Mr Wrong (22 page)

‘I suppose one might easily drown in a lock?’ he asked aloud.

‘We must be careful not to fall into one,’ Clifford replied.

‘What?’ John steered with fierce concentration, and never heard anything people said to him for the first time, almost on principle.

‘I said we must be careful not to fall
into
a lock.’

‘Oh. Well there aren’t any more now until after the Junction. Anyway, we haven’t yet, so there’s really no reason why we should start now. I only wanted to know whether
we’d drown if we did.’

‘Sharon might.’

‘What?’

‘Sharon might.’

‘Better warn her then. She seems agile enough.’ His concentrated frown returned, and he settled down again to the wheel. John didn’t mind where they went, or what happened, so
long as he handled the boat, and all things considered, he handled her remarkably well. Clifford planned and John steered: and until two days ago they had both quarrelled and argued over a smoking
and unusually temperamental primus. Which reminded Clifford of Sharon. Her advent and the weather were really their two unadulterated strokes of good fortune. There had been no rain, and Sharon
had, as it were, dropped from the blue on to the boat, where she speedily restored domestic order, stimulated evening conversation, and touched the whole venture with her attractive being: the
requisite number of miles each day were achieved, the boat behaved herself, and admirable meals were steadily and regularly prepared. She had, in fact, identified herself with the journey, without
making the slightest effort to control it: a talent which many women were supposed in theory to possess, when, in fact, Clifford reflected gloomily, most of them were bored with the whole thing, or
tried to dominate it.

Her advent was a remarkable, almost a miraculous, piece of luck. He had, after a particularly ill-fed day, and their failure to dine at a small hotel, desperately telephoned all the women he
knew who seemed in the least suitable (and they were surprisingly few), with no success. They had spent a miserable evening, John determined to argue about everything, and he, Clifford, refusing to
speak; until, both in a fine state of emotional tension, they had turned in for the night. While John snored, Clifford had lain distraught, his resentment and despair circling round John and then
touching his own smallest and most random thoughts; until his mind found no refuge and he was left, divided from it, hostile and afraid, watching it in terror racing on in the dark like some
malignant machine utterly out of his control.

The next day things had proved no better between them, and they had continued throughout the morning in a silence which was only occasionally and elaborately broken. They had tied up for lunch
beside a wood, which hung heavy and magnificent over the canal. There was a small clearing beside which John then proposed to moor, but Clifford failed to achieve the considerable leap necessary to
stop the boat; and they had drifted helplessly past it. John flung him a line, but it was not until the boat was secured, and they were safely in the cabin, that the storm had broken. John, in
attempting to light the primus, spilt a quantity of paraffin on Clifford’s bunk. Instantly all his despair of the previous evening had contracted. He hated John so much that he could have
murdered him. They both lost their tempers, and for the ensuing hour and a half had conducted a blazing quarrel which, even at the time, secretly horrified them both in its intensity.

It had finally ended with John striding out of the cabin, there being no more to say. He had returned almost at once, however.

‘I say, Clifford. Come and look at this.’

‘At what?’

‘Outside, on the bank.’

For some unknown reason Clifford did get up and did look. Lying face downwards quite still on the ground, with her arms clasping the trunk of a large tree, was a girl.

‘How long has she been there?’

‘She’s asleep.’

‘She can’t have been asleep all the time. She must have heard some of what we said.’

‘Anyway, who is she? What is she doing here?’

Clifford looked at her again. She was wearing a dark twill shirt and dark trousers, and her hair hung over her face, so that it was
almost invisible. ‘I don’t know. I suppose she’s alive?’

John jumped cautiously ashore. ‘Yes, she’s alive all right. Funny way to lie.’

‘Well, it’s none of our business anyway. Anyone can lie on a bank if they want to.’

‘Yes, but she must have come in the middle of our row, and it does seem queer to stay, and then go to sleep.’

‘Extraordinary,’ said Clifford wearily. Nothing was really extraordinary, he felt, nothing. ‘Are we moving on?’

‘Let’s eat first. I’ll do it.’

‘Oh, I’ll do it.’

