‘Oh, ar? That ‘un up there, hey? A funny ‘un, I’m told.’
‘Course there ain’t a jot o’ proof, but she’d bin seen wi’ ‘im, right enough. An’ clean off Sharkham Point she went, down Brixham way. Terrible!’
A local tragedy, obviously, thought George. The Point was a headland of cliffs projecting into the sea. He glanced at the two old-timers, nodded and had his nod returned, turned back to his drink. But their conversation stayed with him. One of them was thin, ferret-faced, the other red and portly, the latter doing the story-telling.
Now he continued, ‘Carryin’, o’ course.’
‘Pregnant, were she?’ the thin one gasped. ‘It were ‘is, you reckon?’
‘I reckons nuthin’,’ the first denied. ‘No proof, like I said. An’ anyway, she were a rum ‘un. But so young. ‘Tis a pity.’
‘A pity’s right,’ the thin one agreed. ‘But ter jump like that . . . what made ‘er do it, d’you think? I mean, unwed an’ carryin’ these days ain’t nuthin.
Out of the corner of his eye, George saw them lean closer. Their voices fell lower still and he strained to hear what was said:
‘I reckon,’ said the portly one, ‘that Nature told ‘er it weren’t right. You know ‘ow a ewe’ll cast a puggled lamb? Suthin’ like that, poor lass.’
‘It weren’t right, you say? They opened ‘er up, then?’
‘Oh, ar, they did that! Tide were out an’ she knew it. She weren’t goin’ in the water, that one. She were goin’ down on the rocks! Makin’ sure, she were. Now ‘ere, strictly ‘tween you an’ me, my girl Mary’s at the hospital, as you know. She says that when they brung ‘er in she were dead as mutton. But they sounded ‘er belly, and it were still kickin’ . . . !’
After a moment’s pause: ‘The child?’
‘Well what else, you old fool! So they opened ‘er up. ‘Orrible it were – but there’s none but a handful knows of it, so this stops right ‘ere. Well, doctor took one look at it an’ put a needle in it. He just finished it there and then. An’ into a plastic bag it went an’ down to the hospital furnace. An’ that was that.’
‘Deformed,’ the thin one nodded. ‘I’ve heard o’ such.’
‘Well, this one weren’t so much deformed as … as not much formed at all!’ the florid one informed. ‘It were -‘ow’d my Mary put it? – like some kind of massive tumour in ‘er. A terrible sort of fleshy lump, and fibrous. But it were s’posed to ‘ave been a child, for there was afterbirth and all. But for sure it were better off dead! My Mary said as ‘ow there was eyes where there shouldn’t be, an’ things like teeth, an’ ‘ow it mewled suthin’ terrible when the light fell on it!’
George had finished his lager, the last of it with a gulp.
The door of the pub was flung open and a party of young people came in. Another moment and one of them had found a juke-box in some hidden alcove; rock music washed over everything. The barman came back, pulled pints for all he was worth.
George left, headed back down the road. Half-way back, his car pulled up and Anne shouted, ‘Get in the back.’
She wore a straw hat with a wide black band, contrasting perfectly with her summer dress. Helen, sitting beside her, wore one with a red band. ‘How’s that?’ Anne laughed as George plumped down in the back seat and slammed the door. Mother and daughter tilted their heads coquettishly, showed off their hats. ‘Just like a couple of village girls out for a drive, eh?’
‘Around here,’ George answered darkly, ‘village girls need to watch what they’re doing.’ But he didn’t explain his meaning, and in any case he wouldn’t have mentioned Harkley in the same breath as the story he’d overheard in the pub. He took it that he’d simply misinterpreted the first few words. However that may be, the unpleasantness of the thing stayed with him for the rest of the day.
The next morning, Tuesday, George was up late. Anne had offered him breakfast in bed but he’d declined, gone back to sleep. He got up at ten to a quiet house, made himself a small breakfast that turned out quite tasteless. Then, in the living-room, he found Anne’s note: