END OF SEASON.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVI, Issue 307, 28 December 1935, Page 9 (Supplement)

END OF SEASON.

(SHORT STOET.)

Every day Mr. Carperby sat in a deck chair on the beach, in the shadow of the pier. In the morning he read "The Times," in the afternoon he dozed, a panama hat tipped over his eyes, while the music from the orchestra sent sudden gusts of sound over his nodding head. Sometimes in the evening, when a cool breeze stirred the air above the rising sea, he would stroll down to the water's edge and watch the moonflecked waves run from the horizon to his feet. But generally he sat in this chair, an ivory-topped malacca cane held between his knees, his thin fingers clasped over his grey alpaca waistcoat, gazing from under scraggy grey brows at the passers-by with a look that was at once vacant and intent, as one who has searched so long that he has forgotten what he was seeking.

Mr. Carperby had become an institution. He had stayed for three weeks in the late summer at the same hotel for nearly thirty years. Before it was an hotel at' all, in fact, but Mrs. Tripp's Select Apartments. He always had the same table, in the far corner by the window, where he could watch the promenade, and the same room on the first floor overlooking the sea. But beyond the fact, which was obvious from the quality of his clothes and his genteel bearing, that he was a gentleman of some wealth, nobody knew anything about him. And, as he had but one eccentricity, nobody took any notice of him, except perhaps Jim, the old chair attendant.

His one eccentricity was this: he always hired two deck-chairs, one for himself and the other to lay a book on. Now there would be nothing remarkable in an old gentleman paying twopence for the convenience of having somewhere to lay his impedimenta, but Jim noticed that the chair was reserved for a dingy, green-covered, yellow-edged volume which the old man never read, while his panama hat, his newspaper, and sometimes his fawn jacket would be laid on the pebbles at his side. There was something queer about that. Once, years ago, Jim had read the title of the book when the old man was off on a stroll. It was "Fast Lynne." The sort of copy you could buy at any secondhand bookstall for sixpence—and for as long as Jim could remember it had had a chair for itself! "Now, if it was the Bible, I could 'ave understood it, like," Jim said to his mate. . - It was an afternoon towards the end of summer, and the beach wore a tired, rather shabby look. Dirty rags of paper sprouted between the pebbles above the tide-mark, and there was a faint smell of rotting banana skins. The white paint of the pier pavilion was cracked and stained by the sun and rain of the long summer days. Countless hands had rubbed the green tubes of the promenade railings till the dark metal glowed through in patches. Even Jim looked a bit frayed. He was worried. Only the other day the boss had ordered him to store away half the chairs in the sheds under the pier. And now here he was with an unexpected crowd en his hands and scarcely enough chairs to go round. "People's like wasps," he said to a customer. "A bit of 'eat and out they come. Twopence, thank you, sir." The man grunted sleepily. "I don't mind the sun meself, mind you, if only this eye of mine didn't get so confounded "ot."* Jim put a finger to his right eye and tapped the ball with his nail. "Glass, that is. And fair burns when the sun get on it." The stout man opened his newspaper. "Hop it," he said. Jim went across the beach towards the groyne which marked the end of his beat. Every chair was out, and by the time he reached the groyne the strap on his bag was beginning to cut painfully into his shoulder. He sat down. Here was that widow with the kids again. She was a pale, distractedlooking woman of about fifty-live. She struggled angrily over the loose pebbles, herjiands flapping in ineffectual gestures at the four children trailing behind her. She wore a shapeless black cotton dress. and each child had at least one article of clothing of the same colour. Even the youngest, a boy of about six, wore black serge" trousers with his grey flannel cricket shirt. f Jim guessed she'd just lost her husband. "Sorry, madam, but you'll 'ave to wait a bit longer." She stooped over Jim's shoulder, pointing towards a vacant chair some fifty yards away, in the shadow of the pier. "Look there, look!" she half shouted. "isn't that a chair? I've watched it this last half-hour and nobody's sat in it. Keeping it for somebody, I suppose. Well, he's 110 right to." "As I 'ave hinformeu you, lady, that gent 'as paid for two chairs, and two chairs 't 'as a right to "ave." The children had wandered down to the water's edge and were throwing pebbles. They looked hot and miserable in their dark, tight clothes. "You see, lady, that gent 'as always 'ad two chairs, for years like," Jim said. "And does nobody ever come? Do you mean to say no one ever comes? He must be mad!" she concluded, emphatically. Jim shook his head knowingly. "I'll tell you what it is. 'E's lonely. It's my opinion, and it always 'as been, that 'e's too rich to 'ave any friends — real friends, as you might say; 'e's made too much money. Got above 'imself. Oh, I know what I'm talking about. And why does 'e come 'ere, instead of going off to one of them swell places? Because 'e feels n't 'ome with folks like you and me. but 'e won't let on." The woman pursed her lips. "Oh!" she said. A look of interest crept into the bewildered vacancy of her expression. There was even a little colour flowing into her cheeks. She pulled her dress down over her hips, settled her hat, and tucked in a wisp of straggling grey hair. Jim tapped his glass eye with his finger-nail and said: — "I may not see much, but what I see, I see!"" He shullled off, and left the widow starinjr at Mr. Carperby. Mr. Carperby woke up with a start. He blinked and wiped his eyes with a silk handkerchief. As he bent down to pick up the hat which had slipped from his knee he saw close to him the blackstockinged leg of a woman. Slowly his eyes travelled upwards. For a moment they rested on the face of the widow, then quickly turned away. His body stiffened slightly. Then without looking round he said, in a voice that was shaky and yet firm:— "Excuse me, madam, but that is my chair. I'm sorry, but —er —I may need it. That is, would you kindly find somewhere else to sit?" He coughed, swallowed, and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs as if there were no more to be said. The woman glanced at him from under the brim of her hat and drew lips into an embarrassed smile. "Yes. Isn't it a nuisance. I think it's disgraceful that there aren't enough chairs." I've been waiting for over an

