made a little dab at him. ‘Don’t be provoking! You know what I mean. The paper. Our news! The Island!’
‘Oh that. Yes, I saw that.’
‘Now, what do you think? Candidly. Do tell me.’
He answered her as he had answered Patrick Ferrier. One heard of such cases. Medically there could be no comment.
‘But you don’t pooh-pooh?’
No, no. He didn’t altogether do that. And now he really must –
As he moved away she said thoughtfully, ‘My little nephew is dreadfully afflicted. They are such an eyesore, aren’t they? And infectious, it’s thought. One can’t help wondering –’
His other patients were full of the news. One of them had a first cousin who suffered abominably from chronic asthma.
Miss Cost read it over and over again: especially the bit on page nine where it said what a martyr she’d been and how she had perfect faith in the waters. She didn’t remember calling them the Pixie Falls but now she came to think of it, the name was pretty. She wished she’d had time to do her hair before Mr Joyce’s friend had taken the snapshot and it would have been nicer if her mouth had been quite shut. But still. At low tide she strolled over to the newsagent’s shop in the village. All their copies of The Sun, unfortunately, had been sold. There had been quite a demand. Miss Cost looked with a professional and disparaging eye at the shop. Nothing really at all in the way of souvenirs and the postcards were very limited. She bought three of the Island and covered the available space with fine writing. Her friend with arthritic hands would be interested.
V
Major Barrimore finished his coffee and replaced the cup with a slightly unsteady hand. His immaculately shaven jaws wore their morning purple tinge and his eyes were dull.
‘Hasn’t been long about it,’ he said, referring to his copy of The Sun. ‘Don’t waste much time, these paper wallahs. Only happened day-before-yesterday.’
He looked at his wife. ‘Well. Haven’t you read it? ‘he asked.
‘I looked at it.’
‘I don’t know what’s got into you. Why’ve you got your knife into this reporter chap? Decent enough fellah of his type.’
‘Yes, I expect he is.’
‘It’ll create a lot of interest. Enormous circulation. Bring people in, I wouldn’t wonder. Quite a bit about The Boy-and-Lobster.’ She didn’t answer and he suddenly shouted at her. ‘Damn it, Margaret, you’re about as cheerful as a dead fish. You’d think there’d been a death on the Island instead of a cure. God knows we could do with some extra custom.’
‘I’m sorry, Keith. I know.’
He turned his paper to the racing page. ‘Where’s that son of yours?’ he said presently.
‘He and Jenny Williams were going to row round as usual to South Bay.’
‘Getting very thick, aren’t they?’
‘Not alarmingly so. She’s a dear girl.’
‘If you can stomach the accent.’
‘Hers is not so very strong do you think?’
‘P’raps not. She’s a fine strapping filly, I will say. Damn’ good legs. Oughtn’t he to be swotting?’
‘He’s working quite hard, really.’
‘Of course you’d say so.’ He lit a cigarette and returned to the racing notes. The telephone rang.
‘I will,’ said Mrs Barrimore.
She picked up the receiver. ‘Boy-and-Lobster. Yes. Yes.’ There was a loud crackle and she said to her husband, ‘It’s from London.’
‘If it’s Mrs Winterbottom,’ said her husband, referring to his suzerain. ‘I’m out.’
After a moment or two the call came through. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Certainly. Yes, we can. A single room? May I have your name?’
There were two other long-distance calls during the day. By the end of the week the five rooms at The Boy-and-Lobster were all engaged.
A correspondence had got underway in The Sun on the subject of faith-healing and unexplained cures. On Friday there were inquiries from a regular television programme.
The school holidays had started and Jenny Williams had come to the end of her job at Portcarrow.
VI
While the Barrimores were engaged in their breakfast discussion, the Rector and Mrs Carstairs were occupied with the same topic. The tone of their conversation was, however, dissimilar.
‘There!’ Mr Carstairs said, smacking The Sun as it lay by his plate. ‘There! Wretched creature! He’s gone and done it!’
‘’T, yes, so he has. I saw. Now for the butcher,’ said Mrs Carstairs who was worrying through the monthly bills.
‘No, Dulcie, but it’s too much. I’m furious,’ said the Rector uncertainly. ‘I’m livid.’
‘Are you? Why? Because of the vulgarity or what? And what,’ Mrs Carstairs continued, ‘does Nankivell mean by saying “2 lbs bst fil.” when we never order fillet let alone best? Stewing steak at the utmost. He must be mad.’
‘It’s not only the vulgarity, Dulcie. It’s the effect on the village.’
‘What effect? And threepence ha’penny is twelve, two, four. It doesn’t even begin to make sense.’
‘It’s not that I don’t rejoice for the boy. I do. I rejoice like anything and remember it in my prayers.’
‘Of course you do,’ said his wife.
‘That’s my whole point. One should be grateful and not jump to conclusions.’
‘I shall speak to Nankivell. What conclusions?’
‘Some ass,’ said the Rector, ‘has put it into the Treherns’ heads that – O dear! – that there’s been a – a –’
‘Miracle?’
‘Don’t! One shouldn’t. It’s not a word to be bandied about. And they are bandying it about, those two.’
‘So much for Nankivell and his rawhide,’ she said, turning to the next bill. ‘No, dear, I’m sure it’s not. All the same it is rather wonderful.’
‘So are all recoveries. Witnesses to God’s mercy, my love.’
‘Were
