The Wind and the Spray (10 page)

Authors: Joyce Dingwell

He nodded soberly, asking her more questions, listening gravely, nodding his head again.

She felt better when they got to the house than she had felt for a long, long time. It almost seemed that the weight that was David was lighter upon her shoulders than it had ever been before
...
that two now shared that loved burden instead of only one
...
herself and Nor.

Dinner that night was an almost auspicious occasion.

The three of them lingered over it. There was no coaxing unwilling children to eat, hurrying their laggard little bodies off to bed.

Nor, too, did not go down to the office to catch up on his clerical work as was his wont. He seemed content to sit in the big kitchen and talk.

And what talk it was, what tales he and Mummy Reed had to tell!
Tales told to them of the first Larsen whalemen ... how they had set out on boats manned by six and rowed and sailed for hours.

“They didn’t use all the whale like we do,” said Nor. “Apart from the oil, only the baleen was sent to be marketed, and the rest of the whale was often left on the beach. Some of the giant vertebrae are there to this day.”

“Some,” laughed Mummy Reed, “are used
as
stools in the older cottages. Nathalie wouldn’t sit on one for the world. She was horrified.” They all laughed.

It was a grand night. Mummy Reed enjoyed every minute. The pink crept into her old cheeks as she turned back the pages of the years.

Nor brought out port and biscuits and looked questioningly at Laurel for a toast.

She hesitated, then said, “To the wind and the spray.”

“The wind and the spray,” he nodded.

“Th
ey’re good things,” Mummy Reed said.

* * *

What time of the night was it that Nor came to Laurel? She did not know, she only knew she opened her sleep-heavy eyes and saw him standing there.

He was dressed, and he must have been in her room quite a few moments, for he had found and now he held her gown in one hand. The other hand must have groped for and gently shaken her shoulder until she woke up. “Laurel—”

“Yes, Nor?” She looked at him unblinkingly for all her sleep-heavy eyes.

He paused briefly, then: “How old are you, Laurel? No”
—
impatiently
—
“not twenty
...
twenty-one ... not that, but
how old
?”

She gazed at him steadily, quite awake now, heavy-eyed no more, understanding at once what he meant.

“How old do you need, Nor?” she asked gravely.

“Old enough for—death?”

“Is it Mummy Reed?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Just now, I believe. I wakened ... I had a feeling somehow ... I went in. It
was
very peacefully, I should say, quite happily in her sleep.”

“I see.” Laurel was sitting up now, her hair, that red hair, not marigold as he had said once, tumbling about her shoulders. “Do you want me there, Nor?”

“Can you? Could you?”

“There was a little boy when David was young who died,” Laurel remembered softly. “There was someone in the next cot whom David used to talk to. Oh, yes, Nor, I can come.”

He did not go away, he just held out the dressing gown while she slipped into it.

Although she looked small in her bare feet it seemed to him that she had grown taller somehow ... or was it mental an
d
spiritual maturity that gave her this new dignity, those qualities of sex that he had shrugged over this afternoon, refusing to accept?

But who was he to accept or not to accept? He was finite, bounded, the One Who planned these things knew no bounds, knew only infinity.

Suddenly chastened. Nor led the way out.

Laurel made coffee afterwards and they sat in the kitchen where only a few hours ago Mummy Reed had sat too, the pink creeping into her old cheeks, and they drank
.

“As soon as it’s daylight I’ll get out the
Leeward
and go across to Anna for a doctor and a minister,” Nor said.

But he didn’t go. He couldn’t. He tried to radio to the coast, but no message could get through.

With the dawn had broken a storm of such intensity that even the
Clytie,
behind schedule though it was, stout though it was, would not dare to put out.

All day long the storm persisted. Gales banged at the windows, screeching to get in, sleet jagged at the glass like javelins, the wind whined like a malicious dog.

One of the Island women came and slept in the
children’s room that night.

Laurel talked with her, worked round the house with her, worried about the storm with her, but somehow she was only vaguely conscious of her presence. It never even remotely
occurred
to her to question—and to comprehend —why she was here like this.

The next day Mummy Reed was laid to rest beside her Tim.

“When the padre arrives he can say the right words, Nor told Laurel. “I said what I could.” He stood there in his big black oilskins. They made a harsh rustle and the water from them dripped all over the floor.

Laurel nodded, busy with coffee. “Yes, I expect so, Nor. I expect it has to be like that sometimes, and I expect
God understands. When will this storm stop, do you think?”

“It could be a few days yet. We’re in the centre of a depression.” Nor looked at Laurel closely. “Mrs. Jessopp still here?”

“Yes. It’s silly really, isn’t it? I can manage easily without any help. She’s nice, though. I do believe she thinks I’m fretting. She even asked me to come across to her cottage to sleep. As though anyone could fret for darling Mummy Reed. She’s happy because it’s what she was waiting for, to go to old Tim.”

There was a pause. It was Nor’s turn to speak. But Nor did not speak back to her.

All at once the silence was not just a silence, any silence, it was fraught with meaning, meaning that grew
...
and grew
...
and grew.

Still uncomprehending, Laurel turned and stared at the man. He stared back at her ... it was a long, asking look. It asked a question. It asked if she did not realize why Mrs. Jessopp was here, why she had invited her back to the cottage.

“Oh,” Laurel said in sudden, flooding, enveloping knowledge. “Oh, of course, of course ... oh, Nor.”

