“You’re going to let me have my mother’s cottage?” Judith looked pleased. “It’s still empty?”
“We’ve left it vacant, hoping her daughter would return to us. Even after they tried to tell us you were dead the Light told us to expect your return. We never believed those lies the outsiders tell!” He remembered I was an outsider and added hastily, “No offense, Mister Gavin.”
“No offense taken, Mister Yackle. You’re wise not to believe Administration stories.”
“Then I’ll go wash up and get rested,” Judith broke in. “We’ve been riding all day.”
“I sent Prudence and Clara to air the rooms and spread fresh linen,” said Yackle quickly. “And Nora’s dusting and polishing. While they’re making it snug for you, maybe you’ll take a look at my eldest. Bernice has had a nasty cough on her for weeks.”
“I’ll check Bernice now.” Judith’s face showed her resignation to the cares which descend on a community doctor as soon as he or she reappears. “Gavin, I’ll see you later up at the house. It’s over there—above the cove.” She pointed to a cottage backing, against the cliff, its yard bright with fall flowers. The doors and windows were open and several girls were shaking out rugs and mops, preparing a home for their Doctor. Barbara was trudging up the pathway towards it with a load of kindling.
“Mister Gavin—he’ll be staying with you?” Yackle’s voice faltered under Judith’s steady glance.
“Of course! He arrived with me. Enoch, would you show him around and then bring him up to the cottage.”
“Be a pleasure, Doc!”
“But—” Yackle started to say something.
“You wanted me to take a look at Bernice?” Judith turned away from the wharf.
“Yes—if you would.” Yackle glanced uncertainly at me, then trotted after Judith toward the largest house on the village street Enoch was refilling his pipe. “Don’t judge Chuck Yackle too hard, Mister Gavin. We need Chuck to remind us of the lighted path. Barb, she’s like all young ’uns. Critical of their elders.” He lit his pipe. “At times she’s right to be critical. At times she’s wrong. She’ll get no smarter as she grows older, but she’ll get more understanding. Leastwise, I hope she does.” He drew, on his pipe, then added, “Though not too understanding.”
“She does as she’s told. That’s unusual. Most kids these days—too raw to eat and too green to burn.”
Enoch laughed. “She does as she’s told when what she’s told is sensible. All the youngsters here do as they’re told, when they’re told what’s sensible. It’s the sea that teaches ’em. In a boat you learn not to argue.” He puffed on his pipe and chuckled. “But those kids, they do a lot of things they’re not told. And it’s a good thing for all of us that they do!” I waited for him to expand on that cryptic remark, but he said, “Before I show you around, maybe you’d like a tot of rum? To refresh you after a long day. I keep a bottle in the boat.” “There’s nothing I’d like better,” I said and followed him down the ladder and into the cabin of the Aurora.
I didn’t see much of the Settlement that day, and when Barbara Bailed us from the wharf it was almost dark. She was waiting at the top of the ladder and gave a disapproving sniff when we joined her. “The Doc sent me to find out what the two of you were doing. Now I know! She’s waiting up at the cottage for Mister Gavin.”
“And he’s coming right up,” said Enoch jovially. We had actually done more talking than drinking, but this was evidently the kind of community where to smell of alcohol was to be judged intoxicated.
Judith had already acquired the community attitude. She was standing in the doorway when we climbed up the path. “Enoch! You haven’t changed! But don’t start introducing Gavin to your habits.”
“Gavin don’t need no introducing!” Enoch chuckled and started back toward the cove, his daughter hovering beside Mm.
“He’s not drunk!” I protested, following Judith into the cottage. “Neither am I.”
“He used to be a drinking man. And this isn’t a drinking Settlement.” She inspected me, decided I was reasonably sober, and announced. “I’m going to take a bath. You need one too. I’ll leave you some hot water.” And she disappeared. I heard the sound of a bath being filled. So the Settlement had both electricity and a piped water supply. I had half-expected to be drawing buckets of icy water from a well and heating it in a wood-fired copper.
I went to warm my hands at the log fire blazing in the large stone fireplace, looking around the living room of Mistress Grenfell’s old home. A snug and comfortable room. The girls Yackle had sent to prepare it for Judith had done a good job. The mahogany table gleamed a rich brown. The silver candlesticks on the mantel, the tea service on the sideboard, the brass fire-irons, shone in the firelight. A pendulum clock ticked on the wall. Above the fireplace a portrait of Judith as a girl watched me as I wandered round the room. The portrait of a woman—I assumed she was Judith’s dead mother-—watched me from another wall. If Judith looked like her when she was fifty she would be as beautiful as she was now and a good deal easier to live with. A trace of her mother’s perfume still seemed to linger as did the sense of peace and order she had impressed upon her home.
I sat down and looked into the fire. The cottage, the whole Settlements was a refuge from the rising chaos of the world outside. After the turmoil of my last few years, after the hectic activity of my whole life, here was a place where I could rest and regain my sanity. I hoped that these Believers would let me stay long enough to do it.
Judith came from the bathroom, pulling an embroidered robe over her long woolen nightdress, brushing out her golden-aubum hair which now hung to her shoulders and glinted in the firelight. I jumped to my feet and stood staring at her. She looked like a woman from an earlier age. She looked completely feminine. And she had never looked more beautiful.
But the essential Judith was still there. “If you’re sufficiently sober, Gav—go and get cleaned up!” The disapproval in her voice was an echo of the elderly supervisor in the Pen who had been fond of reminding me to wash my hands before supper.
My panniers had been brought up from the bike and I had returned, shaved and in a clean shirt, when there was a knock on the door. The visitor was Yackle. He seemed embarrassed to find Judith in her night-dress and robe, although I could not imagine more modest sleeping garments. “We’re having a communal supper tonight. Down at the Hall. We were hoping you’d join us, Doctor.” He glanced at me. “And Mister Gavin too, of course.”
“Thanks, Chuck. But not tonight. I’m exhausted. There’s food somebody’s kindly put in the larder. I’ll fix us something to eat here.”
“No need for that! Not for you cooking on your first night home.” He was obviously relieved that he would not have to explain my presence at the feast. “I’ll have the girls bring you up a meal.” He gave me a weak smile and disappeared.
Judith was wandering round rearranging things, the way a woman does when she moves into new quarters, starting to make the place her own. She ignored me, so presently I asked, “Didn’t Yackle say something about sending up supper?” I was hungry.
She turned, pushed back her hair, and studied me. She had put on perfume, the first time since I had met her when, she smelt of anything except herself. She had made up her face; something she hadn’t done since distracting the salesman at Hucksters’ Haven and impressing the doorman at the Shera-ton-Ritz. She had never used cosmetics in the Pen and they were forbidden in Sherando.
“Supper, Gavin? First booze, then food? Is that all you have on your mind?”
“I had two shots of rum with Enoch and I haven’t had anything to eat all day!” Why was she so jumpy? We had escaped the Feds. We had survived a dangerous journey, made more dangerous by the way she had ridden her Yama. We had been welcomed—at least she had—by the Settlement. We were in comfortable quarters. Yet when I mentioned I was hungry she reacted as if I had insulted her. That’s the trouble with having a female partner on any mission. Single-minded and resolute in the crunch; illogical and unpredictable when out of it.