though he knew it perfectly well; he would ask it in his gloomiest tone. He would be guilty of something, of everything. He would go to prison. Walter hung his head. His father had once said, 'Look after nature, Walt, and nature will look after you.' This seemed a tragically sad thing to Walter now; he couldn't think why.
It was several minutes before she threw down her shoe. It bounced, heel down, off the top his head and rolled into the moss. Now he would thrash her himself and see how she liked that. But when he looked up it was not Mary he saw, it was something else – a nymph perhaps, a thing that dwelt in a forest, and there it stood, on a branch, casual, as if this were not at all strange. 'Mary?' he said and she smiled back, though Walter would never be able to recollect this smile his whole life long, because it was her breasts he was concentrating on, her naked breasts to be precise, the only breasts he had ever seen, the only breasts he had ever thought about wanting to see. And all his boyhood dreams he hadn't yet dreamed and all his boyhood wishes he hadn't yet wished came true instantaneously, and somewhere in a darkened corner of Walter's head a star exploded.
'What y'starin' at then?'
Walter didn't answer. It was a complicated question.
'Do you like me then?'
There was no point in Walter trying to speak, so he didn't. Instead he sank to his knees, like a hind when the shot takes him cleanly, like his own poor father at the soft arrival of his death.
Sid Perfect and his friend, the Methodist Charles Sankey, had once made their living poaching. Sankey was from Lyme Regis. Something tragic had happened to him, though nobody could remember what exactly. The pair were dab hands with long nets, purse nets, gate nets. Like fishermen on dry land they could haul in rabbit, hare or game bird. On a weekend they would visit the White Horse and lose their sea legs altogether. You could see them pitching about like a couple of rubber pirates, tipping and falling, storm-tossed, until finally they would each vomit up a song and hit the deck.
Sankey used to join Sidney Perfect on well-lit nights with nets and spade. Everyone admired Perfect's ferrets. He had jills mainly, rather than dogs. They used to flush out scores of rabbits for Sankey to pop when they worked as a team. Sometimes they were in trouble over it and at other times a farmer would be only too grateful to get the rabbit numbers down before his crops were ravaged. Always an excellent shot, Sankey, but since he found God he had laid down his weapon and taken up The Word. Now he wouldn't hurt a fly, or a wasp, even as those very wasps devastated the orchards. Time was when a farmer would be only too glad of a team like Sankey and Perfect: rats, rabbits, pigeons, moles – a shilling per skin they got for mole pelts – even sparrows, a flock of a thousand or more might settle on a field of wheat and do for it. On a moonlit night the contrasting wide and narrow silhouettes of Sankey and Perfect with ferrets, purse nets and spade were as familiar in the nocturnal landscape as bats or barn owls.
Charles Sankey, meanwhile, had pretensions to preaching. He had never received any type of formal instruction, or even informal welcome, from any church in the parish of Hughenden or elsewhere. He had become a Methodist in Lyme Regis in 1922. He chose the Methodists because they seemed a cheery bunch compared to the other denominations. He knew nothing about it, but he liked the songs. He worshipped locally at the Widmer End Mission Hall. He made an occasional nuisance of himself, particularly where preacher Harry Blagdon was concerned. He was never without his hymnal, Sacred Songs and Solos, which he carried about him, though there wasn't a hymn in there he didn't know by heart. 'I know one thousand, one hundred and thirty-nine hymns by heart' – this is what he claimed and no one suggested putting it to the test. One day, out of love for God and clerical ambition
It was several minutes before she threw down her shoe. It bounced, heel down, off the top his head and rolled into the moss. Now he would thrash her himself and see how she liked that. But when he looked up it was not Mary he saw, it was something else – a nymph perhaps, a thing that dwelt in a forest, and there it stood, on a branch, casual, as if this were not at all strange. 'Mary?' he said and she smiled back, though Walter would never be able to recollect this smile his whole life long, because it was her breasts he was concentrating on, her naked breasts to be precise, the only breasts he had ever seen, the only breasts he had ever thought about wanting to see. And all his boyhood dreams he hadn't yet dreamed and all his boyhood wishes he hadn't yet wished came true instantaneously, and somewhere in a darkened corner of Walter's head a star exploded.
'What y'starin' at then?'
Walter didn't answer. It was a complicated question.
'Do you like me then?'
There was no point in Walter trying to speak, so he didn't. Instead he sank to his knees, like a hind when the shot takes him cleanly, like his own poor father at the soft arrival of his death.
Sid Perfect and his friend, the Methodist Charles Sankey, had once made their living poaching. Sankey was from Lyme Regis. Something tragic had happened to him, though nobody could remember what exactly. The pair were dab hands with long nets, purse nets, gate nets. Like fishermen on dry land they could haul in rabbit, hare or game bird. On a weekend they would visit the White Horse and lose their sea legs altogether. You could see them pitching about like a couple of rubber pirates, tipping and falling, storm-tossed, until finally they would each vomit up a song and hit the deck.
Sankey used to join Sidney Perfect on well-lit nights with nets and spade. Everyone admired Perfect's ferrets. He had jills mainly, rather than dogs. They used to flush out scores of rabbits for Sankey to pop when they worked as a team. Sometimes they were in trouble over it and at other times a farmer would be only too grateful to get the rabbit numbers down before his crops were ravaged. Always an excellent shot, Sankey, but since he found God he had laid down his weapon and taken up The Word. Now he wouldn't hurt a fly, or a wasp, even as those very wasps devastated the orchards. Time was when a farmer would be only too glad of a team like Sankey and Perfect: rats, rabbits, pigeons, moles – a shilling per skin they got for mole pelts – even sparrows, a flock of a thousand or more might settle on a field of wheat and do for it. On a moonlit night the contrasting wide and narrow silhouettes of Sankey and Perfect with ferrets, purse nets and spade were as familiar in the nocturnal landscape as bats or barn owls.
Charles Sankey, meanwhile, had pretensions to preaching. He had never received any type of formal instruction, or even informal welcome, from any church in the parish of Hughenden or elsewhere. He had become a Methodist in Lyme Regis in 1922. He chose the Methodists because they seemed a cheery bunch compared to the other denominations. He knew nothing about it, but he liked the songs. He worshipped locally at the Widmer End Mission Hall. He made an occasional nuisance of himself, particularly where preacher Harry Blagdon was concerned. He was never without his hymnal, Sacred Songs and Solos, which he carried about him, though there wasn't a hymn in there he didn't know by heart. 'I know one thousand, one hundred and thirty-nine hymns by heart' – this is what he claimed and no one suggested putting it to the test. One day, out of love for God and clerical ambition
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