hour. It's so uncomfortable sitting on the pebbles, isn't it? Though, of course, if you're keeping this for somebody. . ." Mr. Carperby drew in his breath, and fidgeted a little uneasily on his seat. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it again. Xeither of them spoke. The afternoon lay heavily over the beach, smoothing the sea and muffling the excited cries of the bathers, and dimming the sound of the band on the pier above them till only a tuneless throbbing floated down to the beach, broken sometimes by the brassy clash of cymbals and the tinkle of a xylophone. Suddenly out of the corner of his eye Mr. Carperby saw a green book lying on the woman's lap. He turned slightly towards her and coughed. At the same moment she picked up the book and glanced at the tarnished gilt lettering on the cover. "East Lynne" she whispered to herself. Then, letting the book drop on her knees she repeated the name: "East Lynne!" Mr. Carperby appeared not to hear her, but continued to stare straight in front of him.

"Well, I never. . . 'East Lynne' ... on this beach of all places!" Her thin, rough fingers plucked nervously at her chin, then"grasped the book tightly.

"It's funny what a lot this book brings back to mej" she went on. "Things I thought I'd forgotten. My, but life's queer, isn't it?" At the edge of the water the four children were playing. The three youngest were paddling, their clothes held up about their waists. The eldest girl was sitting on the groyne shouting to them, or giggling at the antics of a party of boys playing with an old tyre. Mr. Carperby had his eyes half closed against the glare of the eun reflected from the sea. He opened them when anybody passed and glanced —automatically it seemed —at the face, then let the ' lids drop again. Sometimes, without turning his Read, he watched the sharp profile of the woman as she talked, the ridges between his eyes deepening, as if he were puzzled, or irritated with himself for not sending her awav.

"It must be nearer 30 than 20 years ago. . . funny how you forget . . . yes, nearer 30, I' should'think. The place has changed a lot since then, hasn't it?"

Mr. Carperby's face was hard and expressionless as he said "Yes, a great deal, a great deal." "I don't even remember his name .'. . er, my friend, I mean. There was a—a —well, you know what it is when you're young and by the seaside. How it all comes back. ile and him, spooning"—

she giggled stupidly —"by the sad sea waves. I don't think I've thought about him from that day to this. No more has he, I'm sure. It was just seeing this book again reminded me. He used to read it to me, aloud you know. And then, yes, I remember—-it's funny, isn't it, how you remember silly things like that —I remember on the day I had to go home he promised to finish reading it to me next year. -"What children we were! And so serious we took it all. I'm afraid he never got a chance to finish it. ... I got married that winter. I'll bet he did,"too! Swore we'd wait for each other for ever, and all that, of course . . . but ... I must be getting a bit soft myself, remembering all that. It was queer I should come across that same book again . . . after all this time though ... I hope you'll forgive the liberty, like . . ." Her voice tailed off.

For a long time Mr. Carperby sat stiffly up in his chair, his hands clasped tightly over the silver knob of his malacca cane. He turned his head away. The lines of his face hardened and his month was nothing but a thin .slit below his white moustache. He rose to his feet, the cane trembling under the pressure of his hands. Then he raised it up to his face, and gazing nt the knob said: —

"Please accept the book, madam, with my compliment*. Perhaps you would like to finish the story. Personally, I found the end rather . . . well, unexpected. Good day." He raised his panama hat, hanged the ferrule of his cane on the pebbles, and walked stiffly away up the beach. A few minutes later Jim came up. '•Twopence', please, lady, or 'as the gentleman left you 'is ticket? I see Vs left you in charge of 'is book. I suppose Vll be back again soon. Never leaves the beach till dusk." She took the coppers out of her bag and gave them to Jim. "You can take this other chair away,"' she said. Then she added very slowly: "He won't be coming back at all."