Boomerang. Sydney J. Bounds
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be calling in there,” Linda said.
Margo sighed. “I suppose I will, too, even though I shouldn’t. I just love cream but it’s no good for my figure.”
Sammy beamed at her. “Your figure’s fine,” he said gallantly.
The hill dropped away steeply and tarmac gave way to cobblestones as they entered the village. It was small, consisting of a few fishermen’s cottages with pink walls and blue window frames grouped about the harbour. The road joined the quayside, and there was a church on one corner and the inn opposite.
Parry and Bullard waited outside the inn. As the others arrived, a man and woman came out together. The man was dapper and his casual clothes expensively tailored. He carried a folding easel and a large box of pastels.
“Morning, Wilfred,” Parry said briskly. “Nice to see you again. Good morning, Mrs. Keller.”
Wilfred Keller’s wife was large and heavily built. Her homely face was adorned by a faint moustache and her town clothes out of place in a fishing village.
George Bullard stared at Wilfred, then at his wife, and whistled.
“Well, well, what have we here? A lap dog? Wilfred—a real pip-squeak of a name. And you madam—is this the best you could buy in the way of a man?”
Mrs. Keller glared at him, her face gradually turning scarlet. She gave a snort, turned on high heels and retreated inside the inn.
Bullard laughed.
Wilfred Keller regarded him with distaste. “I’d be careful if I were you,” he said mildly. “Hilda doesn’t appreciate that kind of remark.”
Bullard winked. “Wealthy, is she? Just the job, Wilf, old boy. Why work when you can live on some old bag, is what I say. Good luck to you.”
“Cut it out, George,” Keith Parry said sharply. “All right, spread out and begin sketching. I’ll work my way around to each of you in time.”
* * * *
At lunchtime they drifted, like iron filings to a magnet, back to the Harbour Inn. Val Courtney had provided sandwiches and they took glasses of beer to the seats outside. A striped awning gave shade from the sun.
Margo fanned herself with a sketchpad. “Another scorcher!”
“It’s a real heat-wave, this summer,” Sammy agreed.
Jim Fletcher had brought two large glasses out with him. He downed one and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“It’s warm,” he admitted. “But for real heat you have to go to the desert in Western Australia. Reckon that’s why Aussies drink so much beer—that and the short drinking hours.”
“What’s it like Down Under?” Linda asked. “Duke had the idea of emigrating at one time.”
Fletcher considered for a moment. “Duke would do all right, I reckon. Things are looser there, more easy-going—know what I mean? A fellar who can adapt can survive anywhere.
“Take me, now—I’ve done a bit of everything in my time. Radio DJ. Pilot with the Flying Doctor Service. Driven a beer truck across the desert—I can tell you, we like our beer.”
He proved his words by half-emptying his second glass.
“’Course you can get stuck in a dry river bed—just let your tyres down and inflate ’em the other side. Yeah, I’ve worked as a stockman and uranium miner. Didn’t fancy that for long—too risky with all that radiation stuff floating around. You name it, and I’ve done it, you bet.”
They were fascinated by Jim Fletcher’s reminiscences—all except George Bullard.
He sneered. “It must be the black blood in you. I expect your grandfather slept with an aborigine.”
“I expect he did,” Fletcher said. “But these days, the abos have another problem. Their kids sniff petrol, and that can be deadly.”
He drained his glass and began to sing in an exaggerated accent:
“We three Kings of Bankstown Square
We sell ladies underwear
So fantastic
No elastic
Only a dollar a pair....”
Bullard picked up his easel and paint-box. “I’m not stopping here to listen to a drunken slob.”
“It’s time you were all back at work,” Keith Parry said.
Margo Nicholas toiled slowly up the hill on the way to the studio with Sammy. Her sketching bag felt heavier than it had on the way down that morning.
“Let’s stop at the tea-rooms for a cuppa,” Sammy suggested.
“I think we’d better,” she said. “I hadn’t realized Cornwall was like this. It’s going to kill me if we have to walk up this hill every day.”
“There is a bus,” Sammy said. “I’ll find out what time it runs.”
“Sounds like a good idea.” Margo wondered if he was getting interested in her. She quite liked the little man, and her stars indicated a new romance.
They reached the cottage in the bend of the road and took an outside table, dropping their gear beside their chairs.
“Nice view of the harbour from here,” Sammy said.
Margo kicked off her sandals and wiggled her toes. “Am I glad to rest my feet?” She lit a cigarette, inhaled, and sighed. “My clothes are sticking to me. The first thing I do when we get back is to take a bath.”
The waitress arrived and Sammy said, “Two strawberry teas, with extra cream.”
“I shouldn’t really.” Margo protested.
“Nonsense. All this walking will keep you in trim. Anyway, I prefer a woman with something to get hold of.”
Sammy propped his small canvas against a spare chair and looked glumly at it. “Not exactly an old master.”
Margo said loyally, “It’s not that bad. After all, this is our first day, and you’ll improve with practice. I must say, Keith is very helpful.”
“He’s all right. How did you get on?”
Margo flipped open her sketchbook as their tea arrived.
“That’s great,” Sammy enthused. “Wish I had your talent.”
“We each do what we can.” Margo helped herself liberally to cream and popped a strawberry into her mouth.
“I like boats,” Sammy said. “Only I can’t draw very well. And this is a good place for boats...there’s only one fly in the ointment.”
“I know what you mean. George.”
A fire blazed up in Sammy’s eyes. “A ruddy Jew-baiter! And an artist—I’d never have believed it.”
Margo helped herself to more cream. “Forget him. These strawberries are lovely, Sammy—eat up. I’m psychic, and I’ve a feeling about George. No good will come to him, I’m sure.”
George Bullard stood outside the front porch at Porthcove Studios just before dinner and watched young Linda walk across the lawn towards him. He had been studying a flowering shrub and deciding in his mind how he would paint it.
Linda Snow wore tight-fitting jeans and a teeshirt and her walk had a sensuous hip-swinging style. Duke didn’t know what he had there, Bullard thought; it took a mature man to appreciate this girl.
“Hi, beautiful,” he said as she approached. “How about posing in the nude? You’d make a great model and this outdoor sketching isn’t really me.”
She stared blankly at him. “Pardon?”