In the Time of Greenbloom (45 page)

“You silly little sod! Get out of my way I tell you.”

A hand grasped him by the lapels and he was thrust to one side with horrible violence. The stranger disappeared inside the tent.

John stepped forward to the entrance.

“All right! I'll send the girls for the Police and I'll wait
here until they come. I'm sorry but I can't let you go—not
now
.”

There was no answer from inside the tent, he watched the nooses of the cords which fastened the flaps being drawn slowly tight from the inside and made his way back to the girls.

“Whatever's the matter?” asked Audrey. She turned to Sheila. “He looks queer, doesn't he?”

“He looks all right. What were you talking about to Desmond? Did you want him to light your cigarette?”

“He's stolen my wallet,” said John, lying with immediate inspiration. “I saw it in his pocket and he won't give it back to me. I want one of you to go and get a policeman—there's one on duty on the promenade. If you don't mind I'll wait here while you get him so that your friend can't escape.”

They looked at him with astonishment.

“Your wallet? Are you sure?” asked Sheila.

“Of course I'm sure.” He was impatient. “Do you think I
want
a scene! For heaven's sake hurry up and get a policeman—
please
. It has all my month's pocket money in it: five pounds—”

“But he can't have stolen your wallet. He's never been near your tent.”

“How do you know?” he asked. “You haven't been with him all the time. He might have taken it from the back of the tent on his way to the beach. He was late getting here, wasn't he? He's a stranger—you've never met him before, have you? It would be easy to dodge down below the edge of the promenade and put a hand under the tent. And anyway, my wallet's in his pocket.”

Sheila got up.

“It
could
be! You did only meet him yesterday, Aud, and there
has
been a lot of pocket picking this summer. Anyway, if one of us is going to go for the police it'd better be me because I've got my clothes on.”

“Don't be silly,” said Audrey. “There's three of us to one of him. We don't want our names in the
Worthing Gazette
.
I'll soon see about this.” She ran over to the tent and they followed her.

“Desmond!” she called and they waited. “Can you come out a minute? It's Audrey, there's been a misunderstanding—”

There was no answer, and Audrey turned to John.

“He must be very annoyed,” she said, “and I don't wonder. But if you're quite sure—?”

“I am.”

“Well then you'd better go in. If he starts any trouble we can soon get help.”

John undid the fastenings and pulled aside the flap of the tent.

“Come out!”

They peered in: the tent was empty. The canvas at the back had been neatly divided by a sharp knife and through the rent, vibrating coarsely in the wind, they could see the legs and feet of people passing on the promenade directly behind.

“Well, if that doesn't beat everything!”

It was Sheila who had spoken, and with a strange concerted impulse, a desire to ascertain what was already quite certain, they followed her as she stepped in to the barren rectangle.

“I told you I didn't like the look of him from the very first.”

Audrey bit her lip. “It's a Corporation tent!” she said. “We'll have to pay for it.”

“That's nothing! What about this boy's wallet and the five pounds? Now we
shall
be in the papers.”

They stepped out into the sunshine again. They felt isolated, quite separate from everyone else on the beach, disposed to take some positive action but quite unsure of its nature. They noticed little things about one another's faces and mannerisms. They were both embarrassed and indifferent.

Sheila was the first to speak. “It just shows,” she said.

“It shows what?” asked Audrey keenly.

“
My type
indeed! I wouldn't have taken up with
him
,
introductions or no introductions. He couldn't even look us in the eyes when he was talking; and I don't wonder.”

Audrey opened a beach bag and taking out a packet of cigarettes lighted one.

“Well you made enough fuss of him when he was here taking the photographs. You even wanted him to take one of you by yourself.” She hurried into the tent again as though she were seeking a hiding-place where she would be safe from Sheila's reply. They heard her voice:

“I wonder if he's pinched anything else—I left my handbag in here.”

“Oh
there
you are Bowden!” Behind them someone had spoken and John turned guiltily.

It was Peter, immaculate in white flannels, his pink face glowing with tennis and disapproval.

“There's been a theft,” said Sheila.

“A theft? What of?”

“Oh nothing,” said John quickly. “I'm sorry I was late—I'll explain on the way back.”

Sheila was looking at Peter with interest.

“Are you a friend of his?”

“I hope so.”

“Well, he's had his pocket picked. We were all lying here on the beach and a man friend of my friend Audrey's joined us; he was a stranger really—”

“He wasn't,” said Audrey emerging from the tent. “I was introduced to him last night at the Imperial—”

Sheila frowned at her, smiled at Peter and went on: “All right then—he was a friend of Audrey's and he joined us about half an hour ago and somehow managed to steal your friend's wallet.” She turned to John. “You saw it in his pocket didn't you, and it had five pounds in it.”

“Five
pounds
. Are you sure, Bowden?”

“Yes—just about; but look here! oughtn't we to be going? The Old Man said we had to be there at five.” He wanted time to think behind the lies he had been forced to tell.

“
Quite
!” This was Peter's latest expression. He had picked
it up from the other cashiers at the Bank. “But I don't think we ought to leave things like this. Five pounds sterling is the dickens of a lot. Mr Victor will be very worried if we don't do something about it. Have you reported it to the Police?”

“No.” It was Sheila again and John was beginning to feel like a Punch and Judy operator who finds that his puppets have come to life and are involving him in terrible difficulties with the audience. “That's just what I was going to say.” She paused for effect and smiled up at Peter. “Perhaps we ought to introduce ourselves? I've seen you before of course but I don't expect you remember me. I sometimes come to the tennis club with a friend of mine for tea—my name's Sheila Miller. If you like I'll come with you to the Police Station.”

