Tales of Jonathan

By Keith Nicol

Following the advice of his English teacher, Paul Garner uses his part in a school play to embark upon a journey of discovery. By attempting to rewrite and redirect the story, he finds that his quest assumes reality. Not only do the characters escape direction by his pen but he loses distinction between himself, as author, and the character he plays. He becomes lost within the narrative, which moves in ways not of his choosing. However, the bond between him and the one he seeks is never broken. Whether from dream and memory, part of reality or the image of a goddess, she is always the inspiration for the play. Yet where did the play originate? Jonathan is an orphan; whether he be the dead foster brother of Bethany, the imaginary friend of Daniel or the fostered child of the reclusive Aunt Sheelagh, his tales transform loss into a search for love in all worlds and beyond.

Tales of Jonathan is a self exploration of one persons mind, culminating in his discovery of truth in the deepest chamber. By transcending the restrictions of rationality, he finds a new reality. Dreams which have no end are no longer dreams. His previous loss and grief have become the fiction; the tales of Jonathan are now his reality. It is a story about the power of faith and love. I believe that with reflective thought, the reader will find it a challenging and rewarding book.

Nicol addresses the slippery substance of reality from every angle, repeating the main story and many of its key phrases in slightly different contexts each time.

While the intellectual exercise is fascinating, it is easy to lose the thread of the story in all of the rearranging, which makes for some challenging reading.
--CLARION
As Nicol invites readers into dreams and memories cobbled into a Mbius strip, theres little sense of whats real and whats not. The first of seven segments suggests that the novel will concern schoolboy Paul Garner and the enchanting Bethany Dean, who tragically dies young.
--KIRKUS
There is a certain charm to Nicols prose, and he captures difficult emotions (grief, awe, adoration) with notable skill.
--BLUEINK

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Feb 16, 2007
• ISBN: 9781467012676

Keith Nicol

The author was born in 1946 in Worcester and brought up in Hampshire.  He studied medicine at King's College and St George's Hospital Medical School, London.  He worked mainly in general practice until 2004 when he retired from medicine,allowing him to devote more time to creative writing.  Although writing for pleasure and exploration has always been an important pastime for him, Tales of Jonathan is his first publication.  Keith Nicol lives with his wife and family in North Lincolnshire.

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Tales 25021.jpg Jonathan

Keith Nicol

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This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2007, 2013 Keith Nicol. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 5/30/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4259-6291-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-1267-6 (e)

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The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

TABLE OF JONATHAN

About The Author

Part One. Gardens Of The Copse

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Part Two. The Standing Stone

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Part Three. Interval

Chapter 19

Part Four. The Sea Angel

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Part Five. Gardens Of The Moor

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Part Six. Chamber Of The Soul

Chapter 35

Part Seven. Aftermath And Reformation

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

I am grateful to John Wilding for his thorough readings of the manuscript in its earlier versions. His comments have helped with revisions and structuring of the book. I am grateful also to John Davies who read the original manuscript and gave me considerable encouragement.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The author was born in 1946 in Worcester and brought up in Hampshire. He studied medicine at King’s College and St George’s Hospital Medical School, London. He worked mainly in general practice until 2004 when he retired from medicine,allowing him to devote more time to creative writing. Although writing for pleasure and exploration has always been an important pastime for him, Tales of Jonathan is his first publication. Keith Nicol lives with his wife and family in North Lincolnshire.

PART ONE.

Gardens of the copse

Chapter 1

I had stopped amongst the orange rose hips, wet from the rain which was shaped to a silver droplet suspended from each berry. I had stopped where the bridge crossed the swollen stream, racing and swallowing boulders whose summits were all that was visible of submerged islands. Broken branches swept past like flailing limbs of unknown beasts, rudely wakened by the force. I knew they were there: I had seen the islands and the sleeping creatures when drought had stripped the dwindling stream from its bed. I had stopped where the oak tree spread its arms in offer of shelter and intimacy. My watch pointed to the school gate; still I lingered, listening to the robin. Faintly I heard the school bell ring. He sang on and I stood a little longer, waiting to see whether the next interval would be the last before he flew to another perch. I spoke to him across the water: I told him that I loved him and his song. He stopped singing; head cocked, he looked at me from one dark eye. I walked on where the road wound behind the copse to the school gate, yawning in its constant wait. I hung my raincoat on the peg above the peeling label which bore my name; beside it, hung a yellow raincoat which dripped onto the floor.

