give up fish on Friday, don’t eat meat, count beads, put ashes on your head, meditate four times a day, bow down towards your own personal Mecca. But don’t, for God’s sake, assuming He exists, ever make science into a religion.”

The telephone on his desk rang. Caroline Amphlett had left, and it was switched through to an outside line. As he lifted the receiver he saw that Hilary was standing at the door. She gave him a last long look and went out, shutting it with unnecessary firmness behind her.

The caller was his sister. She said: “I hoped I’d catch you. I forgot to remind you to call at Bollard’s farm for the ducks for Thursday. He’ll have them ready. We’ll be six, incidentally. I’ve invited Adam Dalgliesh. He’s back on the headland.”

He was able to answer her as calmly as she had spoken.

“Congratulations. He and his aunt have contrived with some skill to avoid their neighbours’ cutlets for the last five years. How did you manage it?”

“By the expedient of asking. I imagine he may be thinking of keeping on the mill as a holiday home and feels it’s time to acknowledge that he does have neighbours. Or he may be planning to sell, in which case he can risk a dinner party without being trapped into intimacy. But why not give him credit for a simple human weakness—the attraction of eating a good dinner which he hasn’t had to cook?”

And it would balance her table, thought Mair, although that was hardly likely to have been a consideration. She despised the Noah’s Ark convention which decreed that a superfluous man, however unattractive or stupid, was acceptable; a superfluous woman, however witty and well informed, a social embarrassment.

He said: “Am I expected to talk about his poetry?”

“I imagine he’s come to Larksoken to get away from people who want to talk about his poetry. But it wouldn’t hurt you to take a look at it. I’ve got the most recent volume. And it is poetry, not prose rearranged on the page.”

“With modern verse, can one tell the difference?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “If it can be read as prose, then it is prose. It’s an infallible test.”

“But not one, I imagine, that the English faculties would support. I’ll be leaving in ten minutes. I won’t forget the ducks.” He smiled as he replaced the receiver. His sister invariably had the power to restore him to good humour.

Before leaving he stood for a moment at the door and let his eyes range round the room as if he were seeing it for the last time. He was ambitious for the new job, had cleverly planned and schemed to get it. And now, when it was almost his, he realized how much he would miss Larksoken, its remoteness, its bleak uncompromising strength. Nothing had been done to prettify the site as at Sizewell, on the Suffolk coast, or to produce the pleasantly laid-out grounds of smooth lawn, flowering trees and shrubs which so agreeably impressed him on his periodic visits to Winfrith in Dorset. A low, curving wall faced with flint had been built on the seaward boundary, behind whose shelter every spring a bright ribbon of daffodils strained and tossed in the March winds. Little else had been done to harmonize or soften the concrete’s grey immensity. But this was what he liked, the wide expanse of turbulent sea, browny-grey, white-laced under a limitless sky, windows which he could open so that, at a touch of his hand, the faint continuous boom like distant thunder would instantaneously pour into his office in a roar of crashing billows. He liked best the
stormy winter evenings when, working late, he could see the lights of shipping prinking the horizon as they made their way down the coast to the Yarmouth lanes, and see the flashing light ships and the beam from Happisburgh Lighthouse which for generations had warned mariners of the treacherous offshore sands. Even on the darkest night, by the light which the sea seemed mysteriously to absorb and reflect, he could make out the splendid fifteenth-century West Tower of Happisburgh Church, that embattled symbol of man’s precarious defences against this most dangerous of seas. And it was a symbol of more than that. The tower must have been the last sight of land for hundreds of drowning mariners in peace and war. His mind, always tenacious of facts, could recall the details at will. The crew of HMS
Peggy
, driven ashore on 19 December 1770, the 119 members of HMS
Invincible
wrecked on the sands on 13 March 1801 when on her way to join Nelson’s fleet at Copenhagen, the crew of HMS
Hunter
, the revenue cutter lost in 1804, many of their crews buried under the grassy mounds in Happisburgh Churchyard. Built in an age of faith, the tower had stood as a symbol, too, of that final, unquenchable hope that even the sea would yield up her dead and that their God was God of the waters as He was of the land. But now mariners could see, dwarfing the tower, the huge rectangular bulk of Larksoken Power Station. For those who sought symbols in inanimate objects, its message was both simple and expedient, that man, by his own intelligence and his own efforts, could understand and master his world, could make his transitory life more agreeable, more comfortable, more free of pain. For him this was challenging enough, and if he had needed a faith to live by it would have been starkly sufficient. But sometimes, on the darkest nights, when the waves pounded the shingle like bursts of distant gunfire, both the science and
the symbol would seem to him as transitory as those drowned lives, and he would find himself wondering if this great hulk would one day yield to the sea, like the wave-smashed concrete from the last war’s defences, and like them become a broken symbol of man’s long history on this desolate coast. Or would it resist even time and the North Sea and still be standing when the final darkness fell over the planet? In his more pessimistic moments some rogue part of his mind knew this darkness to be inevitable, although he did not expect it to come in his time, maybe not even in his son’s. He would sometimes smile wryly, telling himself that he and Neil Pascoe, on different sides, would understand each other well. The only difference was that one of them had hope.

