Free A Dream of Wessex by Christopher Priest

on to the sand, and walked towards them. Harkman turned to face him.
    ‘I’d like this one,’ he said.
    Greg said: ‘Two thousand dollars. Seven thousand extra for the engine.’
    ‘Greg, that’s not the usual price,’ Julia said.
    Harkman looked at her, and, conscious of the double meaning, said: ‘Well?’
    Julia brushed the sand from her smock, keeping her face averted. ‘We normally charge six thousand for the whole unit.’ Greg showed no response.
    ‘That seems a fair price.’ Harkman bent down and picked up his jacket.
    ‘I’ll deliver it myself,’ Julia said. ‘Tomorrow evening.’
    As Harkman counted the money into Greg’s hand, Julia was standing by the edge of the waves, staring out across the narrow inlet.
     

eight
     
    By mid-afternoon, Tom Benedict was plainly very ill, and Julia’s intrigued day-dreams about David Harkman were interrupted as she arranged for Tom to be taken to the infirmary in the Castle village. Hannah and Mark, who ran the stall in Dorchester with her, were expecting her there for the evening trade, and she had to take time to send someone down with a message.
    When she returned to the infirmary, Allen had already visited Tom, and the old man was laid out as comfortably as possible in the cool, white-painted ward. He recognized Julia when she arrived, but soon afterwards fell asleep.
    The Castle infirmary was run on an entirely voluntary basis, and had no proper medical facilities. It was simply a long, low hut, which was kept clean and ventilated, and contained sixteen beds where people suffering from minor ailments could be looked after. A few medical supplies were kept in a small room at one end, but any serious disease had to be treated in the Dorchester hospital.
    Julia sought out one of the women who served occasional duties as a nurse.
    ‘Where’s Allen?’ she said. ‘What’s he doing for Tom?’
    ‘He said he needed rest. He’s sent away to Dorchester, and someone’s coming up this evening.’
    ‘This evening! That might be too late. Did he say what was wrong?’
    ‘No, Julia. Tom’s old ... it could be anything.’
    Exasperated, Julia returned to the bedside and took Tom’s tight-skinned hand in hers. The fingers were cold and stiff, and for a moment she thought he must have died while she was away from the bed. Then she saw a very slow, very shallow movement of his chest. She slipped his hand beneath the blanket and continued to hold it, trying to warm him.
    It felt cold in the ward, because the windows were open and although there was only a slight breeze the sun never seemed to warm the infirmary. Julia swept back the thin white hair from the old man’s brow, and felt that the skin there was also cool, not perspiring.
    Julia felt closer to Tom than she could ever say; closer than she felt to her parents, closer than she felt to Greg ... and yet it was neither a blood relationship nor a sexual one. There was an affinity there, an unspoken understanding.
    There were approximately two hundred people in the Castle community, children included, but of these only a handful had any influence on her life or thoughts. She thought of the rest as pale shadows, lacking in personality, following where others led.
    Allen, the doctor, was one such. He was unquestionably qualified for medical practice, and in the treatment of minor ailments and in diagnosing diseases he was excellent. But he seemed never to act; anything that could not be treated with available medicines was referred immediately to the hospital in Dorchester. Perhaps it was right that this should be so ... but Allen’s personality was negative, unforthcoming.
    Greg was another. In spite of the fact that she had slept with him for months, and in spite of there having been a certain amount of mutual interest at the start, Julia had never really grown to know the young man. He was, to her, always the distant, efficient craftsman who worked in the skimmer workshop, or the inconsiderate, selfish and