Truss is standing at the edge of the beach now, almost in the shallows, one palm shading his eyes. He makes what appears to be a beckoning motion with one hand – but Stella would be too far away to see it, even if she were not facing in the opposite direction. He might do better to try shouting, but Hal is certain that he will not. He knows enough of the man now to understand that Truss would consider this a sign of weakness: a lapse of control.
Hal watches as he walks across to the beach lifeguards, and says something. He turns to Aubrey, who is watching too. ‘Did you hear that?’
Aubrey is frowning, confused. ‘It’s odd, but I thought that I heard him say … no, but then why would he?’
‘What is it?’
‘Well … I thought I heard him tell the man that Mrs Truss was in trouble … that he thought she might be struggling to stay afloat.’
‘She looks all right to me,’ Hal says.
They watch as Stella’s arm rises, just as surely as before, to propel her through the water.
‘Well,’ Aubrey says, ‘perhaps he can see something that we cannot.’ Hal remembers the riptide that had so surprised him in the Gulf of the Poets. It is possible – but then Stella isn’t making any sort of attempt to swim back to shore: rather the opposite.
The lifeguards, finally, seem convinced, and have snapped into action. They are pushing a small motorboat down the shingle, into the shallows. Truss follows them and, at the last minute, steps into the boat too. The craft takes off across the water with an oily gurgle, listing wildly before levelling.
Hal stands, to get a closer look. They are almost upon Stella now – her distance from the shore is only significant in swimming terms. They are slowing, drawing nearer. Truss is leaning over, gesturing to her, and some sort of discussion appears to be taking place. Then one of the men – and Truss – lean over the side and hoist Stella into the boat. There appears to be a brief struggle. She falls into the craft with an audible thump.
Aubrey winces. ‘Gracious.’
The boat makes a swift U-turn, and returns to the beach, one of the men leaping out to guide it towards the shore. Truss steps down with a single, elegant stride. Then he turns and lifts Stella out of the boat, as though she were a child. She has a towel wrapped around her, and her face is expressionless. She does not appear grateful, or relieved. And Hal is certain that what they have just witnessed was not a show of husbandly concern so much as a demonstration of power.
They moor for the evening in the bay. Stella has not left her cabin – and does not appear for supper.
‘My wife would like me to pass on her apologies,’ Truss tells the assembled party. ‘She is not well, this evening.’
‘I suppose it must be the shock,’ Aubrey says. ‘Of getting in trouble like that, on her swim.’
Truss turns to Aubrey, and smiles. ‘Indeed,’ he says, languidly. ‘I believe you could be right. And there was the exertion of the walk, too. My wife is a delicate creature.’
Hal thinks of her stepping nimbly in front of him along the path, of the strength and speed with which she had cut through the water, and thinks it is almost as though they are talking of different women.
Later, Hal remains on deck with Aubrey, watching as the last of the light dissolves into the water.
‘What do you think happened?’ Hal asks.
‘What?’
‘About—’ He finds that he is about to say Stella, and stops himself. ‘About Mrs Truss.’
‘Well,’ Aubrey says. ‘It looked as though she had got a little further out than was perhaps safe. And Mr Truss, I presume, was concerned for her safety—’
Hal interrupts, losing his struggle with himself. ‘Did it honestly look like that to you?’
Aubrey looks flustered. ‘Well, I don’t know …’
‘I thought,’ says Hal, in an undertone, ‘that she looked like she was fine, and that he decided, for whatever reason of his own, that he wanted her back on the beach.’
‘I say,’ Aubrey says, ‘I don’t—’ And he stops abruptly, looking beyond Hal, his face frozen.
‘Hello, chaps,’ Truss says. ‘Can I get either of you a drink?’ He indicates the bar. His smile is broad.
They accept, dumbly, and watch as he makes them – shooing away the offer of one of the staff to help. They sit in uneasy silence until he carries the drinks over, placing each down with a deft flourish.
‘Would you like to join us?’ Aubrey asks, in a strangled voice.
‘Ah.’ Truss shakes his head. ‘Thank you, but no. I shall go back and see to my wife.’ He smiles at each of them in turn, meeting Hal’s gaze last. ‘Good evening.’
‘Oh,’ says Aubrey, sitting back in his chair. His hand, as he lifts the drink to his lips, is trembling so violently that a little of it spills on to his sleeve. ‘My nerves … I can’t bear it.’
‘Sorry,’ Hal says. Did Truss hear him? Impossible to say. He must have approached them as silently as a cat. He sees now how pale Aubrey has gone, and thinks quickly of a way to placate him. ‘Tell me about your work. I’m ashamed to say I haven’t seen it before.’
‘Oh.’ Aubrey makes a dismissive motion with his hand, but seems rather pleased. He sits up a little in his chair, appears to recover some of his poise. He reaches for his drink again and gives it a stir with the silver stick, his tremor noticeably better.