of Mrs. Prothero, serenading her.
Behind the bathing-machines, he replaced the telescope in his Gladstone bag, pausing as if undecided whether to leave the beach. A second later, a small, flaxen-curled infant came round the side. Moscrop bent down. ‘Hello, hello, little man. And where would you be going? To buy some barley sugar, no doubt. We’ll go that way together.’ When Jason looked doubtful about the proposition, the telescope was miraculously planted in his hands. Moscrop held one end and Jason the other. The sweet-shop was one of a row built into the arches under the promenade. The others sold fresh fish, fruit and baskets coated with shells. There was a wooden seat just within the arch, out of sight of the beach. He helped Jason on to it and gave him a stick of barley sugar.
The abduction—or, rather, enticement—lasted about fifteen minutes, by which time the barley sugar had rolled under the seat, the telescope, coated with sticky fingerprints, was replaced in the bag and Jason was bawling more loudly than the fishwife next door. Moscrop purchased a stick of liquorice, which might conceivably have resembled a telescope, offered it, had it rejected, stuffed it in his pocket, snatched up child and bag and started back across the pebbles towards the upturned boat.
Bridget was standing alone, biting her finger-nails in anguish. When she saw Moscrop approaching, she stumbled across the shingle to meet him. ‘Oh sir, you’ve brought him back to me safe! Let me take him. Mistress is out of her mind with worry. She’s down by the water there, looking for him. We thought he was drowned, for sure!’
‘I recognised you from Saturday afternoon,’ he explained, to make his sudden arrival quite clear.
‘Why, of course! The gentleman who helped me up the stairs! Oh, Mistress will be so grateful. We must wave to her.’
They waved. Mrs. Prothero saw them, clutched her hand to her forehead and waved back. It was one of the finest moments of Moscrop’s life.
‘I don’t know how we should have told the master,’ said Bridget. ‘Guy went off—Master Guy, that is—to see if them black-faced men had kidnapped him.’
Mrs. Prothero was coming quickly up the beach. Moscrop took the liquorice from his pocket, pushed it into Jason’s hand and curled the little fingers firmly over it. ‘We passed a sweet-shop,’ he explained to Bridget with a shy smile.
‘How very kind! Oh, Mrs. Prothero, Ma’am, there you are. This gentleman has brought Jason back safe, with not one curl of his little head harmed, and bought him sweets as well!’
‘Albert Moscrop, Ma’am. It was nothing at all.’
‘Nothing?’ She stood a yard from him, fixing him unexpectedly with a ferocious pout from under the hat. ‘You can’t mean it. Jason Prothero lost without trace, his Ma in a state of advanced hysteria, the beach about to be turned over stone by stone and you arrive from nowhere with the child in your arms and describe it as nothing! He’s a wilful little beast, I grant you. Call him what you like, my dear, but don’t hand him back to his demented mother like a dropped handkerchief.’
Her voice was pitched low, the words exquisitely mouthed, and all the more devastating for that.
He fumbled for a response. ‘On the contrary, Ma’am. A beautiful child. I . . . s>. . . . !s>. . . . !s>.’
‘Good God!’ she said. ‘I’ve offended the man. I’m the most tactless woman alive, Mr. . . . Mr. . . . s>. . . . !s>. . . . !s>.’
‘Moscrop, Ma’am.’
‘A name to remember. Understand that I’m most awfully grateful. Words cannot suffice. I was on the brink of despair. A desperate woman, Mr. . . . what did you say it was, darling?’
‘Moscrop.’ This was so unlike the scene he had visualised. He groped back to his prepared speech. ‘It was providential that I recognised your servant, Ma’am. I gave her a helping hand when she was trying to negotiate the Aquarium steps with a pram the other afternoon. If I
Behind the bathing-machines, he replaced the telescope in his Gladstone bag, pausing as if undecided whether to leave the beach. A second later, a small, flaxen-curled infant came round the side. Moscrop bent down. ‘Hello, hello, little man. And where would you be going? To buy some barley sugar, no doubt. We’ll go that way together.’ When Jason looked doubtful about the proposition, the telescope was miraculously planted in his hands. Moscrop held one end and Jason the other. The sweet-shop was one of a row built into the arches under the promenade. The others sold fresh fish, fruit and baskets coated with shells. There was a wooden seat just within the arch, out of sight of the beach. He helped Jason on to it and gave him a stick of barley sugar.
The abduction—or, rather, enticement—lasted about fifteen minutes, by which time the barley sugar had rolled under the seat, the telescope, coated with sticky fingerprints, was replaced in the bag and Jason was bawling more loudly than the fishwife next door. Moscrop purchased a stick of liquorice, which might conceivably have resembled a telescope, offered it, had it rejected, stuffed it in his pocket, snatched up child and bag and started back across the pebbles towards the upturned boat.
Bridget was standing alone, biting her finger-nails in anguish. When she saw Moscrop approaching, she stumbled across the shingle to meet him. ‘Oh sir, you’ve brought him back to me safe! Let me take him. Mistress is out of her mind with worry. She’s down by the water there, looking for him. We thought he was drowned, for sure!’
‘I recognised you from Saturday afternoon,’ he explained, to make his sudden arrival quite clear.
‘Why, of course! The gentleman who helped me up the stairs! Oh, Mistress will be so grateful. We must wave to her.’
They waved. Mrs. Prothero saw them, clutched her hand to her forehead and waved back. It was one of the finest moments of Moscrop’s life.
‘I don’t know how we should have told the master,’ said Bridget. ‘Guy went off—Master Guy, that is—to see if them black-faced men had kidnapped him.’
Mrs. Prothero was coming quickly up the beach. Moscrop took the liquorice from his pocket, pushed it into Jason’s hand and curled the little fingers firmly over it. ‘We passed a sweet-shop,’ he explained to Bridget with a shy smile.
‘How very kind! Oh, Mrs. Prothero, Ma’am, there you are. This gentleman has brought Jason back safe, with not one curl of his little head harmed, and bought him sweets as well!’
‘Albert Moscrop, Ma’am. It was nothing at all.’
‘Nothing?’ She stood a yard from him, fixing him unexpectedly with a ferocious pout from under the hat. ‘You can’t mean it. Jason Prothero lost without trace, his Ma in a state of advanced hysteria, the beach about to be turned over stone by stone and you arrive from nowhere with the child in your arms and describe it as nothing! He’s a wilful little beast, I grant you. Call him what you like, my dear, but don’t hand him back to his demented mother like a dropped handkerchief.’
Her voice was pitched low, the words exquisitely mouthed, and all the more devastating for that.
He fumbled for a response. ‘On the contrary, Ma’am. A beautiful child. I . . . s>. . . . !s>. . . . !s>.’
‘Good God!’ she said. ‘I’ve offended the man. I’m the most tactless woman alive, Mr. . . . Mr. . . . s>. . . . !s>. . . . !s>.’
‘Moscrop, Ma’am.’
‘A name to remember. Understand that I’m most awfully grateful. Words cannot suffice. I was on the brink of despair. A desperate woman, Mr. . . . what did you say it was, darling?’
‘Moscrop.’ This was so unlike the scene he had visualised. He groped back to his prepared speech. ‘It was providential that I recognised your servant, Ma’am. I gave her a helping hand when she was trying to negotiate the Aquarium steps with a pram the other afternoon. If I
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