The Carousel Read Online Free PDF Page B

laughing."
    I smiled, remembering them together. I said, "Talking of Chips, did you know that Daniel Cassens has an exhibition on at the Chastal Gallery? I read a rave review in the Times this morning." 
    "I read it too. So exciting. Dear, clever boy. I intended going up to London for the opening day, but then I went and broke this stupid arm and the doctor said I wasn't to travel."
    "Is he in London? Daniel, I mean."
    "Heaven knows where he is. Probably still in Japan. Or Mexico, or somewhere mad. But I'd love to see that exhibition. Perhaps, if I'm able, I'll come back to London with you and we'll go together. What fun that would be! Something to look forward to."
    That night I had a dream. I was on some island—a tropical island, palm-fringed and white-sanded. It was very hot. I was on a beach, walking down towards the silent, glass-clear sea. I meant to swim, but the water, when I reached it, was only inches deep, scarcely covering my ankles. I walked for a long time, and then, all at once, the sand fell steeply away, and I was out of my depth, swimming, and the water was dark as ink and the current like a rushing river. I felt myself borne along on its flow, towards the horizon. I knew that I should turn back, swim for the beach, but the current was too strong, and there was no resisting it. So I stopped fighting and
     

Chapter Three
     
    The early morning turned into a beautiful day. Breezy and bright, the blue sky was patched with large, sailing white clouds blown in from the Atlantic. The sun blinked in and out of these clouds, and during the morning the flood tide slowly filled the estuary, creeping up the sands, filling the tide pools, and finally, by about eleven o'clock, reaching the seawall below the house.
    Phoebe had gone to keep her appointment at the Cottage Hospital, borne there in some style by the local ambulance. For the trip she had donned yet another hat, black velours, bound by a tussore scarf, and she had waved enthusiastically through the open window as though she were setting off on a jaunt. She would be back for lunch. I had offered to prepare this, but Lily Tonkins, already busy with the vacuum cleaner, said that she already had a bit of lamb in the oven, so I found a sketch pad and a stick of charcoal, stole an apple from the fruit bowl, and took myself out of doors.
    And now, at eleven o'clock, I sat on the grassy slope above the seawall, with the sun a dazzle on the wind-ruffled waters of the estuary and the morning freshness filled with the scream of gulls. I had done a rough sketch of the derelict fishing boats with their ramshackle chains and anchors, their empty masts piercing the sky. As I filled in some detail of a weather-scarred hatchway, I heard the morning train from Porthkerris come through the cutting behind Holly Cottage and draw up at the little halt by the edge of the shore. It was a very small and infrequent train, and a moment or two later it gave a hoot and moved on again, around the curve of the line and out of sight.
    So engrossed was I in maddening perspectives that I was scarcely aware of this happening, but when I next looked up to study the keel of an upended dinghy, a movement caught the corner of my eye. I looked and saw a solitary figure walking towards me. He approached from the direction of the station, and I presumed that he had alighted from that train, crossed the line, and so followed the track of the disused siding. There was nothing unusual about this. People often took the train from Porthkerris to Penmarron and then walked back to Porthkerris, following the footpath that led for three miles or more along the edge of the cliff.
    I lost interest in my drawing. I laid down the sketch pad, picked up my apple, and began to eat it. I watched the stranger's progress. He was a tall man, long-legged, with an easy, loping stride. His clothes at first were simply a blur of blue and white, but as he came closer I saw that he wore denim jeans and a faded shirt, and