The girl stirred, unclasped her arms, and sat up. They had all stared at each other for a moment, the girl slowly pushing the hair from her forehead. Then she had said: ‘If you will give me a meal, I’ll cook it.’

Afterwards they had left her to wash up, and had walked about the wood, while Clifford suggested to John that they ask the girl to join them. ‘I’m sure she’d come,’ he
said. ‘She didn’t seem at all clear about what she was doing.’

‘We can’t just pick somebody up out of a wood,’ said John, scandalized.

‘Where do you suggest we pick them up? If we don’t have someone, this holiday will be a failure.’

‘We don’t know anything about her.’

‘I can’t see that that matters very much. She seems to cook well. We can at least ask her.’

‘All right. Ask her then. She won’t come.’

When they returned to the boat, she had finished the washing-up, and was sitting on the floor of the cockpit, with her arms stretched behind her head. Clifford asked her; and she accepted as
though she had known them a long time and they were simply inviting her to tea.

‘Well, but look here,’ said John, thoroughly taken aback. ‘What about your things?’

‘My things?’ she looked inquiringly and a little defensively from one to the other.

‘Clothes and so on. Or haven’t you got any? Are you a gipsy or something? Where do you come from?’

‘I am not a gipsy,’ she began patiently; when Clifford, thoroughly embarrassed and ashamed, interrupted her.

‘Really, it’s none of our business who you are, and there is absolutely no need for us to ask you anything. I’m very glad you will come with us, although I feel we should warn
you that we are new to this life, and anything might happen.’

‘No need to warn me,’ she said, and smiled gratefully at him.

After that, they both felt bound to ask her nothing; John because he was afraid of being made to look foolish by Clifford, and Clifford because he had stopped John.

‘Good Lord, we shall never get rid of her; and she’ll fuss about condensation,’ John had muttered aggressively as he started the engine. But she was very young, and did not
fuss about anything. She had told them her name, and settled down, immediately and easily: gentle, assured and unselfconscious to a degree remarkable in one so young. They were never sure how much
she had overheard them, for she gave no sign of having heard anything. A friendly but uncommunicative creature.

The map on the engine box started to flap, and immediately John asked, ‘Where are we?’

‘I haven’t been watching, I’m afraid. Wait a minute.’

‘We just passed under a railway bridge,’ John said helpfully.

‘Right. Yes. About four miles from the Junction, I think. What’s the time?’

‘Five-thirty.’

‘Which way are we going when we get to the Junction?’

‘We haven’t time for the big loop. I must be back in London by the fifteenth.’

‘The alternative is to go up as far as the basin, and then simply turn round and come back, and who wants to do that?’

‘Well, we’ll know the route then. It’ll be much easier coming back.’

Clifford did not reply. He was not attracted by the route being easier, and he wanted to complete his original plan.

‘Let us wait till we get there.’ Sharon appeared with tea and marmalade sandwiches.

‘All right, let’s wait.’ Clifford was relieved.

‘It’ll be almost dark by five-thirty. I think we ought to have a plan,’ John said. ‘Thank you, Sharon.’

‘Have tea first.’ She curled herself on to the floor with her back to the cabin doors and a mug in her hands.

They were passing rows of little houses with gardens that backed on to the canal. They were long narrow strips, streaked with cinder paths, and crowded with vegetables and chicken-huts, fruit
trees and perambulators; sometimes ending with fat white ducks, and sometimes in a tiny patch of grass with a bench on it.

‘Would you rather keep ducks or sit on a bench?’ asked Clifford.

‘Keep ducks,’ said John promptly. ‘More useful. Sharon wouldn’t mind which she did. Would you, Sharon?’ He liked saying her name, Clifford noticed. ‘You could
be happy anywhere, couldn’t you?’ He seemed to be presenting her with the widest possible choice.

‘I might
be
anywhere,’ she answered after a moment’s thought.

‘Well you happen to be on a canal, and very nice for us.’

‘In a wood, and then on a canal,’ she replied contentedly, bending her smooth dark head over her mug.

‘Going to be fine tomorrow,’ said John. He was always a little embarrassed at any mention of how they found her and his subsequent rudeness.

‘Yes. I like it when the whole sky is so red and burning and it begins to be cold.’

