The Feast (38 page)

‘
One
and
All
,’
whispered Duff. ‘Onen hen oil … Cornish….’

Nancibel stopped abruptly.

‘Is that all?’ cried the audience.

‘No. That’s all I can remember. There’s a lot more.’

‘What happens? Do they get there?’

‘No. The wicked old dolphin comes after them and turns them into stone. It’s supposed to be true. The stones are in a field just behind our place, and they’re called The Man and The Mermaid.’

‘I know,’ said Robin. ‘They’re marked on the map.’

A buzz of interest and approval went round the ring, which rather puzzled Nancibel. She had wanted to sing
A
Sunbeam
Don’
Cost
Nothun
,
but she perceived that the Coves had been right as usual in their choice, and that
The
Wicked
Old
Dolphin
had given pleasure.

And now, after a glance at the programme, Blanche Cove had risen to propose another health.

‘Could Bee and Maud and I have some wine?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘We haven’t had time yet, but we want to drink your healths and congratulate you all on being here.’

Glasses were handed to them, and she continued:

‘We want to thank you all for coming, and to say how glad we are to see you so happy. We know you did it to please us, but we can see you are really enjoying it. I expect it is the lovely hock.’

‘Hear! Hear!’

‘So that is a reward for coming, as you wouldn’t have got it if you hadn’t. We drink to you and we hope that you will all live happy for ever after, especially Gerry and Angie.’

‘Hear! Hear!’

‘Thank you, Blanche!’

‘A lovely speech!’

‘A lovely Feast!’

‘For …’

Everybody sang. Everybody shouted. They made such a noise that, for a few seconds, they hardly noticed the other noise which was going on, until all sounds were swallowed up in one shattering, ear-splitting, jarring roar which threw them to the ground in darkness and terror. To some it seemed that the noise went on for a long time; while others maintained, afterwards, that it was all over very quickly. Nor could they be sure that they had not flung themselves down. But there they were lying, in a choking cloud of dust, while the noise subsided in a
diminishing
arpeggio
of falling stones … skipping pebbles … the murmur of waves.

A faint clamour began to rise among the boulders—coughing, sobbing, cries and questions, as they groped about in the dusty haze. All were too much stunned to exclaim loudly until a child’s voice rose in a piercing shriek:

‘Oh! It’s the atom bomb! It’s the atom bomb!’

‘What is it?’

‘What happened?’

‘It’s the atom bomb!’

‘Angie! Where are you? Are you all right?’

‘Here, Gerry …’

‘Oh, Mrs. Paley …’

‘I’m here, Maud … holding you … where’s Blanche? Where’s Beatrix?’

‘The atom bomb …’

‘I’ve got the twins. Are you all right, ducks? It’s Nancibel … she’s got you …’

‘Where’s Caroline?’

‘Daddy …’

‘It’s dust …’

‘It’s the atom bomb …’

‘Gave me a turn, that did! I thought something must of happened …’

‘Stop yelling, Hebe! It wasn’t! There was no flash.’

‘Not any sort of bomb. No blast …’

‘An earthquake …’

‘Is everybody all right? Is everybody here?’

‘Be quiet, please. I’ll call over names….’

‘Be quiet, everybody. Sir Henry wants to call names….’

Sir Henry called their names, one by one, as the dust began to clear. All answered. All were safe.

But they could not understand it and still half believed that some kind of enemy had attacked them. For they were accustomed to associate such violent events with an act of man rather than of God. Stunned and terrified they
huddled together in a thinning haze of dust until they saw a gleam of moonlight on the sea, and placid waves falling upon a beach; a familiar sight, which might have reassured them, had it been a beach that they had ever seen before.

Gerry and Sir Henry were the first to guess. But they said nothing. In silence they watched the pall of dust subside. As the truth leapt from mind to mind a moaning sigh went through the group. They drew closer together, as if still clinging to that frail, that transient, unity which had so strangely assembled and preserved them. Nobody spoke until one of the Gifford twins, raising his head from the bosom of Nancibel, looked out upon the scene below and asked wonderingly:

‘Who did it?’

There was a shout from the hill behind. Little figures appeared on the skyline. People were running down from the village and from the farms. The group on the headland stirred and broke up. They whispered together, giving a name to what had happened. Already it was travelling into the past. Their thoughts turned towards the future.

‘We had better go up to the village,’ said Gerry. ‘To the Vicarage. Father Bott will take us in….’

And they moved off, in a straggling procession, taking up once more the burden of their sixteen separate lives.