I’m sorry I’m late, sir.

Why are you late, Garner? Did you lose your way or perhaps stop to compose a symphony?

A faint ripple of laughter came from those seated at their desks.

No, sir; I thought I saw a creature or a person fallen in the stream and my watch is slow.

Another ripple began but gained no momentum.

Who was the unfortunate person or creature? Did you check the time with him or her?

I went along the bank, sir. When I got closer, I could see it was just the branch of a tree.

This time the ripple almost became a wave until halted by Mr Perkin.

I assume then that it wore no watch!

Yes, sir, but it had stopped; I don’t think it was waterproof.

There was no ripple. The surface was as expressionless as Mr Perkin’s stare.

I make the jokes when there are any, Garner. Sit down. Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me the time.

I glanced at the clock on the wall above his head.

Ten past nine, sir.

His scrutinising look was grave, yet behind it lurked an unmistakable twinkle of humour and affection. I took out my pen and placed it on my desk. Stuart Robb turned to grin at me. I looked at Bethany but her attention was elsewhere; she ran her ruler through her hair and opened her note book. Outside the window, a blackbird sang.

Who can tell me which bird is singing? asked Mr Perkin.

Amidst stifled suggestions of wren, woodpecker, duck and the one outside the window, I voiced my clear reply.

A blackbird, sir.

Again his stare was upon me. I thought for a moment he was going to smile: it must have been my imagination which curled his mouth a little at the corners.

It is indeed, Garner; I thought you might get that one right. This morning I want to discuss the place of the theatre in the present time. After that I would like your opinions on a school play I am hoping to arrange. There followed a noticeable increase in attention of those present, perhaps not at the prospect of discussing the place of the theatre but because a theatre, where we were the actors, fired imaginations. Robb, would you say the theatre played a role in the lives of people today?

Tilting back his head of red hair, Stuart thoughtfully inspected the ceiling for a few seconds.

That depends on whether people today play a role in the life of the theatre, sir.

All right! Do you think they do?

Probably not here: not if we consider the theatre as a building with audience, stage and actors. There isn’t one near here. If we consider it more broadly, I believe the answer is yes.

There was a nod of approval from the English teacher.

Garner, you have already been on stage this morning. Do you have thoughts on the subject?

Firstly, I must contradict Stuart. There is a small theatre in Pockling: I have been there.

You’re quite right. What did you see?

I was afraid of this question; having no recollection of the title of the play, I made pretence of deep reflective thought.

It was quite a long time ago, sir. I can’t actually remember what the play was called.

Has anyone else been to the theatre at Pockling?

There were negative murmurs and shaking of heads.

I have, Mr Perkin!

It was Bethany emerging from her world. Her response was followed by her uncertain smile, which always reminded me of sunrise.

Ah Bethany! Mr Perkin addressed the girls by their first names. This was a compliment extended to the boys when he had cause to be particularly pleased with them, though he often used the first name when speaking to one of us alone. Do you remember the name of the play you went to see?

The Visitor, she replied. I was there the same evening as Paul.

I had not seen her there: that, I would not have forgotten. She had seen me and she remembered; I had taken a tiny place within her secret mind. She did not look at me when she spoke to Mr Perkin but I watched her smile until it faded.

Do you think, Bethany, that the theatre plays a role in the lives of people today?

After a characteristically long hesitation, she replied.

It played a role that evening; Paul and his parents were there and my parents and I were there. Had it not been for the theatre, we would have been elsewhere; if we had been elsewhere, the courses of our lives since may have been somewhat different. So yes, it does play a role.

In the silence that followed, all eyes except Mr Perkin’s were upon Bethany; his betrayed a slight bewilderment as they moved from his desk to the window and back. She showed no awareness of watching or unwatching eyes but briefly turned her head to look at me. She had never formed friendships at school, yet she was not disliked. I think it was her apparent detachment from those about her which created a wall. In that wall were a door and window; I had come to feel that I was permitted to watch her at her window but had not found the courage to knock upon her door. Her long shining hair carried a hint of chestnut in its darkness, more obvious in certain lights and maybe in my sight than in others. Her eyes were olive green, wide and startling; on occasions they were suddenly warm and hypnotic. They always conveyed an expression of slight surprise. We had been pupils together at primary school, though she had been in the year above. I remember always holding a secret affection for her. Then quite suddenly, she was no longer there; I recall unaccountable sadness when I learnt that she had gone away, for I had rarely spoken to her.

