suncream and I’ve got your hat.”
“I love you, Edward Feathers. Why are we going off on a picnic with all these terrible people? We could be eating tinned pilchards with Mabel.”
“It’ll be tinned pilchard sandwiches on the cliffs. Come on, there’s a great swarm going. Planned for years. Since the end of the war. It’s all expats with no money, no education and big ideas. All drunk with sunlight. They drifted to Malta. They can’t go home. Nothing to do.”
“Is it the British Council?”
“Certainly not. It’s the riff-raff of Europe. The Sixpenny Settlers. We have to go. It’s polite. There’s to be wine.”
They arrived at the picnic where everyone was lolling about in the sun on what seemed to be an inland clifftop, though you could hear the sea far below. There was a long fissure on the plateau, stuffed full of flowers. There was a trickling sound of running water.
“I thought there were no streams on Malta,” she said.
“There is one. Only one,” said a languid man lying about nearby with a bottle of wine.
“We found it a year ago. Nobody knew of it. Yet it’s no distance from Valetta,” said somebody else.
“Ah,”—the languid man—. “We find that the island gets bigger and bigger.”
Some daughters, English schoolgirls in bathing dresses, neat round the thighs, were laughing and jumping over the rift in the rock. And then a shriek.
“What’s happening? What’s happening, Eddie?”
“I think they’re jumping the crack.”
Elisabeth ran across and lay on her stomach and looked down into the slit rock and its channel of flowers. It was less then a yard wide. The spot of emerald ocean below seemed distant as the sky above. “Oh, if they slip! If they slip!” Betty yelled out.
But the girls’ mothers were sitting smoking and examining their nails, and one of them called, “They won’t. Don’t worry.”
Then one girl did. A leg went down and she had to be hauled out fast. Everyone laughed, except Elisabeth, who again lay face-down. There was the notion that there was no time, nor ever had been, nor ever would be. She said, “Eddie, there’s a little beach down there. I can see breakers. I’m going down by the path.”
“If there is a path.”
“I’ll find one. I’ll go alone. Don’t follow me.”
They had not been apart since the wedding.
The languid man lying near with his wine bottle called out, “I say, you’re the barrister chap, aren’t you? I want to ask you something.”
“I’m off. I’ll see you down there, Edward. Come for me in one of the cars. Don’t hurry.”
“You’ll miss the picnic.”
“Good. Don’t drink too much. The road down will be screwy. Might be safer to dive through the crack.”
Edward turned grey. He strode over and grabbed her arm above the elbow.
“Let go! Stop it! You’re like a tourniquet! Edward !”
His eyes were looking at someone she had never met.
Then he let go of her arm, sat down on the stony cliff and put his hands over his face. “Sorry.”
“I should think so.”
“I went back somewhere. I was about eight.”
“Eight?”
“I killed someone—”
“Oh, Eddie, shut up. I’m going . . . No, all right, then. All right . I won’t. Go and talk to that awful man. I’ll sit here by myself.”
“Something wrong?” the man called. “Honeymoon over? Something I said?”
“No,” said Edward.
“The war,” said the man. “POW, were you?”
“No. Were you?”
“God, no. Navy. Shore job. Ulcer. Left me low. Wife left too, thank God. Look.” He heaved himself up and came over to Edward. “Can you get me a job? In the Law line? Something like barristers’ clerk. No exams. Something easy.”
“Barristers’ clerks don’t have easy lives.”
“I’d really like just to stay here. On Malta. Do nothing. Just stay with our own sort.”
“I can’t stand this,” said Elisabeth. “Eddie, come with me down the cliff.” She stepped over the man and said, “Oh, drop dead,
“I love you, Edward Feathers. Why are we going off on a picnic with all these terrible people? We could be eating tinned pilchards with Mabel.”
“It’ll be tinned pilchard sandwiches on the cliffs. Come on, there’s a great swarm going. Planned for years. Since the end of the war. It’s all expats with no money, no education and big ideas. All drunk with sunlight. They drifted to Malta. They can’t go home. Nothing to do.”
“Is it the British Council?”
“Certainly not. It’s the riff-raff of Europe. The Sixpenny Settlers. We have to go. It’s polite. There’s to be wine.”
They arrived at the picnic where everyone was lolling about in the sun on what seemed to be an inland clifftop, though you could hear the sea far below. There was a long fissure on the plateau, stuffed full of flowers. There was a trickling sound of running water.
“I thought there were no streams on Malta,” she said.
“There is one. Only one,” said a languid man lying about nearby with a bottle of wine.
“We found it a year ago. Nobody knew of it. Yet it’s no distance from Valetta,” said somebody else.
“Ah,”—the languid man—. “We find that the island gets bigger and bigger.”
Some daughters, English schoolgirls in bathing dresses, neat round the thighs, were laughing and jumping over the rift in the rock. And then a shriek.
“What’s happening? What’s happening, Eddie?”
“I think they’re jumping the crack.”
Elisabeth ran across and lay on her stomach and looked down into the slit rock and its channel of flowers. It was less then a yard wide. The spot of emerald ocean below seemed distant as the sky above. “Oh, if they slip! If they slip!” Betty yelled out.
But the girls’ mothers were sitting smoking and examining their nails, and one of them called, “They won’t. Don’t worry.”
Then one girl did. A leg went down and she had to be hauled out fast. Everyone laughed, except Elisabeth, who again lay face-down. There was the notion that there was no time, nor ever had been, nor ever would be. She said, “Eddie, there’s a little beach down there. I can see breakers. I’m going down by the path.”
“If there is a path.”
“I’ll find one. I’ll go alone. Don’t follow me.”
They had not been apart since the wedding.
The languid man lying near with his wine bottle called out, “I say, you’re the barrister chap, aren’t you? I want to ask you something.”
“I’m off. I’ll see you down there, Edward. Come for me in one of the cars. Don’t hurry.”
“You’ll miss the picnic.”
“Good. Don’t drink too much. The road down will be screwy. Might be safer to dive through the crack.”
Edward turned grey. He strode over and grabbed her arm above the elbow.
“Let go! Stop it! You’re like a tourniquet! Edward !”
His eyes were looking at someone she had never met.
Then he let go of her arm, sat down on the stony cliff and put his hands over his face. “Sorry.”
“I should think so.”
“I went back somewhere. I was about eight.”
“Eight?”
“I killed someone—”
“Oh, Eddie, shut up. I’m going . . . No, all right, then. All right . I won’t. Go and talk to that awful man. I’ll sit here by myself.”
“Something wrong?” the man called. “Honeymoon over? Something I said?”
“No,” said Edward.
“The war,” said the man. “POW, were you?”
“No. Were you?”
“God, no. Navy. Shore job. Ulcer. Left me low. Wife left too, thank God. Look.” He heaved himself up and came over to Edward. “Can you get me a job? In the Law line? Something like barristers’ clerk. No exams. Something easy.”
“Barristers’ clerks don’t have easy lives.”
“I’d really like just to stay here. On Malta. Do nothing. Just stay with our own sort.”
“I can’t stand this,” said Elisabeth. “Eddie, come with me down the cliff.” She stepped over the man and said, “Oh, drop dead,
Similar Books
