walked the short distance to the Windmill pub and ordered a double rum that I drank in a single swallow. But even at home, after a scalding shower, changed into fresh clothes, warm and with the weather diminished to just a feeble drizzle against the windows, it was hours before I felt even remotely safe.
There was no point texting Suzanne for reassurance on this occasion. I lay in our bed and wondered how much to tell the woman I loved about what had happened. Secrets have a way of festering, and sharing my most private thoughtsand feelings with her was an important aspect of the intimacy that I knew gave our relationship much of its worth. There were lots of things I did not tell her. But I felt no guilt at keeping the boring and trivial stuff to myself. That was just a way of preventing her from thinking
me
boring and trivial.
What would she make of my experience aboard the boat? Would she think me mad? She would believe it had happened. She would be sympathetic to how shaken the experience had left me. But she was too practical and pragmatic a woman to believe in the supernatural herself. She would rationalise it, somehow. She would see it as the consequence of fatigue and an over-vigorous imagination. Then I remembered what she had said, speaking from Dublin, when I had told her about the auction. She knew already that the
Dark Echo
bore the reputation of an unlucky boat. She had made reference to the fact before the catalogue of apparent accidents at Frank Hadley’s yard. I would have to ask her about that. It was important, just as reading the log was important.
The phone rang.
‘Hi. What’s happening?’ asked Suzanne.
‘Not a lot.’
‘How was your trip to Hampshire?’
‘My father’s expensively assembled team of craftsmen are sharing a serious case of cold feet.’
‘I don’t blame them.’
‘Why do you say that?’ I had not told her about the fatality at Hadley’s boatyard. It was one of my boring, trivial omissions.
‘I’ll tell you when I get back,’ she said.
‘How’s Big Mick?’ I’d almost forgotten to ask.
‘I honestly don’t think I’ve ever admired a man more.’
‘Blimey.’
‘Your good self excepted.’
‘Of course.’
Sleep came eventually that night. But it was shallow and dream-ridden when it finally arrived.
I met my father at his Mayfair house to give him back the swipe key the following afternoon. I made no mention of what had occurred aboard the
Dark Echo
. I had retreated furtively from Hadley’s domain, reasonably sure that no one there had seen me. No one there with a right to be there, no one living, had seen me, at any rate. Harry Spalding had seen me, I felt. And I had heard Harry Spalding. I’d caught only the merest glimpse of him in the snakelike recoil of his reflection. But I had heard him speak in the decades-dead voice he still possessed.
Hearing him was enough. But I did not really want to dwell on that. Nor did I want to think about his companion, the woman I’d seen. My father would have believed none of it, which is why I did not tell him. Events earlier in my life had put paid entirely to his faith in me where matters spiritual were concerned. And for good or bad, Harry Spalding was a spiritual matter. I was already reasonably sure of that.
‘You look like hell,’ my father said. He didn’t. He looked rumpled and sated and smug.
‘Find Chichester congenial?’
He ignored the question. He poured me coffee from a silver pot. It always surprised me that he remembered how I took it. He hadn’t made the coffee, of course. The pot had been wheeled in on its trolley by his housekeeper.
‘Why the
Dark Echo
, Dad? Why that damned boat in particular?’
He smiled. But the smile was entirely for himself. ‘My own childhood, Martin, was very different from that which I was able to provide for you.’
This was not promising. I sipped my coffee. I would take solace in the coffee, which was excellent. ‘I know that, Dad.’
‘Please.
There was no point texting Suzanne for reassurance on this occasion. I lay in our bed and wondered how much to tell the woman I loved about what had happened. Secrets have a way of festering, and sharing my most private thoughtsand feelings with her was an important aspect of the intimacy that I knew gave our relationship much of its worth. There were lots of things I did not tell her. But I felt no guilt at keeping the boring and trivial stuff to myself. That was just a way of preventing her from thinking
me
boring and trivial.
What would she make of my experience aboard the boat? Would she think me mad? She would believe it had happened. She would be sympathetic to how shaken the experience had left me. But she was too practical and pragmatic a woman to believe in the supernatural herself. She would rationalise it, somehow. She would see it as the consequence of fatigue and an over-vigorous imagination. Then I remembered what she had said, speaking from Dublin, when I had told her about the auction. She knew already that the
Dark Echo
bore the reputation of an unlucky boat. She had made reference to the fact before the catalogue of apparent accidents at Frank Hadley’s yard. I would have to ask her about that. It was important, just as reading the log was important.
The phone rang.
‘Hi. What’s happening?’ asked Suzanne.
‘Not a lot.’
‘How was your trip to Hampshire?’
‘My father’s expensively assembled team of craftsmen are sharing a serious case of cold feet.’
‘I don’t blame them.’
‘Why do you say that?’ I had not told her about the fatality at Hadley’s boatyard. It was one of my boring, trivial omissions.
‘I’ll tell you when I get back,’ she said.
‘How’s Big Mick?’ I’d almost forgotten to ask.
‘I honestly don’t think I’ve ever admired a man more.’
‘Blimey.’
‘Your good self excepted.’
‘Of course.’
Sleep came eventually that night. But it was shallow and dream-ridden when it finally arrived.
I met my father at his Mayfair house to give him back the swipe key the following afternoon. I made no mention of what had occurred aboard the
Dark Echo
. I had retreated furtively from Hadley’s domain, reasonably sure that no one there had seen me. No one there with a right to be there, no one living, had seen me, at any rate. Harry Spalding had seen me, I felt. And I had heard Harry Spalding. I’d caught only the merest glimpse of him in the snakelike recoil of his reflection. But I had heard him speak in the decades-dead voice he still possessed.
Hearing him was enough. But I did not really want to dwell on that. Nor did I want to think about his companion, the woman I’d seen. My father would have believed none of it, which is why I did not tell him. Events earlier in my life had put paid entirely to his faith in me where matters spiritual were concerned. And for good or bad, Harry Spalding was a spiritual matter. I was already reasonably sure of that.
‘You look like hell,’ my father said. He didn’t. He looked rumpled and sated and smug.
‘Find Chichester congenial?’
He ignored the question. He poured me coffee from a silver pot. It always surprised me that he remembered how I took it. He hadn’t made the coffee, of course. The pot had been wheeled in on its trolley by his housekeeper.
‘Why the
Dark Echo
, Dad? Why that damned boat in particular?’
He smiled. But the smile was entirely for himself. ‘My own childhood, Martin, was very different from that which I was able to provide for you.’
This was not promising. I sipped my coffee. I would take solace in the coffee, which was excellent. ‘I know that, Dad.’
‘Please.
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