Mr Wrong (23 page)

He was beginning to consider the necessity of mooring, when they came to a bridge; and shortly after he saw a dark mass which he took to be houses. When the boat had crawled for another fifty
yards or so, he stopped the engine, and drifted in absolute silence to the bank. The houses, about half a dozen of them, were much nearer than he had at first imagined, but there were no lights to
be seen. Distance is always deceptive in the dark, he thought, and jumped ashore with a bow line. When, a few minutes later, he took a sounding with the boathook, the water proved unexpectedly
deep; and he concluded that by incredible good fortune they had moored at the village wharf. He made everything fast, and joined the others in the cabin with mixed feelings of pride and resentment;
that he should have achieved so much under such difficult conditions, and that they (by ‘they’ he meant Clifford), should have contributed so little towards the achievement. He found
Clifford reading
Bradshaw’s Guide to the Canals and Navigable Rivers
in one corner and Sharon, with her hair pushed back behind her ears, bending over the primus with a knife. Her ears
are pale, exactly the colour of her face, he thought; wanted to touch them; then felt horribly ashamed, and hated Clifford.

‘Let’s have a look at Bradshaw,’ he said, as though he had not noticed Clifford reading it.

But Clifford handed him the book in the most friendly manner, remarking that he couldn’t see where they were. ‘In fact you have surpassed yourself with your brilliant navigation. We seem to be miles from anywhere.’

‘What about your famous ordnance?’

‘It’s not on any sheet I have. The new one I thought we should use only covers the loop we planned. There is precisely three-quarters of a mile of this canal shown on the present
sheet and then we run off the map. I suppose there must once have been trade here, but I cannot imagine what, or where.’

‘I expect things change,’ said Sharon. ‘Here is the meal.’

‘How can you see to cook?’ asked John, eyeing his plate ravenously.

‘There is a candle.’

‘Yes, but we’ve selfishly appropriated that.’

‘Should I need more light?’ she asked, and looked troubled.

‘There’s no should about it. I just don’t know how you do it, that’s all. Chips exactly the right colour, and you never drop anything. It’s marvellous.’

She smiled a little uncertainly at him and lit another candle. ‘Luck, probably,’ she said, and set it on the table.

They ate their meal, and John told them about the mooring. ‘Some sort of village. I think we’re moored at the wharf. I couldn’t find any rings without the torch, so I’ve used the anchor.’ This small shaft was intended for
Clifford, who had dropped the spare torch-battery in the washing-up bowl, and forgotten to buy another. But it was only a small shaft, and immediately afterwards John felt much better. His
aggression slowly left him, and he felt nothing but a peaceful and well-fed affection for the other two.

‘Extraordinarily cut off this is,’ he remarked over coffee.

‘It’s very pleasant in here. Warm, and extremely full of us.’

‘Yes. I know. A quiet village, though, you must admit.’

‘I shall believe in your village when I see it.’

‘Then you would believe it?’

‘No he wouldn’t, Sharon. Not if he didn’t want to, and couldn’t find it on the map. That map!’

The conversation turned again to their remoteness, and to how cut off one liked to be and at what point it ceased to be desirable; to boats, telephones, and, finally, canals: which, Clifford
maintained, possessed the perfect proportions of urbanity and solitude.

Hours later, when they had turned in for the night, Clifford reviewed the conversation, together with others they had had, and remembered with surprise how little Sharon had actually said. She
listened to everything and occasionally, when they appealed to her, made some small composed remark which was oddly at variance with their passionate interest. ‘She has an elusive quality of
freshness about her,’ he thought, ‘which is neither naive nor stupid nor dull, and she invokes no responsibility. She does not want us to know what she was, or why we found her as we
did, and curiously, I, at least, do not want to know. She is what women ought to be,’ he concluded with sudden pleasure; and slept.

He woke the next morning to find it very late, and stretched out his hand to wake John.

‘We’ve all overslept. Look at the time.’

‘Good Lord! Better wake Sharon.’

Sharon lay between them on the floor, which they had ceded her because, oddly enough, it was the widest and most comfortable bed. She seemed profoundly asleep, but at the mention of her name sat
up immediately, and rose, almost as though she had not been asleep at all.

The morning routine, which, involving the clothing of three people and shaving of two of them, was necessarily a long and complicated business, began. Sharon boiled water, and Clifford,
grumbling gently, hoisted himself out of his bunk and repaired with a steaming jug to the cockpit. He put the jug on a seat, lifted the canvas awning, and leaned out. It was absolutely grey and
still; a little white mist hung over the canal, and the country stretched out desolate and unkempt on every side with no sign of a living creature. The village, he thought; suddenly: John’s
village: and was possessed of a perilous uncertainty and fear. I am getting worse, he thought, this holiday is doing me no good. I am mad. I imagined that he said we moored by a village wharf. For
several seconds he stood gripping the gunwale, and searching desperately for anything, huts, a clump of trees, which could in the darkness have been mistaken for a village. But there was nothing
near the boat except tall rank rushes which did not move at all. Then, when his suspense was becoming unbearable, John joined him with another steaming jug of water.

‘We shan’t get anywhere at this rate,’ he began; and then . . . ‘Hullo! Where’s my village?’

‘I was wondering that,’ said Clifford. He could almost have wept with relief, and quickly began to shave, deeply ashamed of his private panic.

‘Can’t understand it,’ John was saying. It was no joke, Clifford decided, as he listened to his hearty puzzled ruminations.

At breakfast John continued to speculate upon what he had or had not seen, and Sharon listened intently while she filled the coffee-pot and cut bread. Once or twice she met Clifford’s eye
with a glance of discreet amusement.

‘I must be mad, or else the whole place is haunted,’ finished John comfortably. These two possibilities seemed to relieve him of any further anxiety in the matter, as he ate a huge
breakfast and set about greasing the engine.

‘Well,’ said Clifford, when he was alone with Sharon. ‘What do you make of that?’

‘It is easy to be deceived in such matters,’ she answered perfunctorily.

‘Evidently. Still, John is an unlikely candidate, you must admit. Here, I’ll help you dry.’

‘Oh no. It is what I am here for.’

‘Not entirely, I hope.’

‘Not entirely.’ She smiled and relinquished the cloth.

John eventually announced that they were ready to start. Clifford, who had assumed that they were to retrace their journey, was
surprised, and a little alarmed, to find John intent upon continuing it. He seemed undeterred by the state of the canal, which, as Clifford immediately pointed out, rendered navigation both arduous
and unrewarding. He announced that the harder it was, the more he liked it, adding very firmly, ‘Anyway we must see what happens.’

‘We shan’t have time to do anything else.’

‘Thought you wanted to explore.’

‘I do, but . . . What do you think, Sharon?’

‘I think John will have to be a very good navigator to manage that.’ She indicated the rush- and weed-ridden reach before them. ‘Do you think it’s possible?’

‘Of course it’s possible. I’ll probably need some help though.’

‘I’ll help you,’ she said.

So on they went.

They made incredibly slow progress. John enjoys showing off his powers to her, thought Clifford, half amused, half exasperated, as he struggled for the fourth time in an hour to scrape weeds off
the propeller.

Sharon eventually retired to cook lunch.

‘Surprising amount of water here,’ John said suddenly.

‘Oh?’

‘Well, I mean, with all this weed and stuff, you’d expect the canal to have silted up. I’m sure nobody uses it.’

‘The whole thing is extraordinary.’

‘Is it too late in the year for birds?’ asked Clifford later.

‘No, I don’t think so. Why?’

‘I haven’t heard one, have you?’

‘Haven’t noticed, I’m afraid. There’s someone anyway. First sign of life.’

An old man stood near the bank watching them. He was dressed in corduroy and wore a straw hat.

‘Good morning,’ shouted John, as they drew nearer.

He made no reply, but inclined his head slightly. He seemed very old. He was leaning on a scythe, and as they drew almost level with him, he turned away and began slowly cutting rushes. A pile
of them lay neatly stacked beside him.

‘Where does this canal go? Is there a village further on?’ Clifford and John asked simultaneously. He seemed not to hear, and as they chugged steadily past, Clifford was about to
suggest that they stop and ask again, when he called after them: ‘Three miles up you’ll find the village. Three miles up that is,’ and turned away to his rushes again.

‘Well now we know something, anyway,’ said John.

‘We don’t even know what the village is called.’

‘Soon find out. Only three miles.’

