Stone's Fall

Cowes was crammed, and the Solent was like Piccadilly Circus on a busy Friday evening. The little ferry which took us and our luggage over from the mainland had to weave its way through hundreds of yachts – big and small, one-masted and three-masted, long and sleek and modern, old and rather run down – as well as what seemed like most of the Royal Navy lying a mile offshore for review. On shore it was even worse; the ferry was so full it looked as though it might sink at any moment, and we were hurled out onto dry land into a crowd of people – women with parasols, arm in arm, men in white ducks and blazers, holidaymakers in boaters, small children, nannies and servants. Jackson led the way to the George, a small hotel next to a printing shop, very expensive and less than luxurious. A small room with three people in it was, apparently, quite luxurious for the time of year and, even though we could scarcely all fit inside, we hoisted our bags onto the beds, then retired to the bar. Three pints of Osborne pale later, we felt quite recovered and ready for battle. I had almost forgotten why I was there. I was no longer afraid. Not for the moment, anyway.

Jackson and Gumble at least knew what they were meant to be doing; Jackson positioned himself to take notes on what the likes of Mrs Algernon Dunwether considered appropriate for her mid-afternoon wear – it seems that the wealthier women were obliged to change clothes up to six times a day, which was why houses close to the centre fetched such a premium – while Gumble wandered off to the offices of the Cowes Gazette to get the daily line-up of what those with titles would be up to all evening.

I, by contrast, was at a loss; I had vaguely imagined I would simply run into Lady Ravenscliff walking along the promenade, but clearly this was not going to be the case. So while I thought it over I strolled up the Esplanade to Egypt House, a large, modern pile of imitation Tudor brickwork that the Barings had taken for the week. This I stared at for a while, then looked out over the Solent to where the Victoria and Albert was anchored, then walked back into the town centre. I asked one of the boatmen from the royal yacht, but he hadn't got a clue who was staying on the bloody ship and who was I to ask anyway.

Frustrating, although I found that a laziness slowly crept upon me even though there was enough on my mind to make me alert and nervous. I had only ever been to the seaside properly a couple of times, Sunday trips to Southend to waste time and money. Even there – not the most elegant of places – I discovered that the motion of the sea had a decided tendency to make me sleepy and stupid; it has always had that effect on me, and still does. Perhaps I had more in common with Ravenscliff than I realised. And so did the beer, of course, and by the time I got back to the George – not really very far – I was as dull as it was possible to be. I forced myself to keep on walking, as I knew that if I lay down I'd fall asleep for hours, and kept on going until I hit water again, an inlet which divides Cowes in two. There is no bridge, just a strange contraption which looks like a floating wooden shed that is pulled this way and that across the water by chains, ferrying passengers from one bank to the other.

I perched myself on a bollard, watching the people – girls and boys in sailor suits, men who worked in the boatyards, women coming over, some from grand houses, others more modest, after their shopping, going home to cook dinner, or have it cooked for them. And then I woke up with a start, and pulled my hat down over my head, hunched my shoulders to avoid being noticed by the man who had walked up the ramp and turned to stare back as the wooden gates – which looked as though they had been borrowed from a farmyard – swung shut.

It was him. There was no mistake, could be none; he was dressed differently, looking now like a bank clerk on holiday, in a dark suit and starched white collar. He had shaved, oiled his hair to look the part. But he still looked like a labourer, could never really pass as English. Still had the immobile features, the lack of expression in his eyes, which glanced around cautiously every moment, rather than staring ahead stupidly as I am sure mine had been until that moment. Jan the Builder took out a cigarette and lit it as the ferry floated off into midstream, but didn't seem to notice anything strange about me.