way he is warping and bruising the life of that charming child, Phil, would be justification enough: he has killed one golden lad, I will not let him destroy another. No, it is not conscience that holds me back. Not even my own natural timidity. It’s an even more elementary obstacle than these – nothing more nor less than the weather.
Here I am, and here I shall be for I don’t know how many days, whistling for a wind like any ancient mariner. (I suppose whistling for a wind is sympathetic magic, as old as the first sailing ship; the same thing as when savages beat cymbals to bring down rain or enact fertility rites in their fields.) Not that it’s quite true to say I’m whistling for a wind. There was wind today, but unfortunately too much of it – a near-gale, south-westerly. That’s the trouble. I must have a day when there’s enough breeze to turn over a badly handled boat, but not so much that it will appear wanton negligence to have taken out a novice in it. And how long shall I have to wait for just the right amount of wind? I can’t stay on here for ever. Apart from anything else, Lena is getting restive. To tell the truth, I’m beginning to find her just the tiniest bit of a bore. It’s abominable to say this, she’s so sweet and loving, but she seems to have lost a lot of her verve lately; she’s become a thought too girlish and clinging and intense for my present mood. Only this evening she said, ‘Felix, can’t we go away somewhere together. I’m tired of all these people. Won’t you come away? Please.’ She was oddly worked up about it. No wonder, it can’t be much fun for her, seeing George every day, being reminded of that evening seven months ago when their car ran down a child in a lane. I had to fob her off with vague promises, of course. I don’t feel too good about Lena, but I daren’t break with her, even if I was willing to be caddish, because I must have her on my side when my real identity comes out at the inquest.
I wish she’d turn back into the tough, wise-cracking, high-tension girl she was when first I met her. It would be so much easier to betray that Lena – and sooner or later she’s bound to feel that she’s been betrayed, been used just as a clue to some problem of my own, even though she never realises what that problem was.
19 August
A CURIOUS SIDELIGHT on the Rattery household today. I was passing by the drawing-room door, which was half open. There was a sound of half-stifled sobbing from within. I meant to pass on – one gets accustomed to that sound in this house, when I heard George’s mother saying, in a harsh, urgent, imperious undertone, ‘Now then, Phil, stop blubbering. Remember you’re a Rattery. You grandfather was killed fighting in South Africa – there was a ring of dead enemies round him – they cut him to pieces – they couldn’t make him give in. Think of him. Aren’t you ashamed to be blubbering when—?’
‘But he shouldn’t be – he – I can’t bear it –’
‘When you grow up, you’ll understand these things. Your father may be a little hot-tempered, but there can be only one master in a house.’
‘I don’t care what you say. He’s a bully. He’s no right to teat Mummy like – it’s so unfair. I—’
‘Stop that, child! Stop it this instant! How dare you criticise your father?’
‘Well,
you
do. I heard you telling him yesterday that the way he was carrying on with that woman was a scandal and you’d—’
‘Phil, that’s enough. Don’t dare to mention that to me or anyone else again.’ Mrs Rattery’s voice was like the edge of a rusty, jagged blade. Than it grew sweet and patient, a horrible change, and she said, ‘Promise me, child, you’ll forget whatever you heard yesterday. You’re much too young to trouble your head with grown-up matters like this. Promise.’
‘I can’t promise to
forget
it.’
‘Don’t quibble, child. You understand very well what I meant.’
‘Oh, all right. I
Here I am, and here I shall be for I don’t know how many days, whistling for a wind like any ancient mariner. (I suppose whistling for a wind is sympathetic magic, as old as the first sailing ship; the same thing as when savages beat cymbals to bring down rain or enact fertility rites in their fields.) Not that it’s quite true to say I’m whistling for a wind. There was wind today, but unfortunately too much of it – a near-gale, south-westerly. That’s the trouble. I must have a day when there’s enough breeze to turn over a badly handled boat, but not so much that it will appear wanton negligence to have taken out a novice in it. And how long shall I have to wait for just the right amount of wind? I can’t stay on here for ever. Apart from anything else, Lena is getting restive. To tell the truth, I’m beginning to find her just the tiniest bit of a bore. It’s abominable to say this, she’s so sweet and loving, but she seems to have lost a lot of her verve lately; she’s become a thought too girlish and clinging and intense for my present mood. Only this evening she said, ‘Felix, can’t we go away somewhere together. I’m tired of all these people. Won’t you come away? Please.’ She was oddly worked up about it. No wonder, it can’t be much fun for her, seeing George every day, being reminded of that evening seven months ago when their car ran down a child in a lane. I had to fob her off with vague promises, of course. I don’t feel too good about Lena, but I daren’t break with her, even if I was willing to be caddish, because I must have her on my side when my real identity comes out at the inquest.
I wish she’d turn back into the tough, wise-cracking, high-tension girl she was when first I met her. It would be so much easier to betray that Lena – and sooner or later she’s bound to feel that she’s been betrayed, been used just as a clue to some problem of my own, even though she never realises what that problem was.
19 August
A CURIOUS SIDELIGHT on the Rattery household today. I was passing by the drawing-room door, which was half open. There was a sound of half-stifled sobbing from within. I meant to pass on – one gets accustomed to that sound in this house, when I heard George’s mother saying, in a harsh, urgent, imperious undertone, ‘Now then, Phil, stop blubbering. Remember you’re a Rattery. You grandfather was killed fighting in South Africa – there was a ring of dead enemies round him – they cut him to pieces – they couldn’t make him give in. Think of him. Aren’t you ashamed to be blubbering when—?’
‘But he shouldn’t be – he – I can’t bear it –’
‘When you grow up, you’ll understand these things. Your father may be a little hot-tempered, but there can be only one master in a house.’
‘I don’t care what you say. He’s a bully. He’s no right to teat Mummy like – it’s so unfair. I—’
‘Stop that, child! Stop it this instant! How dare you criticise your father?’
‘Well,
you
do. I heard you telling him yesterday that the way he was carrying on with that woman was a scandal and you’d—’
‘Phil, that’s enough. Don’t dare to mention that to me or anyone else again.’ Mrs Rattery’s voice was like the edge of a rusty, jagged blade. Than it grew sweet and patient, a horrible change, and she said, ‘Promise me, child, you’ll forget whatever you heard yesterday. You’re much too young to trouble your head with grown-up matters like this. Promise.’
‘I can’t promise to
forget
it.’
‘Don’t quibble, child. You understand very well what I meant.’
‘Oh, all right. I
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