But it was the dreams which perplexed me more; they began soon after she left the school, coming in clusters, to cease only when, one day, she returned and to my great joy was in my form. They varied in content. In a frequent dream, I was walking through the town, the streets of which were deserted; I saw her in the distance but when I came close, I found it was not Bethany. In another dream, I was at the stream and she emerged from bushes; when I walked toward her, both she and the bushes receded into the darkness of a surrounding forest. I recall a dream in which she used to call at my house: I seemed to live there alone. We played together in the garden and went for walks beside a lake.

As I grew older, I began to yearn for her friendship; still I could not understand my emotions and was impotent in my quest. Within my thoughts she had come to assume a role inexplicable to me. She was beautiful in the way that a solitary flower hidden amongst rocks by a remote stream, is beautiful; the beauty is enhanced by the surprise of discovery, by the secrecy, by the mystery of isolation. All else around is subsidiary, absorbed within the aureole of the flower. That morning when she turned her face to me, she sought no attention: she turned her face as if to confirm my presence and she smiled in recognition. I tried to smile back but smiled at a stranger. Was she really still a stranger to me? Was I a stranger to her? Countless times had I promised myself I would approach her whilst alone; I would ask her to walk with me by the stream. We would listen to the robin and I would tell her she was a rare wild flower, there in the sound of rushing water and in the sighing of the trees. We would stand beneath the shelter of the oak tree: surely there, I would find courage to open my heart to her.

She had turned away and was looking at Mr Perkin. Several other pupils were asked their views on the theatre in the present time: I recall only Bethany’s and Stuart’s replies.

I mentioned a school play, Mr Perkin reminded us at last. There have been school plays in the past but not since you have been attending the school, I believe. I would like to produce a play performed by the sixth form English group. Each of you would have a chance to be involved, not necessarily as an actor; there may be ones amongst you who would prefer to organise props and costumes or contribute to other backstage activities.

There followed a lively discussion about possibilities. Mr Perkin was visibly pleased by the initial response; first names became used for all. When he asked for raised hands to indicate interest, everyone responded.

I take it then that you all see a role for the theatre in the present day!

I see a role, sir, said Stuart grinning. But what it is, I don’t know!

That is for us to discover. Before you go to break, let’s have a show of hands for budding actresses and actors. Several hands went up, including Bethany’s but hers dropped back to her desk. And for backstage arrangements?

The remainder raised their hands. Stuart raised his for the second time, bringing a smile to the English teacher’s face. Bethany’s hand went up last.

We stood about the playing field. I was in a group of five or six pupils. The topic of conversation was the play but I was not paying much attention; I was watching Bethany, sitting alone in her usual place on the wall beside the ash tree. I separated from the group, hoping no one would follow. I walked slowly, feigning an air of preoccupation with something distant. When I reached the foot of the ash, she remained there, seemingly oblivious to all about her. I stretched and sat on the wall a little distance from her, gazing up into the tree. My heart was pounding; the palms of my hands, thrust deep in my pockets, were wet with perspiration. The words I had rehearsed whilst walking to her, were uttered now: they seemed not to come from me.

Bethany, will you not volunteer to be an actress? I noticed you changed your mind.

For a moment I thought she was going to walk away, leaving me alone and foolish. She raised her eyes to meet mine.

Why do you ask that, Paul?

My heart beat faster still; I felt dizzy and took reassurance from being seated. She looked as though she were waking from a dream, puzzled by this voice nearby. Her olive eyes studied my face.

I think you would be a good actress; I think the play needs you on stage. I struggled not to break my gaze. It would be a much better performance if you were to play a part; you would be stunning!

My last words surprised me; I retied my shoelace, hoping she would not see my blush. She continued to gaze at me and did not reply for some time. When she smiled, I felt with horror my eyes well with tears. I looked away, knowing she must have seen.

