sand alongside the jetty.
The
Major was there with his dog, a smartly clipped Westie terrier. The
man looked every inch the retired officer, dressed in gray slacks and
a blazer that bore a regimental patch on the breast pocket. The
clothes, like the man, had faded over the years.
Mrs
Jarvis had pulled her wheelchair to the edge of the pavement and sat
resting one foot on the low wall that separated sand from road. It
was common knowledge that she suffered from spinal cancer. She
wouldn't make Christmas.
A
car passed slowly down the road behind them. That would be the
Reverend Reed. He would never stand here with the other
Out-Butterwick residents, but Mark knew he would drive his old Austin
Maxi up and down the seafront road at least three more times before
the sun sank behind the salt marshes. No other vehicles would pass
this way tonight.
More
people arrived, most middle-aged to elderly. Apart from little Rosie
Tamworth. She must have been about thirteen now, but she had the mind
of a three-year-old and her hands shook in a palsied way.
He
watched. We're all creatures of habit. We come down here at the same
time, stand in the same place, and we probably all harbor the same
feelings in our guts-that same tense anticipation that draws every
muscle in your body taut like a bow string.
Brinley
Fox wasn't quite like the rest. With his head down, he paced the
beach, ferociously smoking a cigarette. The image of the
old-fashioned expectant father with his wife in the delivery room.
Tony
Gateman, the little Londoner, arrived panting from the exertion of
his hurried walk.
Tony
gave the American a brisk nod.
They
waited. The sense of anticipation grew.
No
one talked at these gatherings. Not yet anyway; not until the waiting
was over.
But
tonight Mark had something to tell the Londoner; it would have to
wait.
The
Major's dog gave a little yelp and began to pace backwards and
forward as far as the tartan leather lead would allow. The Major
appeared not to notice. He gazed out to sea. As did Mark and his
neighbors.
Fox
paced faster, kicking up a spurt of sand every time he switched back
in the other direction, never raising his eyes from the beach. The
sea did not exist for him. It held one object too many.
Chewing
his lip, Mark looked out across the sea which caught the last rays of
the sun. It looked real, real peaceful.
But
the seagulls, he noticed, were deserting the sky to flee inland.
There was a bad storm coming.
The
dog gave a yelping bark and twisted on its lead.
Mark
chewed his lip-harder. Was this it? Was it coming?
All
around him there were intakes of breath. They felt it too.
Mark
sensed it oozing through the place. A kind of electricity that ran
through everything. Right down to the sand crunching beneath his
feet. So strong he could almost taste it.
Then
it was gone. As quickly as it had come.
It
was only an advance wave of the thing they all waited for. Even
little Rosie Tamworth, moving wisps of blond hair from her
little-girl face with a shaking hand.
The
sense of anticipation waned. It would not happen tonight. Probably
not even tomorrow or next week, but some time-soon.
The
Major produced a tennis ball from his pocket and threw it down the
beach. The dog, unleashed, leapt after it as if it had been fired
from a mortar, the tension in its muscles exploding in a rush of
energy.
"Evening,
Tony," said Mark in his deep rumbling voice. "I've been
wanting to catch you."
"Talk
away."
"Have
you heard about the old seafort out at Manshead?"
The
Londoner shot Mark a startled look. "No. What about it?"
"Someone's
moving in." Mark watched Tony Gateman's reaction. It was what he
expected.
Pure
shock. "Who on earth would do that?"
"A
family. Met them a couple of days ago in the shop. They've got a
little lad about six years old."
"They're
moving in? Into the s-"
"Sshh
..." Mark's big tanned paw gripped Tony's forearm. Brinley Fox
was heading toward them.
Tony
used the
The
Major was there with his dog, a smartly clipped Westie terrier. The
man looked every inch the retired officer, dressed in gray slacks and
a blazer that bore a regimental patch on the breast pocket. The
clothes, like the man, had faded over the years.
Mrs
Jarvis had pulled her wheelchair to the edge of the pavement and sat
resting one foot on the low wall that separated sand from road. It
was common knowledge that she suffered from spinal cancer. She
wouldn't make Christmas.
A
car passed slowly down the road behind them. That would be the
Reverend Reed. He would never stand here with the other
Out-Butterwick residents, but Mark knew he would drive his old Austin
Maxi up and down the seafront road at least three more times before
the sun sank behind the salt marshes. No other vehicles would pass
this way tonight.
More
people arrived, most middle-aged to elderly. Apart from little Rosie
Tamworth. She must have been about thirteen now, but she had the mind
of a three-year-old and her hands shook in a palsied way.
He
watched. We're all creatures of habit. We come down here at the same
time, stand in the same place, and we probably all harbor the same
feelings in our guts-that same tense anticipation that draws every
muscle in your body taut like a bow string.
Brinley
Fox wasn't quite like the rest. With his head down, he paced the
beach, ferociously smoking a cigarette. The image of the
old-fashioned expectant father with his wife in the delivery room.
Tony
Gateman, the little Londoner, arrived panting from the exertion of
his hurried walk.
Tony
gave the American a brisk nod.
They
waited. The sense of anticipation grew.
No
one talked at these gatherings. Not yet anyway; not until the waiting
was over.
But
tonight Mark had something to tell the Londoner; it would have to
wait.
The
Major's dog gave a little yelp and began to pace backwards and
forward as far as the tartan leather lead would allow. The Major
appeared not to notice. He gazed out to sea. As did Mark and his
neighbors.
Fox
paced faster, kicking up a spurt of sand every time he switched back
in the other direction, never raising his eyes from the beach. The
sea did not exist for him. It held one object too many.
Chewing
his lip, Mark looked out across the sea which caught the last rays of
the sun. It looked real, real peaceful.
But
the seagulls, he noticed, were deserting the sky to flee inland.
There was a bad storm coming.
The
dog gave a yelping bark and twisted on its lead.
Mark
chewed his lip-harder. Was this it? Was it coming?
All
around him there were intakes of breath. They felt it too.
Mark
sensed it oozing through the place. A kind of electricity that ran
through everything. Right down to the sand crunching beneath his
feet. So strong he could almost taste it.
Then
it was gone. As quickly as it had come.
It
was only an advance wave of the thing they all waited for. Even
little Rosie Tamworth, moving wisps of blond hair from her
little-girl face with a shaking hand.
The
sense of anticipation waned. It would not happen tonight. Probably
not even tomorrow or next week, but some time-soon.
The
Major produced a tennis ball from his pocket and threw it down the
beach. The dog, unleashed, leapt after it as if it had been fired
from a mortar, the tension in its muscles exploding in a rush of
energy.
"Evening,
Tony," said Mark in his deep rumbling voice. "I've been
wanting to catch you."
"Talk
away."
"Have
you heard about the old seafort out at Manshead?"
The
Londoner shot Mark a startled look. "No. What about it?"
"Someone's
moving in." Mark watched Tony Gateman's reaction. It was what he
expected.
Pure
shock. "Who on earth would do that?"
"A
family. Met them a couple of days ago in the shop. They've got a
little lad about six years old."
"They're
moving in? Into the s-"
"Sshh
..." Mark's big tanned paw gripped Tony's forearm. Brinley Fox
was heading toward them.
Tony
used the
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