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Authors: Margaret Kennedy
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began to whistle. He could not have put words to the tune, but it had been in the back of his mind ever since he left the churchyard: I know that my Redeemer liveth .…
Picking up the hammer, he began upon the s in sed.
Chip … chip … chip-chip … and He shall stand … chip … chip-chip … at the latter day … chip … chip … upon the earth.
The letter sprang out of the stone. It lived there.
Footsteps passed to and fro outside the yard gates. A car or two drove past. All the village was now wide awake. A wireless loud speaker echoed from an adjoining house with the eight o’clock news. He worked on,concentrated, absorbed, until a furious voice behind him demanded what he was doing. He sprang to his feet and confronted the old man.
‘This.…’ he said, indicating the stone.
Frank Toombs looked at it and whistled himself. It was, as he saw at once, a very nice bit of work.
‘And who might give you leave to do such a thing?’ he asked, more gently.
There was a long pause. The answer sounded like a question.
‘Frank? …’
‘What d’you mean? I never …’
They stared at each other.
Toombs saw that this man, although he had obviously slept rough, was no tramp. His hands were working hands. His splendid head, the great forehead, the beetling brows and haggard eyes reminded Toombs of a picture he had seen, some old picture somewhere of a great man. A tramp with a brain-box like that would bear signs of drink and degeneration. This man was very pale. He looked ill. But he was no waster.
‘Who are you?’ demanded Toombs. ‘What’s your name?’
This was the danger point. This was the gulf which had to be crossed. But a bridge now presented itself. The answer was easy. It was given without a moment’s hesitation:
‘Benbow.’
1
T HE exertions of Sunday night, the task of keeping the party sweet, of sending it home fuddled but friendly, exhausted Frank Archer. He did not turn up in the Metropole dining-room until a quarter to eleven. With one pop of his grey eyes he quenched some suggestion from the waiter that breakfast was off, and ordered kidneys, which were not on the menu. They came. At half-past eleven he took a stroll round the town, which he had so far only seen by lightning flashes. It was a small town, and he very soon fetched up in front of its principal attraction—Alan Wetherby’s Marine Pavilion.
A long whistle escaped him as he took in it. Turning the corner of the parade and beholding the sea, he had unconsciously expected some cosy little pier with a domed shack at the end of it. There was nothing cosy about this severely functional structure. But they were all exceedingly proud of it. No town in England could boast of anything more up to the minute.
To get inside was no easy task. The engraved Perspex doors baffled him, as they baffled all visitors, and had baffled the townsfolk during the first week or two. There was a long row of them, immensely tall, through which glimpses could be got of the vestibule within and the shining sea beyond. He tugged and pushed and would have concluded that the place must be shut had he not beheld various strollers inside. Presently two old ladies came up and pushed a knob in thesteel frame-work, whereupon a whole door slid silently behind its neighbour, admitted them, and closed after them. He followed their example and got inside, wondering what would happen if the thing shut up again while somebody was standing in the doorway. Upon further investigation, however, he discovered two knobs. One of them held all the doors permanently open, when large crowds were going in and out. The other served scattered entrants on windy days. The whole contrivance prevented unnecessary draughts.
He found himself in a vestibule which ran the whole width of the building. Its northern wall, opposite the doors, was constructed entirely of glass, and looked over the Channel to Wales. Some thirty feet short of this glass wall the vestibule floor fell away
Picking up the hammer, he began upon the s in sed.
Chip … chip … chip-chip … and He shall stand … chip … chip-chip … at the latter day … chip … chip … upon the earth.
The letter sprang out of the stone. It lived there.
Footsteps passed to and fro outside the yard gates. A car or two drove past. All the village was now wide awake. A wireless loud speaker echoed from an adjoining house with the eight o’clock news. He worked on,concentrated, absorbed, until a furious voice behind him demanded what he was doing. He sprang to his feet and confronted the old man.
‘This.…’ he said, indicating the stone.
Frank Toombs looked at it and whistled himself. It was, as he saw at once, a very nice bit of work.
‘And who might give you leave to do such a thing?’ he asked, more gently.
There was a long pause. The answer sounded like a question.
‘Frank? …’
‘What d’you mean? I never …’
They stared at each other.
Toombs saw that this man, although he had obviously slept rough, was no tramp. His hands were working hands. His splendid head, the great forehead, the beetling brows and haggard eyes reminded Toombs of a picture he had seen, some old picture somewhere of a great man. A tramp with a brain-box like that would bear signs of drink and degeneration. This man was very pale. He looked ill. But he was no waster.
‘Who are you?’ demanded Toombs. ‘What’s your name?’
This was the danger point. This was the gulf which had to be crossed. But a bridge now presented itself. The answer was easy. It was given without a moment’s hesitation:
‘Benbow.’
1
T HE exertions of Sunday night, the task of keeping the party sweet, of sending it home fuddled but friendly, exhausted Frank Archer. He did not turn up in the Metropole dining-room until a quarter to eleven. With one pop of his grey eyes he quenched some suggestion from the waiter that breakfast was off, and ordered kidneys, which were not on the menu. They came. At half-past eleven he took a stroll round the town, which he had so far only seen by lightning flashes. It was a small town, and he very soon fetched up in front of its principal attraction—Alan Wetherby’s Marine Pavilion.
A long whistle escaped him as he took in it. Turning the corner of the parade and beholding the sea, he had unconsciously expected some cosy little pier with a domed shack at the end of it. There was nothing cosy about this severely functional structure. But they were all exceedingly proud of it. No town in England could boast of anything more up to the minute.
To get inside was no easy task. The engraved Perspex doors baffled him, as they baffled all visitors, and had baffled the townsfolk during the first week or two. There was a long row of them, immensely tall, through which glimpses could be got of the vestibule within and the shining sea beyond. He tugged and pushed and would have concluded that the place must be shut had he not beheld various strollers inside. Presently two old ladies came up and pushed a knob in thesteel frame-work, whereupon a whole door slid silently behind its neighbour, admitted them, and closed after them. He followed their example and got inside, wondering what would happen if the thing shut up again while somebody was standing in the doorway. Upon further investigation, however, he discovered two knobs. One of them held all the doors permanently open, when large crowds were going in and out. The other served scattered entrants on windy days. The whole contrivance prevented unnecessary draughts.
He found himself in a vestibule which ran the whole width of the building. Its northern wall, opposite the doors, was constructed entirely of glass, and looked over the Channel to Wales. Some thirty feet short of this glass wall the vestibule floor fell away
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