He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter to me if Mrs. Jessopp goes. I don’t think it particularly matters to Mrs. Jessopp. But what passes for me, for Mrs. Jessopp, might not pass for others. Now do you under
s
tand?”

“That I must make other arrangements?” Laurel said. She felt her cheeks burning. How could she have been such a fool?

He was still in his oilskins. Apparently he had to go out again, so did not intend removing them yet. He delved into a deep pocket and brought out the makings.

“Do you ever smoke?” he asked Laurel.

She was surprised, believing he was changing the subject, and that was not like Nor.

“Only occasionally,” she replied.

“Well, you’re going to have one now.”

He rolled it and handed it over for her to lick together. He rolled one for himself and lit both. Then he began to talk.

“We can’t go on like this,” he began. “Mrs. Jessopp wants to get back to her own house—quite naturally, I expect—so we have to do something about it. Agreed, mate?”

“Agreed,” she nodded.

“Well, either you board with one of the Islanders, either we have one of the Islanders here permanently, or
—”

“
Or?” Her
li
ps said it, but she was not aware of moving them.

“Or you marry me,” Nor said.

There was another pause. Now it was Larsen who waited. Waited in a silence that, like that other meaning silence, grew and grew and grew.

Then—“Which way do you want?” Laurel asked politely at length.

There was an even longer silence this time, then Nor put back his head and laughed. He laughed and laughed. He even wiped his eyes. It was his first laughter since Mummy Reed had gone.

“You make it sound,” he said weakly, “like sugar in your tea.”

But Laurel did not laugh with him. She could not. She was considering David; considering very seriously.

“I’d never thought much about marrying,” she admitted at length.

“I’d never thought much myself.”

“Oh, yes, you had. You had decided against it.”

“A man can alter his mind, circumstances can alter it.”

“What circumstances?”

“Nathalie going finally and for all time
...
my way out through you blocked because society imposes certain obligations on people. Those circumstances,” Nor replied. “I’m in need of you, Laurel, you’re the right person for this island, for this job. The women here respect you, you are a standard to them, an incentive, they would copy you, they would really begin to settle in.”

“And me?” Laurel said a little indistinctly. “What about me?” Her cigarette had gone out. He took it from her lips, lit it and put it back again, his eyes never leaving hers.

“You like it here,” he stated, “I know you do. I’ve seen you turn round and look out to the sea. I saw your eyes the night Mummy Reed died when you lifted your glass and said, ‘To the wind and the spray.’ ”

“Yes,” admitted Laurel, “I do like it here.” She waited to hear what else he had to say.

“You would only stand to gain,” Nor resumed. “As well as the money that I said was one of woman’s aims you would have the other as well, the married status. Status”—he looked at her sharply—“without obligation, do you understand?”

“No.”

“I would ask nothing of you, nothing, Laurel, only your co-operation towards the end I’m after. Then there’s your brother—”

“Yes?”

“You could have him here with you. I would br
ing
him out. It’s a healthy climate, it could put him on his feet.” A voice, that like that last time must have been hers but did not seem so, murmured, “All that—and David as well.”

A
long moment went by. Nor moved a little restlessly. The oilskin rustled harshly again.

“I’m going down to the office,” he said. “Ridge has been working on the set, he believes he can get a message through at last.”

“The—doctor?”

“The minister.” The blue eyes flicked unmistakably at hers.

“Well,” he asked. “What is it, mate—yes or no?”

She said a little wildly, slightly hysterically, “If you could recite a service for Mummy Reed, probably you could marry me, too, without any minister.”

His hand shot out and grasped hers. The hold was hard and firm. “Control yourself,” he said.

She did, but with difficulty. Everything, she thought, was moving far too fast.

“It’s not every day a woman gets proposed to,” she defended

“I don’t make a habit of proposing every day myself.” She detached herself from his grasp and crossed to stand at the window. She could not see anything at all but rain, rain, rain.

But something inside her seemed to keep time with the rain. It will be right, it will be right, it will be right, it said.

She turned to Nor and said aloud, in wonderment yet in quiet certainty, “It will be right.”

“You mean yes, Laurel?”

“Yes. I mean that.”

Another moment went by. “Good.” Nor inclined his head. “Any questions?” he asked.

“Questions?”

“Apart from money, which will remain as it is now, apart from your brother whom I promise to bring out, apart from
—
” He looked remindingly at her.

“Children,” she ventured bravely.

“Children?” He frowned, thinking she was meaning Nathalie’s and Peter’s girls. “They’ll be O.K. They’ll manage along. After all, they’re none of our business.”

“Whose, then?” She turned on him quite angrily. “They are our children, aren’t they? I mean”
—
flushing vividly
—
“I’m not a child myself, Nor, I do realize that complying to a social obligation doesn’t give me a right to expect to live as I did before ... I mean ... I really mean ..
.”

The blue eyes were narrowed, but they were laughing ... actually laughing at her.

“What
do
you mean, little green duck?” he asked.

She looked at him squarely. This thing had to be said, she thought.

“There are six rooms and a kitchen in this house,” she told him.

“We will want two of the six,” he told her back. “I said that. I said ‘without obligation.’ Now do you understand?”

“N
—
not quite.”

“Then tell me.”

“It’s hard to.”

“Tell me all the same.”

“For
—
for how long?”

He shrugged carelessly, almost uninterestedly. “Since you’re so determined I’ll make a deal with you. That fair enough?”

“Fair enough,” she nodded.