Peter coughed. John wondered why he always made him think of
Three Men in a Boat
. He realised that thoughts so trivial, so minimally caustic, should not arise at such a time; but he had observed before that when people were subjected to stress they very frequently had recourse to trifles. He had heard of people endangering their lives by searching for collar studs on sinking liners. Peter was still apologising.

“—Kind of you Miss Miller; but I think I ought to discuss it with Bowden here first. You see, in a way I am his senior—little difficult to explain just now. Thank you for all you've done though—er, when did this man disappear? Did he say he was going—make some excuse or something?”

“No,” said Sheila. “He only said he was going to have a bathe so we offered to lend him our tent and he went in there to change and never came out again.” She twitched aside the tent flap. “You can see what he did. He just cut open the back with a razor or something and went straight out on to the promenade. By now he'll have packed up his bags at the hotel and be off in his car somewhere else.”

“The Imperial's only two minutes walk from here.”

“Exactly,” said John. “That's why I didn't want to waste any more time.” He did not want to mention the word ‘Confession'. “I think the best thing we can do is to keep our
appointment and I'll report the whole thing to Mr Victor when we get in.”

He moved away eagerly and saw that the action had had the desired effect on Peter, who, torn between embarrassment and politeness was standing hesitantly in front of the two girls.

“Quite! Yes, I think you're right, Bowden.”

“Well, come on then!”

“Er—Goodbye and thank you very much—both of you.”

“Oh that's all right,” said Sheila. “If you want us you'll always find us here. We'd like to know what happens, wouldn't we Audrey? It'll teach us to be more careful next time, and all that. He must have been a real criminal; so convincing, so quick with his lies and his razor.”

“Don't be stupid,” retorted Audrey. “Nothing's proved yet. I bet if people started accusing you of stealing you might do just the same as he did, supposing you had the brains to think of it.”

“That's as may be! But personally I thought he was nasty from the moment he arrived.” Sheila smiled at Peter again. “I always go by first impressions, don't you Mr—”

“Probitt,” said Peter. “Er—Peter Probitt.”

Good God, thought John, she's interested in him; she never asked me
my
name.

He turned round and whistled vulgarly at Peter between his teeth accompanying the summons with a jerk of his head towards the promenade.

Peter's smooth forehead creased with vexation.

“Have some manners, Bowden,” he said angrily, and then, extending his hand to Sheila, “Well, thank you Miss Miller. I don't know what will come of all this; but if necessary I'll get in touch with you later.”

As they touched hands Audrey turned away and started to gather together the beach clothes. With some element of the sorrow he was unable to feel for himself or for the murderer John found that for a moment he was able to be sorry for Audrey. He turned away and began to climb the steps to the
promenade. Peter followed him and together they made their way along it.

For some minutes they moved towards the Pier without speaking. John resisted the urge to walk in step with his companion and continued to progress obstinately and in disunity by taking one and a half small steps to every pace of Peter's. Obscurely, he felt that he was handcuffed to him, that the people they passed must be aware of the guilt with which Peter would surely be clothing him; that such people must be embarrassed to see him being led so ignominiously home to Mr Victor via Father Delaura and his Confession.

He even fancied that as they approached, other persons on the promenade swerved a little to one side and looked the other way; and though with one part of his mind he knew the fancy to be absurd, with the other he continued to justify it because in a deeper sense he knew it to be true.

Peter knew that he had been lying about the five pounds, or that if unknown to Mr Victor he had indeed possessed such a sum then it must either have been dishonestly acquired or purposely concealed. Peter must also be quite certain that he had struck up a guilty friendship with Sheila and Audrey and would now be convinced that his real purpose in visiting the beach had been to develop it. In this way, Peter, partially wrong in each of his conclusions, was nevertheless right in his assumption that John was a liar.

The lie had been forced on him by his unwillingness to account for the disappearance of the stranger, and this reluctance had in turn arisen from the terrible associations he had wished to forget; but centrally his lie had made the whole of him suspect to such an extent that he was unable to know how much or how little he was blameworthy.

In this state of mind his only comfort lay in the fact that he felt Peter himself to be involved in the consequences of the guilt which had spread outwards from the act of the murderer two years ago. Peter's smugness would lead him to further arrogance; though some was due he would give no credit at all to John's motive in lying; he would enjoy the power the
lie gave him both with regard to John and to the favour he would expect to find with Mr Victor; without ever realising he had done so, he would harden his already complacent heart and be for a time insensible of the harm that had been done to him.

Walking along through the wind past the cream-painted hotels the green balconies and the scarlet fusillades of the Council geraniums, this idea enchanted John. He extended it gradually to include the people who passed them: old ladies in basket-work chairs, humble dazed-looking people in poorer clothes sitting on the official seats and in the bare glass shelters. He saw them all as being unwittingly involved in what had happened; all in greater or lesser degree guilty, and only very few of them knowing it. He at least, he thought with a sudden jubilation, was not ignorant of his guilt and what was more was on his way to his confession, would shortly be approaching One who must understand, and who though He was not given to weighing merits was at least as capable of it as of pardoning offences.

They turned down to St Jude's Church and for the first time Peter spoke:

“You know, Bowden, if you really did lose five pounds I think perhaps I ought to go straight to the Police after I have introduced you to Father Delaura.”

“I'd rather you didn't.”

“I'm sure you would! But frankly I think Mr Victor would say it was very slack of us to have delayed so long—I suppose, by the way, he knows you had the money? I mean there's no chance of our concealing it from him?”

“No, he does
not
know.”

“Really?”

“Why should he know everything? He's not
my
guardian. If my people like to send me a little money, it's no business of his.”

“But then of course one of your girl-friends might report it; in which case—”

“They're
not
my girl-friends—I'd never spoken to them before this afternoon.”