The Sunken Sailor

EPILOGUE

THE STATION WAGON WAS loaded once again, and stood on the hard, trembling with the vibration of her pulsing motor. Beside her, the M.G. stood, black and sleek.

“We’ll say goodbye now,” said Alastair to Hamish. “You’ll be in London before us.”

“You’ll come down to Lymington next weekend to see the new boat?”

“Of course. By the way, this trip of yours to the Canaries—”

“Is off,” said Anne firmly. “But we will go to Holland, when Hamish can take a holiday.”

There was a round of farewells. The Bensons and the Tibbetts piled into the station wagon. Anne jumped into the M.G. without opening the door, and kissed Hamish on the nose before the little black car roared up the hill. The station wagon followed more sedately.

As the hum of the engines retreated, silence drifted back over Berrybridge Haven. The setting sun sent long fingers of gold across the river, and spattered the mud with topaz gleams. Softly, mysteriously, the landscape sank back into its ancient dream. On the point, Berry Hall looked calmly out to the sea, white and beautiful and very quiet.

In The Berry Bush, Bill Hawkes said, “Game o’ darts, then, Herbert?”

“Hay?”

“I said, game o’ darts?”

Herbert looked quickly round. They were alone in the bar. He winked, and a slow grin spread across his wizened face. “Don’t mind if I do, Bill,” he said.