Do you really think that, Paul?

Yes. Yes I do.

Thank you; it is a kind thing to say. I shall have to give it further thought.

The bell was ringing; she stood up. The others were making their way back to the classrooms.

Bethany? Her smile returned; my mouth was dry. I swallowed and licked the inside of my lips. I often walk by the stream at the bridge after school.

I know.

I did not understand her reply; I had never seen her there. By now we were at the school door.

I wondered if you would like to walk with me by the stream one day. She stopped and turned to me. I knew she would say no. Never again would I be able to ask: it would be hard even to meet her eyes. There are moorhens and sometimes I have seen a kingfisher. Sometimes there’s a heron and I see how close I can get without disturbing it. Oh, I forgot the robin! I attempted a laugh and wished I had not. He sings to me. There are all sorts of wild flowers. Do you like wild flowers? The wood sorrel is one of my favourites but there are so many others and, in autumn, so many berries and acorns and all the secret places!

I stopped my outpourings abruptly. We were standing alone in the school doorway. I became aware that I was staring at my shoes. I glanced at her in despair; never before had I seen her look the way she looked at me then. There was excitement, warmth and confusion, all blended with her usual expression of surprise.

You two should be in class! Why are you standing there?

I’m sorry, Miss Warren, I said. We are on our way.

For the remainder of that day, our subjects took us to different classes. After lunch I walked on the school field. I knew the places where she sometimes sat reading or seemingly dreaming but I could not find her. Just before lessons were due to resume, she was walking slowly toward the door. I quickened my pace but Stuart had been searching for me; he called out and the bell was ringing. I do not think she noticed me. I had no reason to suspect she had been looking.

When school was finished, I went straight to the cloakroom: her yellow coat was not there. I looked at the label beneath her peg:

Bethany Dean.

I touched the label; I touched her peg, put on my coat and went out into the fine rain. The sun shone weakly and the blackbird sang his unhurried warbling phrases from the ash tree. Behind me, gathered voices of pupils spilling from the door. I walked quickly from the school gate.

The brothers from the farm beyond my house, were the only others to use the narrow road which skirted the copse and crossed the stream at the stone bridge. The remainder of the pupils returned to their homes in the town or travelled on buses to nearby villages. I knew Bethany lived on the opposite side of town; at the end of the school day, I would often see her solitary figure make its way on the long street leading to the square. Once, on a Saturday morning, I spotted her in the town; I was with Stuart looking at fishing magazines. I saw her through the shop window. She walked toward the door; when I thought she was about to enter the shop, dreamlike she drifted away like petals of a flower blown on the breeze. Even had I been alone, I could not have followed: to me there was something too secret, too sacred about the flower.

At the bridge I stopped as usual, sitting on the wall to watch the water pass beneath. The bank was wet; the bracken waved its beaded fronds as though beckoning me to the path beside the stream. She would not be there waiting for me; after all, I might have stopped only to walk on home, leaving her in those secret places. I stepped over the wall and clambered down the bank where the leaves of the oak tree touched me, wetting my coat with the raindrops they had gathered. Beside hawthorn and hip, between elder and bramble, damp trousers clinging to my legs and water seeping into my shoes, I came to the twisted branch of ash, one end anchored in the bank, the other rising and dipping beneath the surface. This serpentine creature, ever content to share my mood, changed only with the level of water and with the changing light. I sat on the lower of my two seats. The foam which had gathered on the upstream side of the immersed portion of the bough, was yellow in the cloud-filtered sun. A subsidiary branch reached from the water, subdividing. As I watched, I saw her; she gazed into the water, her feet in the wash and her yellow coat draped beside her on the branch. The rain had stopped. Her hair glistened, dark and wet. A sudden gust of wind made the trees sigh. She looked up, perhaps stirred by the change in the sonata; she did not look at me.

Bethany? Now she saw me. I didn’t think I’d find you here.

Why is that, Paul?

I thought you would not come.

Why did you think that?

Because for so long, it has been my dream.

And is it not still so?

Perhaps it is but now it seems to hold such promise.

It shall hold my promise if you wish.

I do wish that. I long for that!

Then your longing is over, Paul. Did you not know, I have longings too?

