evening nor next morning at breakfast. Apparently Inspector Harwood had given him his release.
Whether it was the excitement of the last days, or the mussels, or the swim, I awoke sharply during the night with the absolute conviction that someone was prowling about the room. I lay for a moment, immobile with fear, half expecting to be seized by the throat, or to hear the ticket collector breathing sundry gory details in my ear. Then with an enormous effort of will I flung back the bedcovers, rushed to where I thought the light switch must be, fumbled, and found it at last. There was, of course, no one. I tossed fitfully for a good hour before I was able to win my way to sleep again.
In the morning, in friendly sunshine, I found Inspector Harwood with a large pile of photographs.
“Now young man,” said he, “I want you to see if you can identify this man Karl or his companion, or the ticket collector, anywhere in this set of faces.”
I looked carefully through the pile, but there was no photograph of Karl, or of his companion, or of the ticket collector. But there sure enough was a picture of Mr. George Rafferty. I flicked it onto the table in front of Inspector Harwood.
“This is the only face I have seen before.”
“Ah yes, Mr. George Rafferty,” remarked Inspector Harwood in a dry voice. “It may interest you to hear that Mr. Rafferty has skipped away; the little Irish bird has flown.”
The last of the day was falling as the boat steamed out from Fishguard Harbor. I watched the land receding, the bright land of Wales, until at last it became obscured by advancing night. Perhaps in a few hours I should be back among those green fields, back among those wind-swept uplands, back with the shame of an instant defeat. Worse still, perhaps I should never come back. With these thoughts in mind I turned to the golden glow that still lingered deep in the western sky. Then at last I made my way below to the second-class dining room.
Over a meal of bacon, sausage and tomato, bread and butter, jam and a flagon of tea, I reflected on the four days I had spent in Swansea. Curiously, instead of being annoyed at the delay, I was rather pleased that I had stuck it out, that I had not been tempted to get in touch with Parsonage. This report would make a better story if I could recount events on the ship of a similar bizarre quality to those that overwhelmed me during the journey from Cardiff to Swansea. Honesty compels me, however, to say that as far as I am aware there were no singular occurrences during the night. There must certainly have been agents aboard in plenty. No doubt there was a current of intense drama running at a lower level, but it never broke through to the visible surface. In short, I spent an uncomfortable night dozing fitfully in the saloon.
Still more of an anticlimax, I must frankly admit that my passage through Irish immigration turned out to be absurdly easy. It is worth recounting, nevertheless, for my first encounter with the Irish authorities was not without its interest. My interrogator was a large, rubicund man, of just the right type to ensnare an unwary victim, especially after a sleepless night.
“Name?”
“Thomas Sherwood.”
“Date of birth?”
“August 29, 1948.”
“Occupation?”
“Student.”
“Where?”
“Cambridge.”
“Father’s name and place of origin?”
“Robert Sherwood, Halberton, Devon.”
“Object of visit?”
“Curiosity.”
“Where do you propose to exercise your curiosity, Mr. Sherwood?”
“Three weeks in Dublin and its environs. One week in the Wicklow Mountains.”
“Why are you so curious?”
“No explanation is needed. Everybody is curious about the developments that are taking place in Dublin.”
“Why the Wicklow Mountains?”
I told him the story of my grandfather.
“H’m. A Mr. John Emmet, your grandfather?”
He rummaged among a pile of papers, and glanced at one particular sheet. Then, apparently satisfied, “Let me see
Whether it was the excitement of the last days, or the mussels, or the swim, I awoke sharply during the night with the absolute conviction that someone was prowling about the room. I lay for a moment, immobile with fear, half expecting to be seized by the throat, or to hear the ticket collector breathing sundry gory details in my ear. Then with an enormous effort of will I flung back the bedcovers, rushed to where I thought the light switch must be, fumbled, and found it at last. There was, of course, no one. I tossed fitfully for a good hour before I was able to win my way to sleep again.
In the morning, in friendly sunshine, I found Inspector Harwood with a large pile of photographs.
“Now young man,” said he, “I want you to see if you can identify this man Karl or his companion, or the ticket collector, anywhere in this set of faces.”
I looked carefully through the pile, but there was no photograph of Karl, or of his companion, or of the ticket collector. But there sure enough was a picture of Mr. George Rafferty. I flicked it onto the table in front of Inspector Harwood.
“This is the only face I have seen before.”
“Ah yes, Mr. George Rafferty,” remarked Inspector Harwood in a dry voice. “It may interest you to hear that Mr. Rafferty has skipped away; the little Irish bird has flown.”
The last of the day was falling as the boat steamed out from Fishguard Harbor. I watched the land receding, the bright land of Wales, until at last it became obscured by advancing night. Perhaps in a few hours I should be back among those green fields, back among those wind-swept uplands, back with the shame of an instant defeat. Worse still, perhaps I should never come back. With these thoughts in mind I turned to the golden glow that still lingered deep in the western sky. Then at last I made my way below to the second-class dining room.
Over a meal of bacon, sausage and tomato, bread and butter, jam and a flagon of tea, I reflected on the four days I had spent in Swansea. Curiously, instead of being annoyed at the delay, I was rather pleased that I had stuck it out, that I had not been tempted to get in touch with Parsonage. This report would make a better story if I could recount events on the ship of a similar bizarre quality to those that overwhelmed me during the journey from Cardiff to Swansea. Honesty compels me, however, to say that as far as I am aware there were no singular occurrences during the night. There must certainly have been agents aboard in plenty. No doubt there was a current of intense drama running at a lower level, but it never broke through to the visible surface. In short, I spent an uncomfortable night dozing fitfully in the saloon.
Still more of an anticlimax, I must frankly admit that my passage through Irish immigration turned out to be absurdly easy. It is worth recounting, nevertheless, for my first encounter with the Irish authorities was not without its interest. My interrogator was a large, rubicund man, of just the right type to ensnare an unwary victim, especially after a sleepless night.
“Name?”
“Thomas Sherwood.”
“Date of birth?”
“August 29, 1948.”
“Occupation?”
“Student.”
“Where?”
“Cambridge.”
“Father’s name and place of origin?”
“Robert Sherwood, Halberton, Devon.”
“Object of visit?”
“Curiosity.”
“Where do you propose to exercise your curiosity, Mr. Sherwood?”
“Three weeks in Dublin and its environs. One week in the Wicklow Mountains.”
“Why are you so curious?”
“No explanation is needed. Everybody is curious about the developments that are taking place in Dublin.”
“Why the Wicklow Mountains?”
I told him the story of my grandfather.
“H’m. A Mr. John Emmet, your grandfather?”
He rummaged among a pile of papers, and glanced at one particular sheet. Then, apparently satisfied, “Let me see