lady.
My curiosity flared. I gave them some minutes, then I too moved out, catching as I did so a frown from Mrs. Holst. Guessing that Miss Begley would have led the officer down the path to see the view, I took an opposite direction, back down the lane, and turned inland to climb. Cutting across the higher slopes, I reached a point on the crag above and behind the house where, if I lay forward on the heather, I could see all of Lamb’s Head and not be seen.
There they stood, far below me, on the slope that led down to the jetty. Miller had taken up a position beside Miss Begley that spoke of responsibility,attention, respect. She, clearly telling him something in detail, laid a hand on his arm now and then; she moved in close, stepped back, moved in again. He in his olive green uniform, she in her yellow gingham checks—they looked like couples we’ve all seen so often in films. The wind tried to get fresh with her skirt, and in the distance below them, the sea kept coursing to the land, trying again and again to climb ashore.
Then, something changed. He turned from viewing the ocean and began to speak to her in a more direct, focused way. She took a large step back from him, as though startled. He followed, reached for her, took her arm, held it, and wouldn’t let go. She subsided and listened with all her force. I didn’t feel anything sinister—but I did sense an urgency.
In the months and years ahead, that picture came back to my mind so many times.
A couple on a cliff top, a more intense Heathcliff and Cathy:
That was one thought I had, and yet there was something disturbing there, something that alarmed her—and drew her to him. My mind filled up with questions:
He wants something from her? What is it? He matches her eagerness—why? Is he challenging her in some way?
Time proved that I misinterpreted it all. He wasn’t propositioning her with a soldier’s wartime opportunism. Lewdness, crass advantage, sex, even the borrowing of money—I considered every possibility, but none had a part to play. Down there on the headland’s edge, a more sinister matter was taking shape—a profound and dangerous transaction between those two people who had first met just an hour ago.
17
September 1943
The Sunday at Lamb’s Head ended as I expected. Mr. Miller held out an arm, Miss Begley accepted it, and they toiled back up the crags. I slid backward, got to my feet, ran down to the lane, and was in my kitchen chair again before they reached the front door. Of a sudden, I had begun to feel angry, but I did my best to push the mood away.
With many thanks, words of appreciation, promises to write, all the trimmings of excellent manners, the visitors prepared to go. Miss Begley walked across to where I sat and murmured to me in a quick, low voice.
“Go with them and find out everything about him. I’ll drop you a note to the post office at Valentia.” I’d already told her my next port of call. She didn’t have to specify Mr. Miller.
I watched with care how Miller took his leave of her, but I didn’t watch nearly as closely as Mrs. Holst. The officer bent over Miss Begley’s hand, bowing slightly from the waist, almost old-fashioned but not exaggerated. She, cool now, said how nice it had been and hoped they’d all come again. The grandmother circled, her eyes narrowing.
Outside in the sunshine came another urgent murmur from Miss Begley: “Can we make a bargain?”
I said, “Oh?”
She grabbed my arm. “You help me and I’ll help you. All right?”
From that moment on, I felt it unnatural to refuse anything she asked.
In Killarney the Americans and I said our good-byes. From their map I advised their best route; they said they’d stay in Galway overnight. Exhorted to find out all I could about Mr. Miller, I wrote down his address.
“I hope we meet again,” I said.
He said, “I never asked what it is you do.” When I told him, he said, “That’s so neat! I wish I could come with you
My curiosity flared. I gave them some minutes, then I too moved out, catching as I did so a frown from Mrs. Holst. Guessing that Miss Begley would have led the officer down the path to see the view, I took an opposite direction, back down the lane, and turned inland to climb. Cutting across the higher slopes, I reached a point on the crag above and behind the house where, if I lay forward on the heather, I could see all of Lamb’s Head and not be seen.
There they stood, far below me, on the slope that led down to the jetty. Miller had taken up a position beside Miss Begley that spoke of responsibility,attention, respect. She, clearly telling him something in detail, laid a hand on his arm now and then; she moved in close, stepped back, moved in again. He in his olive green uniform, she in her yellow gingham checks—they looked like couples we’ve all seen so often in films. The wind tried to get fresh with her skirt, and in the distance below them, the sea kept coursing to the land, trying again and again to climb ashore.
Then, something changed. He turned from viewing the ocean and began to speak to her in a more direct, focused way. She took a large step back from him, as though startled. He followed, reached for her, took her arm, held it, and wouldn’t let go. She subsided and listened with all her force. I didn’t feel anything sinister—but I did sense an urgency.
In the months and years ahead, that picture came back to my mind so many times.
A couple on a cliff top, a more intense Heathcliff and Cathy:
That was one thought I had, and yet there was something disturbing there, something that alarmed her—and drew her to him. My mind filled up with questions:
He wants something from her? What is it? He matches her eagerness—why? Is he challenging her in some way?
Time proved that I misinterpreted it all. He wasn’t propositioning her with a soldier’s wartime opportunism. Lewdness, crass advantage, sex, even the borrowing of money—I considered every possibility, but none had a part to play. Down there on the headland’s edge, a more sinister matter was taking shape—a profound and dangerous transaction between those two people who had first met just an hour ago.
17
September 1943
The Sunday at Lamb’s Head ended as I expected. Mr. Miller held out an arm, Miss Begley accepted it, and they toiled back up the crags. I slid backward, got to my feet, ran down to the lane, and was in my kitchen chair again before they reached the front door. Of a sudden, I had begun to feel angry, but I did my best to push the mood away.
With many thanks, words of appreciation, promises to write, all the trimmings of excellent manners, the visitors prepared to go. Miss Begley walked across to where I sat and murmured to me in a quick, low voice.
“Go with them and find out everything about him. I’ll drop you a note to the post office at Valentia.” I’d already told her my next port of call. She didn’t have to specify Mr. Miller.
I watched with care how Miller took his leave of her, but I didn’t watch nearly as closely as Mrs. Holst. The officer bent over Miss Begley’s hand, bowing slightly from the waist, almost old-fashioned but not exaggerated. She, cool now, said how nice it had been and hoped they’d all come again. The grandmother circled, her eyes narrowing.
Outside in the sunshine came another urgent murmur from Miss Begley: “Can we make a bargain?”
I said, “Oh?”
She grabbed my arm. “You help me and I’ll help you. All right?”
From that moment on, I felt it unnatural to refuse anything she asked.
In Killarney the Americans and I said our good-byes. From their map I advised their best route; they said they’d stay in Galway overnight. Exhorted to find out all I could about Mr. Miller, I wrote down his address.
“I hope we meet again,” I said.
He said, “I never asked what it is you do.” When I told him, he said, “That’s so neat! I wish I could come with you
Similar Books
