The Scent of Water (29 page)

Then he said good-bye to the lighthouse boy, leapt off the rock and swam at great speed toward the door in the wall, for the excursion down to the lighthouse had been a digression, not the purpose of the present exercise.

Out on the green he considered that he was on dry land again and his swimming hand, now stiff and purple with cold, was thrust into the left-hand pocket of his coat. He went rather slowly across the green, kicking up glorious fountains of snow as he went but rather absently, his right hand gripping the thing in his pocket tighter and tighter, but as he approached Orchard Cottage eagerness came uppermost and he almost ran up the path. He removed his Wellingtons at the front door, then opened it and went inside. It was warm and cozy in the tiny hall and he stood listening. From the kitchen he could hear women talking, his mother and Mrs. Croft. He avoided them and went into the sitting room. Paul was there, asleep in the armchair. He shook him relentlessly awake and when he had got him thoroughly aroused laid his hand firmly on his knee and said, “I have come to see the boy.”

“What?” asked Paul.

“I am Jeremy and I have come to see the boy.”

“Not at this early hour,” said Paul.

“It is not early. I had two breakfasts hours and hours ago and I have come to see the boy.”

“But Valerie is asleep.”

“I have come to see the boy.”

As his wits returned, Paul gradually began to understand what this event, a thing of awe and glory to himself, promised Jeremy. There was no other boy in his home and such female companionship as was to hand he had possibly found somewhat lacking in understanding; as had Paul himself in the past. They were drawn together in sympathy but Paul was also dismayed. “The boy’s new, you know,” he explained to Jeremy. “Very new indeed. It will be some time before he can play with you.”

“Of course he’s new,” said Jeremy with a touch of scorn. “He only came last night. But he’ll grow and I’ve come to see him.”

Paul already knew that Jeremy had strength of character beneath his usually placid good humor but he had not realized before that his obstinate determination was of the corkscrew variety. It seemed to come boring down into his fatigue, withdrawing his resistance like a cork. “All right,” he said weakly, his heart pounding with trepidation at the thought of the two women in the kitchen. “But we must not wake Valerie. If you let out so much as a squeak I’ll skin you. Let’s take your wet coat off.”

This proved a difficult operation and tugging impatiently Paul found a cold balled-up fist stuck in one of the sleeves of the coat. “You’re growing out of this,” he said. “Open your fingers.”

“I am holding something,” said Jeremy gravely.

“Then pull hard. Now you’re out. Don’t make a sound or you’ll bring your mother and Mrs. Croft out on us.”

Hand in hand the man and boy crept up the stairs. Paul opened Valerie’s door a crack and heard her say cheerfully, “I’m awake, Paul.”

“Stay there a minute,” Paul whispered to Jeremy, and went in. Valerie’s voice had sounded as young as though she were a girl again.

“I’ve got him here. In bed with me. Nurse said I could have him for a few minutes while she was downstairs. I’m feeling fine now and I’m glad I’m not in the hospital, for you scarcely see your baby in the hospital. Come here and feel him. He’s wonderful. Small but perfect.” She took Paul’s hand and held it under the shawl against the warm baby, and just as her youthful voice showed him a picture of her happy face so the feel of the baby seemed to unite him with his son as closely as though at birth the boy had passed from Valerie’s body to his soul. When a few hours ago Mrs. Croft had given him the baby to hold he had been able to feel nothing but layers of impersonal wrappings, and mixed with relief a sense of agony because he would never see the boy. Now he no longer minded. This was his son, under his hand, and this was his wife united with him in adoration. “We mustn’t spoil him,” said Valerie at last. “But it will be hard not to.”

Suddenly Paul remembered Jeremy, patiently waiting outside, and told Valerie about him. She had always thought she did not like the Talbot children but now she laughed softly and called to him to come in.

Jeremy advanced and inspected the baby. He nodded once or twice as though confirming the newness. “I’ll have to wait,” he said with resignation, “but he’ll grow.” He placed his left forefinger within the baby’s minute hand, which promptly closed upon it. His slow smile spread over his face and unclosing his right fist he disclosed a marvelous little crystal ship which he handed to Valerie. “It was mine but now it’s for him,” he told her, “but you’d better keep it.”

Valerie took it with an exclamation of delight and held it in her palm, trying to describe it to Paul. But how could she describe such a perfect thing? It sparkled on her hand like clear water momentarily caught by the frost and lit with its fires, and glowed with reflected color. She said to Paul, “It’s a new little ship sailing out on living water.”

E
LIZABETH Goudge, born at the turn of the 20th century in England, was a gifted writer whose own life is reflected in most of the stories she wrote. Her father was an Anglican rector who taught theological courses in various cathedral cities across the country, eventually accepting a Professorship of Divinity at Oxford. The many moves during her growing-up years provided settings and characters that she developed and described with great care and insight.

Elizabeth’s maternal grandparents lived in the Channel Islands, and she loved her visits there. Eventually several of her novels were set in that charming locale. Her mother, a semi-invalid for much of her life, urged Elizabeth to attend The Art College for training as a teacher, and she appreciated the various crafts she learned. She said it gave her the ability to observe things in minute detail and stimulated her imagination.

Elizabeth’s first writing attempts were three screenplays which were performed in London as a charity fund-raiser. She submitted them to a publisher who told her to go away and write a novel. “We are forever in his debt,” writes one of her biographers.