Undercurrent Read Online Free PDF Page A

breeze?
    His hair stood on end, black, like his clothing, the skin of his hands alabaster white. He strode past Henry's line of vision, arms waving, cigarette unsteady, engaged in a debate with an invisible adversary, a client, a confessor, maybe mouthing words of admonition and advice, so earnest he was laughable. Henry smiled again, engrossed in the view; then sensed the presence of breath other than his own, misting the window. Someone standing level, closer than the seagulls.
    'One tends to spend a lot of time staring out of the window,' Timothy was saying with a sigh, pointing at the figure below. 'He's barking mad, that man, but frightfully clever, you know. Where do you want me to put this?'
    He was carrying a delicate tray of fragrant smells: coffee, sweet scented toast, a hint of silver pots under a large, stiff linen napkin. Henry had the irrelevant thought, hung over from a similar one of the night before, of how odd it was for a house to possess such fine crystal and silver, such elegant china cups and not have central heating. Speaking for himself, he might have sold it all and turned the proceeds into warmth.
    Timothy was dressed in heavy cords, boots, shirt, sweater and cardigan, relatively normal and a comforting contrast to the outfit of the night before, despite the yellow cap which was squashed on his head at a rakish angle. Behind him strolled Senta the dog, carrying a newspaper in her mouth which she dropped at Henry's feet.
    'Oh, I didn't expect breakfast. That's nice of you. Should have been up sooner, I guess.' He forced a laugh, suddenly full of the shyness from which exhaustion had preserved him the evening before.
    'It isn't breakfast, it's simply toast. Breakfast is another matter altogether, has to be ordered.
    Actually, it suits us quite well if the guest stays put until Peter's sorted us out downstairs and done the fires, at least. Such a mess.
    We thought we might go shopping after that. Would you like to come with us? We could, you know, sort of help you get your bearings.'
    'Is there a shower?' Henry asked.
    'No, we told you, didn't we? Only the bathroom behind the kitchen. Free at the minute and plenty of hot water. Eat the toast while it's warm, won't you?'
    For a moment, Henry thought Tim would stand over him until he had eaten the toast and drunk the coffee, in the way of an anxious parent with a picky child. Or leave the dog to ensure cooperation, but Tim merely adjusted his cap and departed, holding the door for the dog to lead the way. Henry could hear him whistling until he reached the second landing, and then the sound died away.
    He steeled himself for the journey down. Slightly breathless from the long climb back, Henry was reflecting that the room where he had just taken a shallow and hurried wash was probably the most archaic bathroom he had ever seen. A bath the size of a family coffin, taps equally grand, a washbasin of similarly vast proportions, plumbing which sounded like thunder, and an outside temperature reminiscent of the Arctic. He was left clean but hardly refreshed by the effort of buttoning his shirt with numb fingers. The action of choosing items from his suitcase (neatly folded cashmere sweaters, scientifically packed: Henry was meticulous about clothes) worried him. Did he really want to walk into town with these guys?
    He sat on the high bed, buttoned his cuffs and thought about it. Told himself he wasn't a homophobe, had nothing against gay guys, not really. He just didn't happen to know any; they didn't move in his kind of circles, or if they did, they didn't shout about it and stuck to their own clubs. He did not quite know the code. All he knew was that he didn't want to be counted as one; didn't want to walk into this funny little town in the company of a pair of oddly dressed men and have people think he was of the same persuasion.
    Henry looked out of the window again. The road by the sea stretched into the distance, culminating in a crazy pier. He did not