the gentle swell the crates of chickens stacked towards the bows squawked in terror and the men and women on deck reached for the rail to steady themselves. He was going to be sick again. He straddled his trunk and looked back at Jersey, still plainly visible off thestern. The sky was leaden and the sea, taking its colour from above, looked opaque and uninteresting. It looks cold, he thought, although he knew the sea was warmest at the beginning of autumn. His father had told him that. He wished he could be sick again.
It was two weeks now. He had barely said a word. For the first three days he had not opened his mouth. He had not cried. Jake Stokes had found him. In search of the father, he had found the son, wandering absently in the fields above Blanche Pierre. It had been pouring with rain. He was drenched, so they said. He didn’t remember. His finger still hurt, the nail was growing back slowly. When they took the body back to St Helier he had identified it.
‘That is my father,’ he had said, even though the face was unrecognisable.
He knew from the clothes, the pieces of clothes, he corrected himself. Jake Stokes told him that the coroner had said he would have died quite quickly. From the throat-wound. Casterleigh himself had led the men back to where the body lay, then he had shot the dogs.
He
was
going to be sick, barely made it to the side. The thick, yellow stain floated away from the boat. Mother had broken down in D’Aubisson’s office.
‘The full will is held in London,’ D’Aubisson had said. ‘These are only documents pertaining to it.’ The solicitor liked those kinds of words,
pertaining to it, secondary executor, codicil…
. He had talked for a long time, but all it meant was that John had to go to London. He didn’t care, but that was when Marianne had cried.
He saw Guernsey ahead, half an hour away perhaps. It was me, it was meant to be me, I read of it, I witnessed it…. But his thoughts only led him back to the thought he could not face, the credo that stalked him like a stealthy and invisible enemy. He gazed out, over the side of the boat. There, beneath the familiar surface, what lurks there?
Small waves slapped the side of the boat. Above, gulls wheeled. To them, the sea was transparent. The boat, a tiny point in a vast uniformity, a flaw in the pattern. They caught the thermals as they rose and rode up with them until they saw both islands, Jersey and Guernsey and beyond them the coast of France. And they flew higher still until the coast of England was just visible, a grey smudge on the horizon.
Far below, the pacquet sailed slowly into the harbour of St Peter Port. The young man swung his trunk up and carried it high on his shoulder, down the gang-plank to the jetty. He stopped at the end and looked back, just once, before turning and walking on. Gulls flew up into the clouds, up until they were lost to view in the grey expanse of the sky.
Farewell Caesarea.
II London
G ULLS SCREECH and wheel overhead. They can be heard inside the coach as it bumps and slides through the muck and mud, its bevelled wheels cutting deep thin ruts in the road which leads on towards London. From Southampton by way of Guildford and the Holmesdale vale, it has struggled through mud, rain, ice, a broken shaft and the foulness of the North Downs in November. For the moment, the sky is fine. The horses pull hard against the shafts and snort as the driver cracks them on. Their breath comes hard in the cold air. Through shrunken hamlets and empty fields, past abandoned farmhouses, shining green streams, steaming hayricks and churches decked with elder-trees they have come in their drive for the metropolis. The road has cut through valleys, low hills, moors and marshland. Now it moves through George’s Fields.
Meadows and dry stone walls are being replaced by more businesslike fences enclosing terraced cottages with red pantiled roofs, chimneys coughing smoke. The driver pulls his hat down and gets
It was two weeks now. He had barely said a word. For the first three days he had not opened his mouth. He had not cried. Jake Stokes had found him. In search of the father, he had found the son, wandering absently in the fields above Blanche Pierre. It had been pouring with rain. He was drenched, so they said. He didn’t remember. His finger still hurt, the nail was growing back slowly. When they took the body back to St Helier he had identified it.
‘That is my father,’ he had said, even though the face was unrecognisable.
He knew from the clothes, the pieces of clothes, he corrected himself. Jake Stokes told him that the coroner had said he would have died quite quickly. From the throat-wound. Casterleigh himself had led the men back to where the body lay, then he had shot the dogs.
He
was
going to be sick, barely made it to the side. The thick, yellow stain floated away from the boat. Mother had broken down in D’Aubisson’s office.
‘The full will is held in London,’ D’Aubisson had said. ‘These are only documents pertaining to it.’ The solicitor liked those kinds of words,
pertaining to it, secondary executor, codicil…
. He had talked for a long time, but all it meant was that John had to go to London. He didn’t care, but that was when Marianne had cried.
He saw Guernsey ahead, half an hour away perhaps. It was me, it was meant to be me, I read of it, I witnessed it…. But his thoughts only led him back to the thought he could not face, the credo that stalked him like a stealthy and invisible enemy. He gazed out, over the side of the boat. There, beneath the familiar surface, what lurks there?
Small waves slapped the side of the boat. Above, gulls wheeled. To them, the sea was transparent. The boat, a tiny point in a vast uniformity, a flaw in the pattern. They caught the thermals as they rose and rode up with them until they saw both islands, Jersey and Guernsey and beyond them the coast of France. And they flew higher still until the coast of England was just visible, a grey smudge on the horizon.
Far below, the pacquet sailed slowly into the harbour of St Peter Port. The young man swung his trunk up and carried it high on his shoulder, down the gang-plank to the jetty. He stopped at the end and looked back, just once, before turning and walking on. Gulls flew up into the clouds, up until they were lost to view in the grey expanse of the sky.
Farewell Caesarea.
II London
G ULLS SCREECH and wheel overhead. They can be heard inside the coach as it bumps and slides through the muck and mud, its bevelled wheels cutting deep thin ruts in the road which leads on towards London. From Southampton by way of Guildford and the Holmesdale vale, it has struggled through mud, rain, ice, a broken shaft and the foulness of the North Downs in November. For the moment, the sky is fine. The horses pull hard against the shafts and snort as the driver cracks them on. Their breath comes hard in the cold air. Through shrunken hamlets and empty fields, past abandoned farmhouses, shining green streams, steaming hayricks and churches decked with elder-trees they have come in their drive for the metropolis. The road has cut through valleys, low hills, moors and marshland. Now it moves through George’s Fields.
Meadows and dry stone walls are being replaced by more businesslike fences enclosing terraced cottages with red pantiled roofs, chimneys coughing smoke. The driver pulls his hat down and gets
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