the wall on which sat thepatient humpty-dumpty, smiling in the face of his imminent fall and the tsunami. Les knew Toby, and I introduced him to Peter.
âI donât think the tsunami will persist across all that ocean,â said Peter.
âThe what?â said Les.
âThe tidal wave. He means the tidal wave,â put in Toby and I.
âThat bloody thing,â said Les with belittling contempt, looking not out to sea, but towards the car and his landlady. He tipped the apple wine down his throat without appearing to swallow. We could hear its unimpeded gurgle as it went down, and we began to drink more rapidly to keep up. Les cast a malaise over our group, interrupting the established pattern of our relationships. He was interested only in his own problems, and our wine.
His impatience seemed to extend to the people along the foreshore below. The tsunami had not come; promises of something different had failed once again. Some people began to leave for the city, and only those with nothing they wished to return to remained. A few roared their cars across the asphalt frontage of the beach, while others stood in the sand-dunes and pelted beer bottles with stones.
When the wine was finished, Les said heâd better take his landlady home. I walked part of the way towards the car with him to show a fitting sense of comradeship for a fellow old boy whose secret I shared. By now he wished he hadnât told me, of course, and not being able to say just that, he got in some remark about how heavy I was. I saw him cross the rough grass of the playground, walking in his round-shouldered, rather furtive way. I felt no loyalty whatsoever, and told Toby and Peter as soon as I rejoined them. We watched Les and Mrs Reid having a last look down to the beach. She was talking, and waved a hand dismissively towards the ocean. Her strong hips and jutting breasts seemed to accentuate Leslieâs stooped concavity.
âServe him right. Serve him damn right,â said Toby. It wasnât a moral judgement, rather a reference to all those nights on which Leshad returned to his landlady, and Toby had fretted his time away with cards and bitter study.
Les and Mrs Reid drove quite close to regain the road. I could see her mouth opening and closing quickly as she talked to him, and Les glanced at me as they passed. It was his own smile, though, inwardly directed and not for me. His tilted, Spanish smile which he still wore as he turned the car again and began to drive down the hill. Elizabeth Reid had turned sideways somewhat in the seat, the better to watch him as she talked, and her mouth opened and closed effortlessly. It was a recollection which I found hard to shake off as we ourselves left. Peter was in a good humour because the tsunami had failed as he had predicted, but the unwanted glimpse of Leslie Fosterâs life had chilled my mood, and Tobyâs too in a different way. He sat silently, holding the empty wine flask between his knees, and reflecting on his unwilling celibacy.
Before tea, as I prepared the vegetables, I listened to a government seismologist on the radio explaining why the tidal wave hadnât come. I suppose he was a different seismologist from the one the papers had quoted the day before. I called out to the others to say it was on the news about the tidal wave not coming.
âTsunami,â said Peter.
âRight.â
âThe tsunami certainly came for old Les Foster, though, didnât it? Talk about shock wave,â said Toby. How we laughed at that. Toby and Peter came into the kitchen so we could see one another as we laughed, and better share the joke. All youth is pagan, and we believed that as the gods were satisfied with their sport, the rest of us were safe awhile. âCame for old Les all right, the tsunami.â Even as I laughed I saw again Les and his landlady as they drove away, and that inward smile upon his face. As a drowning man might smile, for they
âI donât think the tsunami will persist across all that ocean,â said Peter.
âThe what?â said Les.
âThe tidal wave. He means the tidal wave,â put in Toby and I.
âThat bloody thing,â said Les with belittling contempt, looking not out to sea, but towards the car and his landlady. He tipped the apple wine down his throat without appearing to swallow. We could hear its unimpeded gurgle as it went down, and we began to drink more rapidly to keep up. Les cast a malaise over our group, interrupting the established pattern of our relationships. He was interested only in his own problems, and our wine.
His impatience seemed to extend to the people along the foreshore below. The tsunami had not come; promises of something different had failed once again. Some people began to leave for the city, and only those with nothing they wished to return to remained. A few roared their cars across the asphalt frontage of the beach, while others stood in the sand-dunes and pelted beer bottles with stones.
When the wine was finished, Les said heâd better take his landlady home. I walked part of the way towards the car with him to show a fitting sense of comradeship for a fellow old boy whose secret I shared. By now he wished he hadnât told me, of course, and not being able to say just that, he got in some remark about how heavy I was. I saw him cross the rough grass of the playground, walking in his round-shouldered, rather furtive way. I felt no loyalty whatsoever, and told Toby and Peter as soon as I rejoined them. We watched Les and Mrs Reid having a last look down to the beach. She was talking, and waved a hand dismissively towards the ocean. Her strong hips and jutting breasts seemed to accentuate Leslieâs stooped concavity.
âServe him right. Serve him damn right,â said Toby. It wasnât a moral judgement, rather a reference to all those nights on which Leshad returned to his landlady, and Toby had fretted his time away with cards and bitter study.
Les and Mrs Reid drove quite close to regain the road. I could see her mouth opening and closing quickly as she talked to him, and Les glanced at me as they passed. It was his own smile, though, inwardly directed and not for me. His tilted, Spanish smile which he still wore as he turned the car again and began to drive down the hill. Elizabeth Reid had turned sideways somewhat in the seat, the better to watch him as she talked, and her mouth opened and closed effortlessly. It was a recollection which I found hard to shake off as we ourselves left. Peter was in a good humour because the tsunami had failed as he had predicted, but the unwanted glimpse of Leslie Fosterâs life had chilled my mood, and Tobyâs too in a different way. He sat silently, holding the empty wine flask between his knees, and reflecting on his unwilling celibacy.
Before tea, as I prepared the vegetables, I listened to a government seismologist on the radio explaining why the tidal wave hadnât come. I suppose he was a different seismologist from the one the papers had quoted the day before. I called out to the others to say it was on the news about the tidal wave not coming.
âTsunami,â said Peter.
âRight.â
âThe tsunami certainly came for old Les Foster, though, didnât it? Talk about shock wave,â said Toby. How we laughed at that. Toby and Peter came into the kitchen so we could see one another as we laughed, and better share the joke. All youth is pagan, and we believed that as the gods were satisfied with their sport, the rest of us were safe awhile. âCame for old Les all right, the tsunami.â Even as I laughed I saw again Les and his landlady as they drove away, and that inward smile upon his face. As a drowning man might smile, for they
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