‘
Are
you cold?’ said John, wanting to worry about it: but she tucked her dark shirt into her trousers and answered composedly:

‘Oh no. I am never cold.’

They drank their tea in a comfortable silence. Clifford started to read his map, and then said they were almost on to another sheet. ‘New country,’ he said with satisfaction.
‘I’ve never been here before.’

‘You make it sound like an exploration; doesn’t he, Sharon?’ said John.

‘Is that a bad thing?’ She collected the mugs. ‘I am going to put these away. You will call me if I am wanted for anything.’ And she went into the cabin again.

There was a second’s pause, a minute tribute to her departure; and, lighting cigarettes, they settled down to stare at the long silent stretch of water ahead.

John thought about Sharon. He thought rather desperately that really they still knew nothing about her, and that when they went back to London they would in all probability never see her again.
Perhaps Clifford would fall in love with her, and she would naturally reciprocate, because she was so young and Clifford was reputed to be so fascinating and intelligent, and because women were
always foolish and loved the wrong man. He thought all these things with equal intensity, glanced cautiously at Clifford, and supposed he was thinking about her; then wondered what she would be
like in London, clad in anything else but her dark trousers and shirt. The engine coughed; and he turned to it in relief.

Clifford was making frantic calculations of time and distance; stretching their time, and diminishing the distance, and groaning that with the utmost optimism they could not be made to fit. He
was interrupted by John swearing at the engine, and then for no particular reason he remembered Sharon, and reflected with pleasure how easily she left the mind when she was not present, how she
neither obsessed nor possessed one in her absence, but was charming to see.

The sun had almost set when they reached the Junction, and John slowed down to neutral while they made up their minds. To the left was the straight cut which involved the longer journey
originally planned; and curving away to the right was the short arm which John advocated. The canal was fringed with rushes, and there was one small cottage with no light in it. Clifford went into
the cabin to tell Sharon where they were, and then, as they drifted slowly in the middle of the Junction, John suddenly shouted: ‘Clifford! What’s the third turning?’

‘There are only two.’ Clifford reappeared. ‘Sharon is busy with dinner.’

‘No, look. Surely that is another cut.’

Clifford stared ahead. ‘Can’t see it.’

‘Just to the right of the cottage. Look. It’s not so dark as all that.’

Then Clifford saw it very plainly. It seemed to wind away from the cottage on a fairly steep curve, and the rushes shrouding it from anything but the closest view were taller than the rest.

‘Have another look at the map. I’ll reverse for a bit.’

‘Found it. It’s just another arm. Probably been abandoned,’ said Clifford eventually.

The boat had swung round; and now they could see the continuance of the curve dully gleaming ahead, and banked by reeds.

‘Well, what shall we do?’

‘Getting dark. Let’s go up a little way, and moor. Nice quiet mooring.’

‘With some nice quiet mudbanks,’ said John grimly. ‘Nobody uses that.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Well look at it. All those rushes, and it’s sure to be thick with weed.’

‘Don’t go up it then. But we shall go aground if we drift about like this.’

‘
I
don’t mind going up it,’ said John doggedly. ‘What about Sharon?’

‘What about her?’

‘Tell her about it.’

‘We’ve found a third turning,’ Clifford called above the noise of the primus through the cabin door.

‘One you had not expected?’

‘Yes. It looks very wild. We were thinking of going up it.’

‘Didn’t you say you wanted to explore?’ she smiled at him.

‘You are quite ready to try it? I warn you we shall probably run hard aground. Look out for bumps with the primus.’

‘I am quite ready, and I am quite sure we shan’t run aground,’ she answered with charming confidence in their skill.

They moved slowly forward in the dusk. Why they didn’t run aground, Clifford could not imagine: John really was damned good at it. The canal wound and wound, and the reeds grew not only
thick on each bank, but in clumps across the canal. The light drained out of the sky into the water and slowly drowned there; the trees and the banks became heavy and black.

Clifford began to clear things away from the heavy dew which had begun to rise. After two journeys he remained in the cabin, while John crawled on, alone. Once, on a bend, John thought he saw a
range of hills ahead with lights on them, but when he was round the curve and had time to look again he could see no hills: only a dark indeterminate waste of country stretched ahead.