Anne gripped his hand. “I’m so terribly unhappy, Henry,” she said. And before he knew what was happening, she had thrown her arms around his neck and was crying on his shoulder like a child. Henry patted her comfortingly on the back, and felt her arms tighten. Then she stopped sobbing, and nuzzled her face into his neck. It was a distinctly pleasant sensation. It was at that moment that Henry saw Colin beaching his dinghy. He tried to push Anne away.
“Pull yourself together. Colin’s coming.”
Anne clung to him obstinately. Colin started to walk across the fields toward them. Henry said, “Be sensible, Anne, for God’s sake.”
Without moving, she whispered, “Say you believe me. Henry, darling, say you believe me.”
In the grip of a nightmare, Henry said desperately, “All right, I believe you. Now behave yourself.”
“You won’t go on with this silly business of stirring up trouble, will you? Promise me you won’t.”
“I can’t—”
“Promise!”
“Oh, very well.”
She drew away from him then. “Thank you, darling Henry,” she said. Her eyes were red, but she was smiling.
Colin came closer. It was inconceivable, Henry decided, that he had not seen what was going on, and equally inconceivable that he would not have put the worst possible construction on it. Feeling trapped and ridiculous, he scrambled to his feet.
“Don’t get up,” said Colin drily. “Forgive me if I join you. I got bored with my own company. I trust Anne has been entertaining you adequately.”
Henry sat down again. Colin certainly did not appear either angry or upset, but in his embarrassment Henry felt sure he could detect an undercurrent of irony behind every word.
“Anne’s rather upset,” he said, and his own voice sounded hopelessly pompous in his ears. “My fault, I’m afraid. I started talking about”—it suddenly occurred to him that to mention Pete Rawnsley at this stage would be tactless in the extreme: he ended, wretchedly—“about death.”
“Anne’s a very emotional girl, aren’t you, darling?” said Colin. He sat down beside her, gave her a sharp look, and added, “You’ve been crying.”
“I’m all right now,” said Anne. “I’m sorry I was so stupid. What have you been up to, darling?”
“Reading,” said Colin. Again, his voice held the note of secret amusement that Henry had noticed the night be
fore. “The Venturesome Voyages of Captain Voss. Hadn’t looked at it for years. Most instructive. The fellow had some very ingenious ideas.”
Only Colin appeared completely at ease. He turned to Henry and added, “I can’t help feeling, Henry, that you’d have been more profitably employed reading a good book than playing at nymphs and shepherds with my feather-brained fiancée—especially as you succeeded in reducing her to tears. Some day you must tell me how you did it. I’ve never managed it.”
This time there was no mistaking the malice in his voice, but Henry had the impression that it was directed at Anne. Colin, he reflected, must be quite used to situations of this sort, and even seemed to derive a perverse pleasure from them: but this mood of delicately cruel amusement contrasted sharply with the brooding anger which he had shown in the bar when Anne had referred to her affair with Pete Rawnsley. Was it that Colin knew that Pete had meant more to her than the casual flirtations into which she drifted so naturally? Or was it—?
“Of course,” Colin was saying, “I could have told you that death—particularly sudden death—is Anne’s least favourite topic of conversation. She’s very sensitive about it just now. Aren’t you, my sweet? Couldn’t you find anything better to talk about in these idyllic circumstances?”
“Colin, you’re being beastly again,” said Anne lightly. “What time is it, Henry? Shouldn’t you go back?”
Henry glanced at his watch. “Yes,” he said, with some relief. “It’s a quarter to four. I promised Alastair I wouldn’t be late.”
“Off you go, then,” said Anne. “We’ll stay a bit longer, shall we, Colin darling?”
Henry got to his feet. “Well,” he said awkwardly, “I’ll be seeing you. In The Berry Bush, I presume.”
“You presume correctly,” said Colin. “We won’t disappoint you.” He looked at Henry intently for a moment, with lively mockery and a hint of sympathy. Henry considered several remarks, rejected them all, and set off across the meadows to his dinghy.
Alastair was nothing if not punctual. Ariadne was already in sight, beating down Hamford Water towards the anchorage. Henry rowed out, Alastair put the nose of the boat into the wind to stop her, and helped him to clamber aboard.
At half past four, the wind had died away to the merest breath. At five o’clock, beating laboriously against the incoming tide, Ariadne was still well inside the narrow exit from the Backwaters.
Alastair said, “There’s no sense in this. Come and take her, Rosemary, while I start the motor.”
He removed several floor boards from the cockpit, to reveal a small, sturdy marine engine. It would be pleasant to be able to record that this miracle of modern science leapt into life at the first swing of the starting handle. It would also be untrue. However, it took little more than ten minutes of tinkering and profanity before Alastair emerged from the bowels of the boat, filthy but triumphant, to the accompaniment of an ear-splitting but reassuring roar. The sails were lowered, and Ariadne began to crawl confidently towards the open sea.
“Go and sit on deck, up fo’rard,” Alastair yelled to Henry and Emmy. “Less noise and smell.”
This proved to be quite true. Forward of the mast, there was nothing to be heard but a gentle purr, and conversation became possible.
Emmy said, “Did you have a nice walk?”
“Very enlightening,” said Henry shortly.
“I was beginning to wonder,” said Emmy, “whether Anne had designs on you.”
To do him justice, Henry had fully intended to tell his wife the whole ludicrous story, to share the joke with her and implore her never to leave him alone with an unscrupulous minx again: but for some reason, when it came to the point, all he said was, “Good heavens, no. I only went with her because I wanted to talk to her about...you know what.”
Emmy gazed out over the glassy sea, and said, “Did she have anything interesting to tell you?”
Henry told her Anne’s account of her adventures on Steep Hill Sands. Emmy turned to him, her eyes shining. “Oh, darling, I’m so glad. That’s the explanation. Now you can forget the whole thing, can’t you?”
“Yes,” said Henry, “I can.”
“You fraud,” muttered his conscience, nastily. “Tell her what David said.”
“But I promised Anne...”
“Under duress,” said Conscience, with a leer.
“I’m on holiday.”
“That has nothing to do with it. I thought you cared about truth and justice.”
“I care more about people,” said Henry, crossly—and was horrified to realize that he had spoken the last words aloud.
Emmy, surprised, said, “More than what?”
“More than anything,” said Henry.
“I don’t understand.”
Henry turned and looked at his wife. For the first time, he saw, consciously, that she had been putting on quite a bit of weight: he saw the crow’s-feet of laughter at the corners of her eyes, and the occasional glint of grey in her black hair. A great wave of tenderness swept over him.
“I care about you,” he said, and put his arm round her shoulders. “In fact, I love you very much. It seems a long time since I told you that.”
Emmy relaxed against his arm, and shut her eyes. “I love you, too,” she said. “I suppose we’re just sentimental old fools. Do you know, I was actually worried about you and Anne.”