Grand Canary (33 page)

On and on. Leaving the bridle-path he had been following. Caring nothing for the rain. Climbing further towards the Peak. Conviction growing that he must – must achieve that distant summit. A range of barren slopes covered by calcareous casts of plants and the poisonous shrub verolillo. He crossed them all. The land of a pale sienna colour, the ravines banked with drifted sand. On the ledges of the rock, stunted vines and wild fig-trees – growing, tangled, inextricable as the thoughts within his mind. And then the terraces, bank after bank filled up with rotten pumice-stone. On and on, striving quite madly to reach the Peak. Darkness falling, the rain and wind increasing, the thunder tumbling about the hills. He stumbled on, following the track amongst a desolation of volcanic cinder-heaps. And then he came upon the caves. Cut deeply in the mountain-side – each fronted by its patch of maize sprouting from the lava ash.

The barking of dogs – a row of faces drawn to those tiny burrows in the rock. Faces peering towards him, the faces of the cave-dwellers. Dim forms rushing out, shouting, pressing round him – little stunted people – speaking a language he could not understand. But they would not let him go on. Chattering, gesticulating towards the sky, forcing him back into the safety of the caves.

The caves of El Telde – warm, dry, lit darkly by red embers. There he had lain all night, whilst the storm ranged madly round the Peak.

Next morning he might have gone. But he had remained. Calmer in mind, his body acquiescent to a strange fatigue. They were friendly, the little people, thrusting on him their simple hospitality. They gave him food – gofio – a porridge made from the maize they grew themselves. When the sun broke through, the children came out and frisked amongst the rocks. Quite naked – tiny and timid as squirrels. Seated on the sun-warmed ledge Harvey watched them play. Free of their first suspicion they rolled and tumbled about his feet, clambered upon his knees. A strange experience. Close to the crest of the Peak. Unsmiling, unresistant to their plucking hands, he let the naked children play about him.

Day and night. Each night he had said: Tomorrow I will leave. But he had remained. Why should he go? Where could he go? Better, far better wait amongst the hills. He wasn't needed now – not wanted. Soon they would take Mary from Santa Cruz, just as they had taken her from Los Cisnes. Only when she had gone would he descend to the town.…

Today – yes, that was today. He sighed gently – discovering himself, here, upon the bench, back again in Santa Cruz, alone. And now no boat for a full ten days.

The palm fronds swayed above his head. The fountain splashed. Little silver fishes swam in the marble basin at his feet. From time to time he felt people staring at him. An old man tottered past – unwashed, unkempt – begging, selling lottery tickets. His glance dismissed Harvey with disdain. He didn't even bother to offer him a ticket. Strangely, it brought Harvey an odd satisfaction to find himself passed over – unrecognised for what he was.

And then a shadow fell across the beach, wavered and drew up. He heard a sudden shout, felt a slap upon his shoulders. With a start he looked up. It was Corcoran.

Yes – Corcoran – thrust-back hat, straddled legs, swaggering air, invincible grin. But there was a suspicious twitching about the edges of the grin. And the laugh that followed it was queerly near a sob.

‘It's yourself,' he stammered. ‘Yourself, indeed, that I've looked everywhere for days I – I hardly know ye. I thought ye'd –' Here his smile gave way. He broke off: he almost broke down. ‘Oh, honest, man,' he faltered. ‘I'm awful glad to see you.'

There was a silence. Jimmy blew his nose powerfully. Then gradually his grin came back, grew into the old delighted laugh. He was himself again. For a moment he looked as if he might fall on Harvey and publicly embrace him.

‘It is you, yerself, it is,' he repeated, rubbing his hands together. ‘Yerself and no other. What in the name of hivin have ye been doin'? What do ye mane by scarin' the wits out of a man?'

‘You might have known I'd turn up,' Harvey answered stiffly.… What a stupid thing to say! But he couldn't for the life of him have been clever at that moment. He'd never thought – never – that anyone might be so glad to see him. It was something after all friendship.

‘Yes, indeed,' cried Corcoran, plumping down on the bench beside Harvey, the joy of the meeting still irradiating his humid eye. ‘ Yer the boy for frightenin' us all right. I searched for ye in every corner of the town. High and low, up and down, I sought. Scoured the countryside. Faith, I'd begun to think that you had gone the way of the river as well.'

Harvey looked up. There was a pause. Corcoran's gaze fell. He seemed to wish he had not spoken.

‘Ye'll not know,' he said in an altered voice. ‘ Ye'll not know what has happened to Susan.'

‘Susan?' Harvey echoed in wonder.

Jimmy hesitated, then, in a manner both gloomy and subdued, he launched into an account of Susan's death.

‘They never got her body,' he ended in a low tone. ‘She's out there on the sea-bed, the poor thing. Och, I've been powerful upset about it all. There was always a glint of sad misfortune in the far-off corner of her eye. She ran after things too hard, she did. And that, I'm thinkin' is the way she never got them.'

Harvey stared at him with eyes suddenly wide, horrified. Susan! Oh, it was too horrible – he couldn't believe it. Susan, so eager, so quick to feel -

He must have spoken; for Jimmy murmured:

‘She don't feel nothin' now – out there.'

Out there. Out on the sea-bed amongst the cool sea-weeds and the corals, striped fishes darting, quivering above the pallid, unshut eyes. ‘Give me a chance – oh, just give me one little chance!' Pleading, her hand outstretched, too eager, too eager after happiness! And now out there.…

The thought of it made Harvey shiver.

‘I'm terribly – terribly sorry,' he whispered, as though he spoke into himself. And then, after a long time: ‘Where is her brother?'

‘Him,' cried Jimmy with unutterable scorn. ‘Ye wouldn't believe it. He's back again at Salvation. Up to the eyebrows in repentance. Swearin' to God that his sister died to fetch him back to grace. Jumpin' Janus, it would sicken ye. He's brung the harmonium down to Santa Cruz, he's rented a bit of a hall, and he's missionin' fit to burst – slammin' out the hymn-tunes and the prayers wid tears in his eyes. Glory, glory, halleluja! By the powers, 'tis scandalous enough to give a man black ja'ndice.'

Two minutes passed; then Harvey asked:

‘And you? What's going to happen to you?'

Corcoran took snuff with a conscious air. But no mere act of snuffing could hide his satisfaction. Thrusting one thumb modestly to its arm-hole he answered:

‘Faith, it's happened already ye might say. I'm all fixed up at the Casa. Successor to Don Balthasar, R.I.P. I've got aholt of a dozen yellow boys and I'm workin' the suet off them. I'll knock the place into shape in no time. Druv down here with me own mule team. I'm tellin' ye it's the life of a lord I've landed meself into. And, in a manner of speakin', all by me own endeavour.'

Harvey's lips hardly smiled. But he was glad – tremendously glad.

‘That's good, Jimmy,' he said slowly. ‘I'm happy about that.'

Corcoran threw out his chest and abruptly stood up.

‘Not so happy as yer goin' to be,' he said with a sudden change of tune. ‘Come now. It's time we were goin'. I've had me innin's and now it's yours. Come away over to the hotel.'

‘The hotel?'

‘And where the divil else! D'ye think you're goin' to sit on this holy bench till the boat comes in? Be sensible for the love of hivin and come on.' And taking Harvey's arm he drew him to his feet, led him with some persuasion across the Plaza.

They entered the hotel. Corcoran swaggered into the empty lounge, sank into a chair, and called loudly for the porter.

‘Yes, sah.' The nigger hurried over, all gold braid and teeth.

‘Ask Sir Michael Fieldin' if he'll favour me with his presence. At his own convenience, ye understand. Tell him it's somethin' important.'

‘Yes, sah.'

Harvey jumped up as though he had been shot. His apathy had vanished. He leaned sharply over Corcoran.

‘They're here? Here – in Santa Cruz? They haven't gone?'

Corcoran took refuge in a delicate yawn. ‘Easy, easy now,' he counselled. ‘Don't be flyin' off the handle.' Harvey's lips had turned quite pale.

‘But I thought – a whole fortnight –'

‘Ah, they're still here,' said Corcoran. ‘How would I be sendin' for the man if he wasn't here.'

A pause came.

‘I don't want to see him,' Harvey said quite dully. ‘And he doesn't want to see me.'

‘That's just where yer wrong me boy,' declared Jimmy, lying back in his chair and inspecting his boots – shined to a high perfection by one of the ‘ yellow boys'. ‘Faith, he's dyin' to meet ye. And why not? Ye saved the little lady's life, didn't ye? He's been lookin' for ye all over – as well as meself. Faith, he's one of the kindest. Ye wouldn't meet a more agreeable in a whole week's march. And he's bubblin' wid gratitude.'