Jane Dalgliesh had bought Larksoken Mill five years earlier, when she had moved from her previous home on the Suffolk coast. The mill, which was built in 1825, was a picturesque brick tower four storeys high with an octagonal dome cap and a skeleton fantail. It had been converted as a seaside home some years before Miss Dalgliesh had bought it by the addition of a flint-faced two-storey building with a large sitting room, smaller study and kitchen on the ground floor and three bedrooms, two of them with their own bathrooms, on the floor above. Dalgliesh had never asked her why she had moved to Norfolk, but he guessed that the mill’s main attraction had been its remoteness, its closeness to notable bird sanctuaries and the impressive view of headland, sky and sea from the top storey. Perhaps she had intended to restore it to working order but with increasing age hadn’t been able to summon the energy or enthusiasm to cope with the disturbance. He had inherited it as an agreeable but mildly onerous responsibility, together with her considerable fortune. The origin of that had only become plain after her death. It had been left to her by a noted amateur
ornithologist and eccentric with whom she had been friendly for many years. Whether the relationship had gone beyond friendship Dalgliesh would now never know. She had, apparently, spent little of the money on herself, had been a dependable benefactress of the few unusual charities of which she approved, had remembered them in her will but without egregious generosity and had left the residue of her estate to him without explanation, admonition or peculiar protestations of affection, although he had no doubt that the words “my dearly beloved nephew” meant exactly what they said. He had liked her, respected her, had always been at ease in her company, but he had never thought that he really knew her, and now he never would. He was a little surprised how much he minded.

The only change she had made to the property was to build a garage, and after he had unloaded and put away the Jaguar, he decided to climb to the top chamber of the mill while it was still light. The bottom room, with its two huge grinding wheels of burr-granite propped against the wall and its lingering smell of flour, still held an air of mystery, of time held in abeyance, of a place bereft of its purpose and meaning, so that he never entered it without a slight sense of desolation. There were only ladders between the floors and, as he grasped the rungs, he saw again his aunt’s long, trousered legs ahead of him disappearing into the chamber above. She had used only the top room of the mill, which she had furnished simply with a small writing table and a chair facing the North Sea, a telephone and her binoculars. Entering it he could imagine her sitting there in the summer days and evenings, working on the papers which she occasionally contributed to ornithological journals and looking up from time to time to gaze out over the headland to the sea and the far horizon, could see again that carved, weather-browned Aztec face with its hooded eyes
under the grey-black hair, drawn back into a bun, could hear again a voice which, for him, had been one of the most beautiful female voices he had ever heard.