When I left the bridge to resume my way home, the song of the wren followed me almost to my door. She too followed me; throughout that evening and night, she haunted me in thought and dream.

My last lesson on Fridays was English. By now Mr Perkin was quite animated by thoughts of the play and by the enthusiasm of his students. He told us that, though he had not yet decided what we might perform, he had some ideas he would discuss with us the following week. Again he asked for raised hands for players and assistants; he made a written list. I had not spoken with Bethany that day; despite what seemed a breakthrough the previous day, my awe of her remained and opportunity seemed remote. Her hand remained down as Mr Perkin wrote his list of actors but she turned to look at me. Again she seemed suddenly to recognise my presence. She turned back to Mr Perkin and she raised her hand.

Good for you, Bethany! he said. What sort of character do you see yourself playing? As always, she took a long time preparing an answer. It seemed she needed to organise in various ways the words received, before formulating her response. Usually Mr Perkin allowed for this; perhaps realising his question might cause her to retreat, he intervened. I expect you prefer to ponder over it; whatever the character, I am sure everyone will be delighted with your performance.

I think I nodded my head in agreement; he looked at me with a hint of a smile.

I shall play my part as best I can, she said at last.

I was unable to make a rapid exit at the end of the lesson, because Stuart intercepted me. He wanted to know if I would be in town next morning; I replied I might not but would phone him. When I reached the cloakroom, her peg was empty: my heart sank. I strolled slowly from the school gate. She was a little way along the road; she had stopped and was adjusting the fastening on her school bag. She saw me and walked back to meet me.

Bethany, about the stream; you remember I asked yesterday if you would go with me?

I cannot go now, Paul. I wanted to walk away and sit alone on the ash branch. Perhaps I would again find comfort in her presence there. But I would like to go there with you: I would like that very much. Could we go tomorrow?

Yes! Yes we could. In the morning?

I could be there at half past nine.

Any time suits me!

She smiled: it was a smile more radiant than I had ever seen. Though as always, it was heralded by an uncertain glimmer rising like sun through mist, now it broke across her face in a dazzling dance of light and warmth. I walked quickly back to the gate. I tried hard not to turn but I did; I watched her slowly walk away.

I crossed the bridge, without taking my walk by the stream. I would not sit on the branch, trying to conjure her presence. I would leave that place undisturbed. Its magic would grow stronger; I would seek none of it now. It had been a clear day but as I neared home, dark cloud advanced from the east, chasing and catching up the sun. I hoped the morning would be fine. If there were to be heavy rain, she might not be there: then I would sit on the bough, hoping for the magic instead.

By early evening, rain was falling but had subsided by the time I went to bed. I lay in darkness, trying to picture her face; sometimes it would not appear and sometimes I saw it in stunning clarity. I saw the bank of the stream in pale moonlight; I heard a tawny owl shriek from the oak tree. From the upper of my two seats, I could not distinguish the place where the smaller branch sprang from the bough. The water was silver and sparkling in its rush, yet still it was dark and unknown. I clambered out over the stream, trying to reach the place where she might be sitting; the bough was slippery and my grasp ineffectual. My shoes filled with water. The current fought against my failing grip until my face too took the cold force. As my hands slid from the branch, they closed on something soft but unyielding. I pulled myself close to the bough. Her hands seized my arms. I let go of her coat and she helped me up. I sat shivering beside her and her arm was firm around me.

I thought you were not there.

My voice was trembling.

Why would you think that, Paul?

I felt her hair touching my face. Light crept from between the trees. The blackbird sang into the chill silence where we sat, secure above the torrent. Clouds advanced to block the rising sun and rain began to fall.

Let’s go back to the bank, she said.

I made my way uncertainly. For fear of falling again, I could not look back; when I reached the bank and turned, she was not there. Trailing from a rock was her yellow coat; it broke free and was swept from sight.

Calling aloud her name, I woke; rain lashed my window. I was shivering and wet with perspiration. Outside, the blackbird sang.

Whilst I was eating breakfast, the telephone rang. Alternative arrangements raced in my head: we could meet in town. I could buy her a cup of coffee at the cafe. I could take her to the cinema; I had some pocket money.

Paul, it’s for you! my mother called.

Perhaps she was not allowed out in such weather. Perhaps she had said she was meeting me and her parents did not approve.

