The exertions of the outing must have exhausted her, as she went to bed early. They had eaten their last meal in the dining room—tomato soup, fishcakes with sauté potatoes and peas and sherry trifle—and played cribbage with a retired bank manager and his wife who were part of the Beaulieu contingent. It emerged in conversation that they lived less than thirty miles away in Blandford Forum and had been coming to the same hotel every year since the end of the war. Jean, for whom seven days in the place had seemed an eternity, found herself depressed and repelled by their complacency.
They had never been to London and had no desire to go. They had heard it was overrun with traffic and delinquents and they wanted none of it. Other manifestations of progress, the television and the car, were given equally short shrift. The first was a threat to family life; the second was a blight on the countryside and a menace to public safety.
It occurred to Jean to wonder why such sworn enemies of automotive traveling had settled on a trip to Beaulieu, but she was too polite to challenge them. Besides, their opinions were delivered with the sort of assurance that has never experienced dissent and might not even recognize it. Instead, simmering inside, she began to formulate a Pam’s Piece on provincialism, which would of course be unprintable but soothed her bad temper.
In Jean’s mother they had found a somewhat anarchic soul mate; she was inclined to agree with everything they said but occasionally misheard and ended up roundly seconding a quite contrary viewpoint. More than once Jean had to step in and politely steer her back on track. It all made for effortful conversation and Jean was relieved when her mother, wearied by the day’s novelties, declared herself ready for bed.
“Well, they were a very nice couple,” she said on her way upstairs, taking Jean’s grunt for agreement. “It’s a pity we didn’t get to know them at the beginning of the week.”
Once Jean had overseen her mother’s lengthy preparations for bed, from the discreet vantage point of her adjoining room, and satisfied herself that she was settled with her hairnet in place and a Georgette Heyer to soothe her to sleep, she made her escape.
The storm had blown away leaving a ragged sky and it was warmer now than during the day. A few wounded shreds of cloud blew across the moon, which lit up the street with its great wax face as Jean walked down toward the pier enjoying the last cigarette of the night.
A group of working men was just emerging from the King’s Head, boisterous with drink, as she approached. They greeted her with beery good humor, dragging each other out of her path with exaggerated gallantry that was closer to mockery than good manners. Jean, who was used to being outnumbered by inferior men, refused to be intimidated.
“Good evening,” she said briskly, causing general convulsion.
“She said ‘Good evening!’” one of them called after her departing back.
The harbor was quiet, the small boats gently nudging and dipping in the moonlight. Across the Solent the Isle of Wight was visible as a dark mass, Yarmouth a scatter of lights at the shoreline. Jean sat down on a bench to enjoy the view and let her thoughts roam in the direction of Howard, wondering where he was and if at this very moment he might be outdoors and looking at the same stars.
She was aware of somebody coming to stand behind her, a little closer than was polite, and turned to see the confused old lady from the hotel. There was something odd about her appearance; it took Jean a moment or two to realize that she was wearing a nightgown and carpet slippers under her coat. Her bare legs were tracked with ropy purple veins.
“Hello,” said Jean, looking around for the daughter. “You’ve come out for some fresh air like me.”
“No,” came the reply.
“Will you be all right getting back? It’s a fair walk.”
The woman stared at Jean with mystification and a degree of hostility. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you’re Nora. Little tart,” she added.
Her prospect of a quiet half-hour dashed, Jean surrendered to the responsibility of getting the old woman safely back. For a moment, stung by the irony that she had exchanged the modest demands of one geriatric for the much more urgent needs of another, she had considered leaving her to it, but there, a few feet away, was the black oily water plucking at the harbor wall.
“I’m going back now. Shall we walk together?” Jean offered her arm.
The woman allowed herself to be guided away from the pier and up toward the town, their progress impeded by her tendency to stop every few paces and turn, stiff-necked, towards Jean with some new query.