Chapters (20)
George pulled on Jane’s arm and dragged her to the cottage door.
“Leave her,” Rosco said. “ She’s not worth it.”
Another wave, bigger than any they had seen before, was being funnelled between the headlands. George tried to pick up Jane in his arms like a child, but she kicked out and struggled free. Rosco caught hold of the sleeve of George’s jacket and pulled him up the footpath to the higher ground under the trees.
The wave broke over the cottage with a force which ripped out the chimney and tore a hole in the roof. As it was sucked back across the beach, it pulled rock and stone, pieces of furniture, and the whole pile of freshly sawn logs with it. The wood bounced on the surface.
“Where’s Jane Pym?” George asked.
“In there,” Rosco said, nodding. “ She never meant to come out.” He felt a vague irritation of envy. It was the way he had chosen to die.
“I’ll have to look,” George said.
“Don’t be a fool. What are you? Some sort of martyr? It’s not high water yet.”
Then, as if to confirm his words, the wind returned and caught them off balance. With their hoods low over their faces to protect them from broken branches and blowing debris, they walked together back to Myrtle Cottage.
“I’ll have to tell Roger Pym,” George said when they had almost reached the house.
Rosco paused, gasping for breath. “ Do you think he’ll care?” he said. “ He’s so wrapped up with those bloody birds. Do you think he’ll even notice?”
Dusk came early that afternoon. As at last the wind quietened, a wet heavy mist came in from the sea. In the fog seawatching was impossible, and all the birdwatchers from the headland wandered inland. For the first time they saw the smashed windscreens and buckled metal of the cars. They took no notice of the shell of the cottage on the shore. That had nothing to do with them. Yet even those whose cars had been damaged maintained their high spirits. They giggled, as if they were high on drink or drugs. It had been such a magnificent day on the headland. They had seen so many birds. They struggled back up the footpath to the lane shouting their good humour.
Some began singing. At the head of the procession Roger, Gerald, and Rob walked arm in arm, their conflicting personalities made unimportant by the shared experience. Only when they got into the house did Roger remember Jane. Then he called out for her, irritated because she wasn’t there to greet him, wanting to boast of his triumph in front of her.