Please don’t say you won’t come.

I felt foolish in my pleading but why should my longing make me foolish?

Of course I shall come, Paul; I just had a thought. I once saw you fishing.

Yes, I do sometimes.

Have you fishing tackle at home?

Yes.

Do you think we might fish in the stream?

Well yes, of course. The stream is rather swollen and fast for fishing at present but if you would like to, we can.

I would like to. I’ll see you at the bridge in an hour.

I’ll be there. Oh Bethany, I have no bait

Can we not use worms? Or should I get something from the fishing shop? I shall pass it on the way.

Could you get some maggots? There was a short silence before I heard the music of her laughter. I laughed too: I could do nothing else. They’ll put them in a plastic bag for you. We can tip them into my bait tub when we get to the stream.

Her laughter rang in my ear again.

All right, Paul; I’ll bring the maggots.

Chapter 2

As I came along the road, bag on my back, rods and landing net in my hands, I could see no one at the bridge. I was five minutes late. It was still raining, though little more than a drizzle. Soon after sitting on the bridge wall, I heard her call my name; she was standing under the oak. She wore a long green cagoule, her damp chestnut hair escaping from inside the hood.

I was sheltering from the rain, she said.

It’s a good sheltering tree, I replied, scrambling over the wall.

Do we fish here?

We can go upstream a little way. There is a special place with a fallen branch across the stream.

Raindrops trickled down her face. Suddenly she was even more beautiful. I longed to take her in my arms. I felt such happiness; I felt such apprehension. She smiled: I think she knew.

Shall we go then? she prompted.

Carrying the rods, she walked ahead on the narrow path: neither of us spoke. I was afraid she might not like that place: she might not think it special. So frequently had she occupied my thoughts whilst I sat on the ash bough. I longed for her to share it now with me. She leaned the rods against it. I put my bag and net at the foot of the ash tree. She pulled her hood from her head and gazed about her. There was the rush and babble of the stream, the dripping of rain from trees and bushes, the whispering of leaves and from within this mixture of sounds, came calls and songs of birds.

It is special, Paul. It is very special. It is a magic garden! So vivid on her face and in her voice were surprise, excitement and humility, that I shared them without compromise: her delight was mine. Do you come here every day?

Most days, usually on the way home from school.

Sometimes on the way to school, when you see a person or creature fallen in the stream. Her face was serious as she spoke but broke suddenly in her sunrise smile. I too have places I like to go, said she, sitting on the upper seat of the bough. One of them is like this. There is a stream; there are weeping willows whose branches kiss the water and there are berries like these and birds singing.

Where is that place? I asked, sitting on the seat below.

I don’t know where any of the places are. I did not understand but I believed her: no understanding was needed. There is a robin there too. You said there is one here. I expect it is the same robin. I think he flies from here to there and sings for us both; do you think so, Paul?

I smiled at her; I had no words of response. I clambered from the bough and began setting up the rods. She came down from her seat, pulling a bag from the pocket of her cagoule. She held it out. As I took it, my fingers touched her hand. I snatched them away in embarrassment, almost dropping the bag.

Will you always remember the first gift I gave you? Maggots! she laughed.

It is not the first gift you have given me, Bethany.

I hoped she would not ask what else she had given me. Though I knew it was so much, I would not have been able to tell her but her face showed her joy, like the face of a small child whose gift to a loved parent brings pleasure; in a way she was like a small child, peeping nervously from its hideaway, trying to ascertain the identity of the seeker before emerging.

Have you ever had a dog? she asked suddenly as we sat watching our floats.

I told her I had once had a Labrador: he had grown old and died. My mother had been so upset that she would not have another dog. I would have liked one; I often thought what company it would be on my walks by the stream.

One day I shall have one, she went on. My parents tell me that it would not be fair to keep a dog where we live now, particularly as there is often no one at home through the day. I would like to have a dog which would swim in rivers and lakes and in the sea, a large dog which loved and guarded me.

Through that wet and exquisitely scented morning, we fished. There were few words but there were the glances, her smiles which thrilled me more than ever, knowing now that they were for me. We had caught no fish but hardly seemed to notice; then my hand jerked and the rod was bending and she rushed with excitement to help me draw in the gleaming, splashing prize. It was in