‘Three miles!’ said Clifford darkly. ‘That might mean anything.’

‘Do you want to turn back?’

‘Oh no, not now. I want to see this village now. My curiosity is thoroughly aroused.’

‘Shouldn’t think there’ll be anything to see. Never been in such a wild spot. Look at it.’

Clifford looked at it. Half wilderness, half marsh, dank and grey and still, with single trees bare of their leaves; clumps of hawthorn that might once have been hedge, sparse and sharp with
berries; and, in the distance, hills and an occasional wood: these were all one could see, beyond the lines of rushes which edged the canal winding ahead.

They stopped for a lengthy meal, which Sharon described as lunch and tea together, it being so late; and then, appalled at how little daylight was left, continued.

‘We’ve hardly been any distance at all,’ said John forlornly. ‘Good thing there were no locks. I shouldn’t think they’d have worked if there were.’

‘
Much
more than three miles,’ he said, about two hours later. Darkness was descending and it was becoming very cold.

‘Better stop,’ said Clifford.

‘Not yet. I’m determined to reach that village.’

‘Dinner is ready,’ said Sharon sadly. ‘It will be cold.’

‘Let’s stop.’

‘You have your meal. I’ll call if I want you.’

Sharon looked at them, and Clifford shrugged his shoulders. ‘Come on. I will. I’m tired of this.’

They shut the cabin doors. John could hear the pleasant clatter of their meal, and just as he was coming to the end of the decent interval which he felt must elapse before he gave in, they
passed under a bridge, the first of the day, and, clutching at any straw, he immediately assumed that it prefaced the village. ‘I think we’re nearly there,’ he called.

Clifford opened the door. ‘The village?’

‘No, a bridge. Can’t be far now.’

‘You’re mad, John. It’s pitch dark.’

‘You can see the bridge though.’

‘Yes. Why not moor under it?’

‘Too late. Can’t turn round in this light, and she’s not good at reversing. Must be nearly there. You go back, I don’t need you.’

Clifford shut the door again. He was beginning to feel irritated with John behaving in this childish manner and showing off to impress Sharon. It was amusing in the morning, but really he was
carrying it a bit far. Let him manage the thing himself then. When, a few minutes later, John shouted that they had reached the sought-after village, Clifford merely pulled back the little curtain
over a cabin window, rubbed the condensation, and remarked that he could see nothing. ‘No light at least.’

‘He is happy anyhow,’ said Sharon peaceably.

‘Going to have a look around,’ said John, slamming the cabin doors and blowing his nose.

‘Surely you’ll eat first?’

‘If you’ve left anything. My God it’s cold! It’s
unnaturally
cold.’

‘We won’t be held responsible if he dies of exposure will we?’ said Clifford.

She looked at him, hesitated a moment, but did not reply, and placed a steaming plate in front of John. She doesn’t want us to quarrel, Clifford thought, and with an effort of friendliness
he asked: ‘What does tonight’s village look like?’

‘Much the same. Only one or two houses you know. But the old man called it a village.’ He seemed uncommunicative; Clifford thought he was sulking. But after eating the meal, he
suddenly announced, almost apologetically, ‘I don’t think I shall walk round. I’m absolutely worn out. You go if you like. I shall start turning in.’

‘All right. I’ll have a look. You’ve had a hard day.’

Clifford pulled on a coat and went outside. It was, as John said, incredibly cold and almost overwhelmingly silent. The clouds hung very low over the boat, and mist was rising everywhere from the ground, but he could dimly discern the black huddle
of cottages lying on a little slope above the bank against which the boat was moored. He did actually set foot on shore, but his shoe sank immediately into a marshy hole. He withdrew it, and
changed his mind. The prospect of groping round those dark and silent houses became suddenly distasteful, and he joined the others with the excuse that it was too cold and that he also was
tired.

A little later, he lay half-conscious in a kind of restless trance, with John sleeping heavily opposite him. His mind seemed full of foreboding, fear of something unknown and intangible: he
thought of them lying in warmth on the cold secret canal with desolate miles of water behind and probably beyond; the old man and the silent houses; John, cut off and asleep, and Sharon, who lay on
the floor beside him. Immediately he was filled with a sudden and most violent desire for her, even to touch her, for her to know that he was awake.