‘Let him keep his gratitude.'

‘Pooh! A pack of nonsense,' returned Jimmy. ‘Don't be so impetyus. Ye want to get back home, don't ye? Faith, ye don't want to start beachcomin' at your time of life.' He broke off suddenly, raised his head, then nodded it violently to the man who had entered the lounge.

A coldness came over Harvey as he took in the other. Fielding – Mary's husband – yes, the thought struck coldly, but with a curious unreality. Quite tall, quite broad, quite handsome – in an easy, take-it-for-granted way. His features were all in proportion, the nose straight, the chin beautifully smooth. He had a lot of nice, well-brushed yellow hair. His whole face wore an extraordinary amiability. He was stamped with amiability – as if he couldn't, didn't want to shake it off. His eyes in particular, of an optimistic blue, smiled upon the world and seemed perpetually to say: ‘Charming, charming, oh, really charming.'

He drew nearer. He looked very excited and pleased. He threw out his hand, almost rushed upon Harvey.

‘Splendid!' he exclaimed. ‘Simply splendid. This makes things right – just absolutely right.' There was a hollow pause; then Harvey allowed his hand to be shaken. There was nothing else to do.

‘Well, well,' Fielding ran on, ‘if it isn't the best thing –' He twitched up the creases of his trousers and sat down. He pulled his chair close, said amiably – but with a very definite gravity:

‘Now tell me! Have you had lunch?'

Lunch! Harvey drew back. Was the man really serious? He gave him a suspicious stare.

‘Yes,' he lied. ‘ I've had lunch.'

‘Good Lord, what a pity. But you'll dine with us. Heavens! what am I saying! You'll do everything with us. I refuse to let you out of my sight. It's marvellous to see you here at last. Quite marvellous. Mary will be delighted. Absolutely delighted. I know she's been worrying, worrying her head off about you.'

Harvey started nervously, again. He couldn't understand this – this inordinate placidity – so different from what he had expected. Didn't Fielding realise – hadn't anyone told him? Oh, it baffled – enraged him. And suddenly, in a hard voice, he said: ‘ Hasn't your friend Carr had something to say about me?'

‘Carr!' Fielding laughed. ‘ I never pay any attention to what Wilfred says. Never. He's a good fellow is Wilfred. Terribly good on a horse. But erratic – oh, confounded impulsive sort of chap! His cables – hang it all – his cables almost rattled me.'

‘I'm not talking about the cables.' Harvey said thickly. ‘I'm talking about something quite different.'

A pause came, whilst Harvey waited, rigid and intent. But Fielding, lost in sudden abstraction, now seemed studying him with a profound, yet indulgent eye.

‘Collars?' he remarked at last. ‘Yes, it's going to be difficult. Especially the collars! What size do you take? I'll wager it's an inch less than me. I'm 17 – isn't that simply foul! But mind you – everything else I can let you have – a suit that's never been worn – thank goodness old Martin shoved it in – razor, underwear, tooth-brush, sponge, the whole kit. But, hang it all,' he frowned humorously, ‘ I'm not so sure about the collars!'

No, it was not an affectation. He was really concerned in a mild, half-quizzical sort of way about this little business of the collars. Concerned and quite interested. Harvey could have groaned. He'd expected everything – everything but this bright-eyed banter. He averted his head, stared gloomily at the floor.

‘You know,' said Fielding, ‘I haven't thanked you yet. Good Lord!' His charming, inconsequential smile flashed out again. ‘It's quite marvellous, Mary's recovery. I'm terribly grateful. Sort of thing you can't talk about. She's actually getting up now. Soon she'll be able to travel – by plane of course. Then we'll let the country air finish the job at Buckden.' He paused, added cheerfully: ‘You'll stay with us. Of course you will. That's understood. You might rather care for Buckden. Nice little place. I've a hybrid rose I'd like to show you. Quite new. Not so stuffy, I assure you. I shall bring it out this year. At the Horticultural.'

Harvey sat quite still. The whole thing was so incomprehensible it left him speechless. Fielding must know – yes, he must know absolutely. And yet – this smiling, unruffled equanimity – it did nothing, it simply held the situation in a horrible suspense. He wanted to hate Fielding. But he could not. Friendliness alone he must have loathed. But there was something – something about the man so completely unassertive. He had everything: looks, breeding, charm, and that unconquerable amiability. Yet he seemed placidly to assume that he had nothing. It was impossible to dislike him.