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A single white Cowry
In the autumn a few years after the fighting finished, in the village by the sound, quite out of the blue there was knock on the door. It was awfully queer, coming at this time, she thought.
It was only their third night in the house, and she felt a little aprehensive, but as George was having a look at the boiler in the loft, with Mister Tretherscombe from next door, she thought she'd better go and see who it was, and she put her darning down and got up to see.
The cottage had a thick wooden door- the man from the agency said they all did, to keep the sea breeze off, local tradition, double-braced, and no woodworm, he could assure her. She hadn't paid much attention then. As she opened it, it seemed a little heavier than ever before.
Before it was even halfway open the person who had been knocking let out a vocal sound, a very ordinary sort of affirmative welcoming sound that anyone might make, back in London or anywhere, but inflected with the rolling accent of these parts, and in that second it seemed a little off, a little too triumphant.
When she opened the door fully the sound of the sea rose thickly and sudden, as if it had been at low tide while the door was shut and had now rushed back in fast as a flash. He turned out to be a man of about thirty, wearing fairly well-to-do clothes. He had dark hair and brown eyes, and he was smiling.
“Hello, pet. Have you got some time?”
Behind him, the water turned and rolled in grey hills and troughs beyond the concrete sea-wall. The sky was the darkest, deepest shade of near-sunset. His smile remained.
“The time?”, she asked.
“Aye, ma'm, have you got some time?”
She turned and looked back into the house quickly, chekcing the clock.
“It's nine.”
“Nine?”
His questioning face kept it's eyes on her.
“Yes. Nine o'clock. Is that everything?”
“Have you got some time?”
“I'm sorry, I'm not sure what you mean, you see we're new here-”
“Ma'm, I was just wondering if you've got some time.”
His breathing, that was what was troubling her, and she knew exactly what it was, it was like George's friend Malcolm who took a historic bullet at Monte Casino, and breathed painfully, and children were sometimes put off by it. This put to rest, she said, briskly,
“Do you mean time to talk?”
Then, feeling that he was probably just a local character, and as he had a lung like poor Malcolm he probably deserved sympathy, and wanting to break the impasse, she said,
“Well, come in then.”
She stepped back and let him pass under the doorframe, and only noticed when he stooped how tall he was, and didn't see but glimpsed a peculiar movement of his head, snapping left, centre, right, taking in all the room quickly like a bird might do, and then something of a little sneer on his thin lips, but then it was gone and he beamed,
“Thankyou kindly, Ma'm.”
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Oh, no thankyou Ma'm.”
“Ah-”
“There's a lot of hermits out today.”
“Hermits?”
“Aye, on the beach, see, they takes the shell, and you can barely see the difference.”
She nodded. Her repertoire of conversation seemed to have deserted her. She wanted to ask him where he lived or what his name was, but the questions didn't seem to be forthcoming. Stalling, she blurted out,
“So why is it that the houses here don't have windows facing the sea? It's very peculiar, isn't it?”
He smiled flatly.
“Oh, just the way of things. Keeps off the sea breeze.”
Then he added, with a smile,
“Very wary of strangers here. Don't want nosies coming and looking in.”
“No, I see-”
“Lots of hermits today, down on the beach.”
“Yes, you-”
“You almost couldn't tell.”
He said it almost triumphantly. She didn't like this. She noticed, from the corner of her eye, that where he'd walked on the floorboards, there were damp prints. There was a loud series of thuds from upstairs. Quickly, he said,
“Anyway, I'd better be off Ma'm. It's been nice getting to know you. Here-”
And he reached into his pocket and presented her with a single white cowry shell.
“I give 'em to everyone who has a little time”,
he said, pressing it into the palm of her hand.
She wished he would take his hand away. Then he smiled again and turned, and when she shut the door she felt a lot better. It was the breathing, of course, and she knew it was bad to let it get to her, but she didn't like it and it reminded her of Malcolm and her friends back in London.
George and Mr Tretherscombe, a cheerful old man with a slight hunch, reappeared at the foot of the stairs.
“We've fixed it up, darling”, said her husband.
“Good”, she said. Then, “Good.”
“Is something the matter?”
“No, dear, no-”
“Are you sure?”
She smiled.
“I'm fine, darling, no. A man called, though, while you were up in the loft-”
Mister Tretherscombe's bleary white eyes flicked into sudden severity. George, not noticing, looked pleasantly surprised.
“What, a salesman?”
“No, um, a local-”
She smiled at Mister Tretherscombe, who had suddenly become quite still.
“He was very friendly, he gave me this-”
When she held out her palm, Mister Tretherscombe's eyes fixed on the cowry like a mouse trap, and his whiskered mouth opened in a silent moan, wobbling like a crying child's. George turned to him.
“I say, Henry, what's-”
“You let him in!”
The old man's arthritic finger was outstretched in a fierce jab towards her. His eyes were staring. He said it again, hoarse.
“You let him in!” |
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