Now it was late afternoon and the headland lay enriched by the mellow afternoon light, the sea a wide expanse of wrinkled blue with a painter’s stroke of purple laid on the horizon. The colours and shapes were intensified by the sun’s last strong rays, so that the ruins of the abbey looked unreal, a golden fantasy against the blue of the sea, and the dry grass gleamed as richly as a lush water meadow. There was a window at each of the compass points and, binoculars in hand, he made his slow perambulation. To the west his eyes could travel along the narrow road between the reed beds and the dikes to the flint-walled and Dutch-gabled cottages and the pantiled roofs of Lydsett Village and the round tower of St. Andrew’s Church. To the north the view was dominated by the huge bulk of the power station, the low-roofed administration block with, behind it, the reactor building and the great steel, aluminium-clad building of the turbine house. Four hundred metres out to sea were the rigs and platforms of the intake structures through which the cooling sea water passed to the pump house and the circulating water pumps. He moved again to the eastern window and looked out over the cottages of the headland. Far to the south he could just glimpse the roof of Scudder’s Cottage. Directly to his left the flint walls of Martyr’s Cottage glistened like marbles in the afternoon sun, and less than half a mile to the north, set back among the Californian pines which fringed that part of the coast, was the dull square cottage rented by Hilary Robarts, a neatly proportional suburban villa incongruously set down on this bleak headland and facing inland as if resolutely ignoring the sea. Farther inland, and only just visible from the southern window, was
the Old Rectory, set like a Victorian doll’s house in its large, overgrown garden, which, at this distance, looked as neatly green and formal as a municipal park.

The telephone rang. The strident peal was unwelcome. It was to get away from such intrusions that he had come to Larksoken. But the call was not unexpected. It was Terry Rickards saying that he would like to drop in for a chat with Mr. Dalgliesh if it wouldn’t be too much bother, and would 9.00 be convenient? Dalgliesh was unable to think of a single excuse why it shouldn’t be.

Ten minutes later he left the tower, locking the door after him. This precaution was a small act of piety. His aunt had always kept the door locked, fearing that children might venture into the mill and hurt themselves by tumbling down the ladders. Leaving the tower to its darkness and its solitude, he went into Mill Cottage to unpack and get his supper.

The huge sitting room with its York stone floor, rugs and open fireplace was a comfortable and nostalgic mixture of the old and the new. Most of the furniture was familiar to him from boyhood visits to his grandparents, inherited by his aunt as the last of her generation. Only the music centre and the television set were comparatively new. Music had been important to her, and the shelves held a catholic collection of records with which he could refresh or console himself during the two weeks’ holiday. And next door, the kitchen contained nothing superfluous but everything necessary to a woman who enjoyed food but preferred to cook it with a minimum of fuss. He put a couple of lamb chops under the grill, made a green salad and prepared to enjoy the few hours of solitude before the intrusion of Rickards and his preoccupations.

It still surprised him a little that his aunt had finally bought a television set. Had she been seduced into conformity by the
excellence of the natural-history programmes and then, like other late converts he had known, sat captive to virtually every offering as if making up for lost time? That at least seemed unlikely. He switched on to see if the set was still working. A jerking pop star was wielding his guitar as the credits rolled, his parodic sexual gyrations so grotesque that it was difficult to see that even the besotted young could find them erotic. Switching off, Dalgliesh looked up at the oil portrait of his maternal great-grandfather, the Victorian bishop, robed but unmitred, his arms in their billowing lawn sleeves confidently resting on the arms of the chair. He had an impulse to say, “This is the music of 1988; these are our heroes; that building on the headland is our architecture; and I dare not stop my car to help children home because they’ve been taught with good reason that a strange man might abduct and rape them.” He could have added, “And out there somewhere is a mass murderer who enjoys strangling women and stuffing their mouths with their hair.” But that aberration, at least, was independent of changing fashions, and his great-grandfather would have had his scrupulous but uncompromising answer to it. And with reason. After all, hadn’t he been consecrated bishop in 1880, the year of Jack the Ripper? And probably he would have found the Whistler more understandable than the pop star, whose gyrations would surely have convinced him that man was in the grip of his final, manic St. Vitus’s dance.