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He encouraged the other with directions until the two men were face to face on the narrow plateau. The newcomer was a man of about thirty-five. He had a rather indecisive face which seemed to be calling for a monocle and a little moustache.
‘I’m a stranger down here,’ he explained. ‘My name’s Bassington-ffrench, by the way. Come down to see about a house. I say, what a beastly thing to happen! Did he walk over the edge?’
Bobby nodded.
‘Bit of mist got up,’ he explained. ‘It’s a dangerous bit of path. Well, so long. Thanks very much. I’ve got to hurry. It’s awfully good of you.’
‘Not at all,’ the other protested. ‘Anybody would do the same. Can’t leave the poor chap lying – well, I mean, it wouldn’t be decent somehow.’
Bobby was scrambling up the precipitous path. At the top he waved his hand to the other then set off at a brisk run across country. To save time, he vaulted the churchyard wall instead of going round to the gate on the road – a proceeding observed by the Vicar from the vestry window and deeply disapproved of by him.
It was five minutes past six, but the bell was still tolling.
Explanations and recriminations were postponed until after the service. Breathless, Bobby sank into his seat and manipulated the stops of the ancient organ. Association of ideas led his fingers into Chopin’s funeral march.
Afterwards, more in sorrow than in anger (as he expressly pointed out), the Vicar took his son to task.
‘If you cannot do a thing properly, my dear Bobby,’ he said, ‘it is better not to do it at all. I know that you and all your young friends seem to have no idea of time, but there is One whom we should not keep waiting. You offered to play the organ of your own accord. I did not coerce you. Instead, faint-hearted, you preferred playing a game –’
Bobby thought he had better interrupt before his father got too well away.
‘Sorry, Dad,’ he said, speaking cheerfully and breezily as was his habit no matter what the subject. ‘Not my fault this time. I was keeping guard over a corpse.’
‘You were what?’
‘Keeping guard over a blighter who stepped over the cliff. You know – the place where the chasm is – by the seventeenth tee. There was a bit of mist just then, and he must have gone straight on and over.’
‘Good heavens,’ cried the Vicar. ‘What a tragedy! Was the man killed outright?’
‘No. He was unconscious. He died just after Dr Thomas had gone off. But of course I felt I had to squat there – couldn’t just push off and leave him. And then another fellow came along so I passed the job of chief mourner on to him and legged it here as fast as I could.’
The Vicar sighed.
‘Oh, my dear Bobby,’ he said. ‘Will nothing shake your deplorable callousness? It grieves me more than I can say. Here you have been brought face to face with death – with sudden death. And you can joke about it! It leaves you unmoved. Everything – everything, however solemn, however sacred, is merely a joke to your generation.’
Bobby shuffled his feet.
If his father couldn’t see that, of course, you joked about a thing because you had felt badly about it – well, he couldn’t see it! It wasn’t the sort of thing you could explain. With death and tragedy about you had to keep a stiff upper lip.
But what could you expect? Nobody over fifty understood anything at all. They had the most extraordinary ideas.
‘I expect it was the War,’ thought Bobby loyally. ‘It upset them and they never got straight again.’
He felt ashamed of his father and sorry for him.
‘Sorry, Dad,’ he said with a clear-eyed realization that explanation was impossible.
The Vicar felt sorry for his son – he looked abashed – but he also felt ashamed of him. The boy had no conception of the seriousness of life. Even his apology was cheery and impenitent.
They moved towards the Vicarage, each making enormous efforts to find excuses for the other.
The Vicar thought: ‘I wonder when Bobby will find something to do … ?’
Bobby thought: ‘Wonder how much longer I can stick it down here … ?’
Yet they were both extremely fond of each other.
Bobby did not see the immediate sequel of his adventure. On the following morning he went up to town, there to meet a friend who was thinking of starting a garage and who fancied Bobby’s co-operation might be valuable.
After settling things to everybody’s satisfaction, Bobby caught the 11.30 train home two days later. He caught it, true, but only by a very narrow margin. He arrived at Paddington when the clock announced the time to be 11.28, dashed down the subway, emerged on No. 3 Platform just as the train was moving and hurled himself at the first carriage he saw, heedless of indignant ticket collectors and porters in his immediate rear.
Wrenching open the door, he fell in on his hands and knees, picked himself up. The door was shut with a slam by an agile porter and Bobby found himself looking at the sole occupant of the compartment.
It was a first-class carriage and in the corner facing the engine sat a dark girl smoking a cigarette. She had on a red skirt, a short green jacket and a brilliant blue beret, and despite a certain resemblance to an organ grinder’s monkey (she had long sorrowful dark eyes and a puckered-up face) she was distinctly attractive.
In the midst of an apology, Bobby broke off.
‘Why, it’s you, Frankie!’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages.’
‘Well, I haven’t seen you. Sit down and talk.’
Bobby grinned.
‘My ticket’s the wrong colour.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Frankie kindly. ‘I’ll pay the difference for you.’
‘My manly indignation rises at the thought,’ said Bobby. ‘How could I let a lady pay for me?’
‘It’s about all we seem to be good for these days,’ said Frankie.
‘I will pay the difference myself,’ said Bobby heroically as a burly figure in blue appeared at the door from the corridor.
‘Leave it to me,’ said Frankie.
She smiled graciously at the ticket collector, who touched his hat as he took the piece of white cardboard from her and punched it.
‘Mr Jones has just come in to talk to me for a bit,’ she said. ‘That won’t matter, will it?’
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