Chapter Thirteen
AFTERNOON WITH MARTIN
By the time they reached the coastguard’s cottage the sun was out. It was a real April day, with sudden showers and then the sun sweeping out, smiling. Every thing glittered, especially the sea. It was wet underfoot, but the children had on their rubber boots.
They looked for the coastguard. As usual he was in his shed, singing and hammering.
‘Good-day to you,’ he said, beaming all over his red face. ‘I was wondering when you’d come and see me again. How do you like, this railway station I’m making?’ ‘It’s better’ than any I’ve ever seen in 1the shops,’ said Anne, in great admiration. The coastguard certainly had made it well, down to the smallest’ detail.
He ‘nodded his head towards some small wooden figures of porters and guards and passengers. ‘Those are waiting to be painted,’ he said. ‘That boy Martin said he’d come in and do them for me very handy with his paints he is, a proper artist but he’s had an accident.’ ‘Has he? What happened?’ said Julian.
‘I don’t quite know. He was half-carried home this morning by his father,’ said the coastguard. ‘Must have slipped and fallen somewhere. I went out to ask, but Mr. Curton was in a hurry to get the boy on a couch. Why don’t you go in and ask after him? He’s a queer sort of boy — but he’s not a bad boy.’ ‘Yes, we will go and ask,’ said Julian. ‘I say, coastguard, would you mind if we looked through your telescope again?’ ‘Now you go and look at all you want to!’ said the fellow. ‘I tell you, you won’t wear it out by looking! I saw the signal from your father’s tower last night, Miss George – just happened to be looking that way. He went on flashing for a long time, didn’t he?’ ‘Yes,’ said George ‘Thank you. I’ll go and have a look now.’ ‘She went to the telescope and trained it on her island. But no matter where she looked she could not see Timmy, or her father. They’ must be down in his workroom, wherever it was. She looked at the glass room in the top of the tower. That was empty too, of course. She sighed. It would have been nice to see Timmy.’ The others had a look through as well, but nobody saw Timmy. It was plain that he was keeping close to his master — a proper little guard! ‘Well — shall we go in and see what’s happened to Martin?’ said ‘Julian, when they had finished with the telescope. ‘It’s just about to pour with rain again – another April: shower! We could wait next-door’ till it’s over.’ ‘Right. Let’s go,’ ‘said, Dick. He looked at George. ‘Don’t be afraid I shall be rude, George. Now that I know Mr. Curton is a journalist, shan’t bother, about ‘him.’ ‘All the same — I’m not “blabbing” any more,’ said George, with a ‘grin. ‘I ‘see your point now even if it doesn’t matter, I still shan’t “blab” any’ more.” ‘Good for you!’ said Dick, pleased. ‘Spoken like a boy!’ ‘Ass!’ said George, but she was pleased ‘all the same. They went through the front gateway of the next cottage. As they filed in, they heard an angry voice.
‘Well, you can’t! Always wanting to mess about with a brush and paint. I thought I’d knocked that idea out of your head. You lie still and get that ankle-better. Spraining it just when I want your help!’ Anne stopped, feeling frightened. It was Mr. Curton’s voice they could hear through the open window. He was giving Martin a good talking to about something, that was plain. The others stopped too, wondering whether to go in or not. Then they heard a bang, and saw Mr. Curton leaving the cottage from the back entrance. He walked rapidly down the garden there and made for the path, that led to the back of the cliff. There was a road there that went to the village.
‘Good. He’s gone. And he didn’t see us!’ said Dick. ‘Who would have thought that such a genial, smiling fellow could have such a rough brutal voice when he loses his temper? Come on – let’s pop in and see poor Martin while there’s a chance.’ They knocked on the door. ‘It’s us!’ called Julian cheerfully. ‘Can we come in?’ ‘Oh yes!’ shouted Martin from indoors, sounding pleased. Julian opened the door and they all went in.
‘I say! We heard you’d had an accident,’ said Julian. ‘What’s up? Are you hurt much?’ ‘No. It’s just that I twisted my ankle, and it was sc painful to walk on that I had to he half-carried up here, said Martin. ‘Silly thing to do!’ ‘Oh – it’ll soon be right if it’s just a twist,’ said Dick ‘I’ve often done that. The thing is to walk on it as soon as you can. Where were you when you fell?’ Martin went suddenly red, to everyone’s surprise. ‘Well — I was walking on the edge of the quarry with my father — and I slipped and rolled a good way down,’ he said.
There was a silence. Then George spoke. ‘I say,’ she said, ‘I hope you didn’t go and give away our little secret to your father? I mean — it’s not so much fun when grown-ups share a secret. They want to go snooping about themselves — and it’s much more fun to discover things by ourselves. You didn’t tell him about that hole under the shelf of rock, did you?’ Martin hesitated. ‘I’m afraid I did,’ he said at last. ‘I didn’t think it would matter. I’m sorry.’ ‘Blow!’ said Dick. ‘That was our own little discovery. We wanted to go and explore it this afternoon, but we thought it would be so wet we’d fall down the steep slope.’ Julian looked at Martin sharply. ‘I suppose that’s what happened to you?’ he said. ‘You tried clambering down and slipped!’ ‘Yes,’ said Martin. ‘I’m really sorry if you thought it was your secret. I just mentioned it to my father out of interest — you know — something to say – and he wanted to go down and see for himself.’ ‘I suppose journalists are always like that,’ said Dick. ‘Wanting to be on the spot if there’s anything to be ferreted out. It’s their job. All right, Martin — forget it. But do try and head your father off the quarry. We would like to do a bit of exploring, before he butts in. Though there may be nothing to be found at all!’ There was a pause. Nobody knew quite what to say. Martin was rather difficult to talk to. He didn’t talk like an ordinary boy – he never made a joke, or said anything silly.
‘Aren’t you bored, lying here?’ said Anne, feeling sorry for him.
‘Yes, awfully. I wanted my father to go in and ask the coastguard to bring in some little figures I said I’d paint for him,’ said Martin. ‘But he wouldn’t let me. You know I simply love painting – even doing a little thing like that — painting clothes on toy porters and ‘guards — so long as I can have a brush in my hand and colours to choose from!’ This was the longest speech Martin had ever made to the four children! His face lost its dull, bored look as he spoke, and became bright and cheerful.
‘Oh — you want to be an artist, I suppose?’ said Anne. ‘I would like that, too!’ ‘Anne! You can’t eve-n draw a cat that looks like one!’ said Dick, scornfully. ‘And when you drew a cow I thought it was an elephant.’ Martin smiled at Anne’s indignant face. ‘I’ll show you some of my pictures,’ he said. ‘I have to keep them hidden away, because my father can’t bear me to want to be an artist!’ ‘Don’t get up if you don’t want to,’ said Julian. ‘I’ll get them for you.’ ‘It’s all right. If it’s good for me to try and walk, I will,’ said Martin, and got off the couch. He put his right foot gingerly to the floor and then stood up. ‘Not so bad after all!’ he said. He limped across the room to a bookcase. He put his hand behind the second row of books and brought out a cardboard case, big and flat. He took it to the table. He opened it and spread out some pictures.
‘Gracious!’ said Anne. ‘They’re beautiful! Did you really do these?’ They were queer pictures for a boy to draw, for they were of flowers and trees, birds and butterflies — all drawn and coloured most perfectly, every detail put in lovingly.
Julian looked at them in surprise. This boy was certainly gifted. Why, these drawings were as good as any he had ever seen in exhibitions! He picked a few up and took them to the window.