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Patrick moved over to Je
“What time?”
“Dawn. Or soon after. Say half past four.”
“Crikey! Well, yes, I’d love to if I can wake myself up.”
“I’ll scratch on your door like one of the Sun King’s courtiers. Which door is it? Frightening, if I scratched on Miss Cost’s!”
Je
“He’s getting a story from her.”
“Oh, no!”
“Oh, yes! And tomorrow, betimes, he’ll be hunting up Wally and his unspeakable parents. With a camera.”
“He won’t!”
“Of course he will. If they’re sober they’ll be enchanted. Watch out for K.J.’s ‘What’s the Answer’ column in the Sun.”
“I do think the gutter press in this country’s the rockbottom.”
“Don’t you have a gutter press in New Zealand?”
“Not as low.”
“Well done, you. All the same, I don’t see why K.J.’s idea strikes you as being so very low. No sex. No drugs. No crime. It’s as clean as a whistle, like Watty’s hands.” He was looking rather intently into Je
“It’s just — I don’t know — or yes, I think I do. Wally’s so vulnerable. I mean, he’s been jeered at and cowed by the other children. He’s been puzzled and lonely, and now he’s a comparatively happy little creature. Quite a hero, in a way. He’s — not attractive, his sort aren’t, as a rule, but I’ve got an affection for him. Whatever’s happened ought to be private for him.”
“But he won’t take it in, will he? All the ballyhoo, if there is any ballyhoo? He may even vaguely enjoy it.”
“I don’t want him to. All right,” Je
“I think you may depend upon it,” Patrick rejoined. “It will.”
And, in the event, he turned out to be right.
WHAT’S THE ANSWER?
Do You Believe in Fairies?
Wally Trehern does. Small boy of Portcarrow Island had crop of warts that made life a misery.
Other Kids Shu
So Wally washed his hands in the Pixie Falls, and — you’ve guessed it.
This is what they looked like before…
And here they are now …
Wally, seen above with parents, by Pixie Falls, says mysterious Green Lady “told me to wash them off.”
Parents say no other treatment given.
Miss Elspeth Cost (inset) cured of chronic asthma?
Local doctor declines comment.
(Full story on Page 9)
Dr. Mayne read the full story, gave an ambiguous ejaculation and started on his morning round.
The Convalescent Home was a very small one: six single rooms for patients, and living quarters for two nurses and for Dr. Mayne, who was a widower. A verandah at the back of the house looked across a large garden and an adjacent field towards the sea and the Island.
At present he had four patients, all convalescent. One of them, an elderly lady, was already up and taking the air on the verandah. He noticed that she, like the others, had been reading the Sun.
“Well, Mrs. Thorpe,” he said, bending over her, “this is a step forward isn’t it? If you go on behaving nicely we’ll soon have you taking that little drive.”
Mrs. Thorpe wanly smiled and nodded. “So unspoiled,” she said, waving a hand at the prospect. “Not many places left like it. No horrid trippers.”
He sat down beside her, laid his fingers on her pulse and looked at his watch. “This is becoming pure routine,” he said cheerfully.
It was obvious that Mrs. Thorpe had a great deal more to say. She scarcely waited for him to snap his watch shut before she began,
“Dr. Mayne, have you seen the Sun?”
“Very clearly. We’re in for a lovely day.”
She 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 9 where it said what a martyr she’d been and how she had perfect faith in the waters. She didn’t remember calling them “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 news agents’ shop in the village. All their copies of yesterday’s 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 friends with arithritic hands would be interested.
Major Barrimore finished his coffee and replaced the cup with a sightly 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 last Thursday.”
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 Je
“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 suzeraine, “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.