Free Grand Canary by A. J. Cronin Page B

‘Now you’re different. You’ve been up against it, cocky, like I’ave. I likes you for it. Strike me blind if you ’aven’t got my bleedin’ sympathy.’ She closed one eye cunningly. ‘You’ll ave to come and see me at my plyce in Santa. We’ll ’ave a snack and an ’ and at German w’ist. ’Undred and Sixteen Calle de la Tuna. Make a note on it.’
    â€˜Your kindness is overwhelming. But I hardly think I’ll be able to come.’
    â€˜You never knows your luck, cocky.’ She peered up at him. ‘And while we’re talkin’. Wot’s your friend Corcoran’s gyme? ’E’s on ’is uppers for all ’is blarney. And I’ve rooked ’im of his petty cash at rummy. Wye is ’ e comin’ out to Santa? I don’t rumble ’im no’ow.’
    Harvey shook his head.
    â€˜I haven’t the least idea,’ he said coldly; then before she could reply he turned and passed quickly out of earshot.
    He went round to the starboard side, seeking seclusion. But though some chairs stood about untenanted, two were occupied. He did not care. Suddenly he felt weak and sat down.
    The sun was warm, a healing warmth which lay like balm upon his half-closed eyelids and sank into his weary body like a caress. The corners of his mouth, drawn downwards into bitterness, faintly relaxed. The wound in his soul remained raw and bleeding; but for a moment he forgot its pain. The air was light. The water glinted in great soft curves. The ship sailed southwards. Incredibly, about its steepled rigging two swallows circled, cherishing this chance oasis upon their passage, holding to safety till they should sight the land.
    All at once Harvey opened his eyes, conscious that someone was gazing at him. Immediately Susan Tranter looked away, an unexpected flush rising, then fading on her cheek.
    She was seated in the neighbouring chair, darning a grey woollen sock, a work-bag by her side, a note-book and a pencil upon her knee. So quickly did she turn that the note-book dropped upon the deck and lay open beside her strong, square shoe.
    He picked up the book, aware with the instant comprehension which was his faculty that it was her diary: keeping a conscientious diary, mending her brother’s underwear – that, he thought grimly, is her type. But as he held the note-book in his hand a page fluttered and quite by accident his name, a phrase upon the finely written sheet beyond that name, leaped to his astonished eye:
    â€˜I do not believe the story to be true. He has a noble face.’
    That was all; the book was now closed, back upon her lap; his expression had not changed. But she was still vaguely discomposed, feeling that she must speak, not knowing what to say. At last she ventured:
    â€˜I hope – I hope you feel better.’
    He turned away. Nauseated by his discovery, by the gawky sentiment implied, he hated her solicitude; yet there was in her attitude a diffidence which compelled him to reply:
    â€˜Yes, I’m better.’
    â€˜That’s great,’ she went on quickly. ‘When we make Las Palmas on Saturday you’ll feel that fine you’ll want to go ashore and climb the Peak.’
    He stared morbidly in front of him.
    â€˜I shall probably go ashore and get drunk. Not heroically drunk you understand. Just undramatically fuddled. Stupid oblivion.’
    Something in her eyes winced; she made to protest; but she controlled herself.
    â€˜We wanted to help you, my brother and I, when you – when you were sick. He wanted to come to your cabin. But I kind of guessed you’d like to be left quiet.’
    â€˜You were right.’
    His agreement seemed conclusive, constituting a final silence. Yet in a moment she bridged that silence.
    â€˜That remark of mine sounds so officious,’ she said diffidently. ‘I just must explain I’ve had nursing experience. Three years in the