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thing that Jenny noticed was a red neon sign, glaring up through the dusk: ‘Boy-and-Lobster.’ The tide was almost full and the sign was shiftingly reflected in dark water. Next, she saw that a string of coloured lights connected the Island with the village and that the village itself must now extend along the foreshore for some distance. Lamps and windows, following the convolutions of bay and headland, suggested a necklace that had been carelessly thrown down on some night-blue material. She supposed that in a way the effect must be called pretty. There was a number of cars parked along the cliffs with people making love in them or merely staring out to sea. A large, prefabricated, multiple garage had been built at the roadside. There was also a café.
    ‘There you have it,’ Patrick said. ‘We may as well take the plunge.’
    They did so literally, down a precipitous and narrow descent. That at least had not changed and nor at first sight had the village itself. There was the old post-office-shop and, farther along, the Portcarrow Arms with a new coat of paint. ‘This is now referred to as the Old Part,’ said Patrick. ‘Elsewhere there’s a rash of boarding establishments and a multiple store. Trehern, by the way is Ye Ancient Ferryman. I’ll put you down with your suitcase at the jetty, dig him out of the pub and park the car. OK?’
    There was nobody about down by the jetty. The high tide slapped quietly against wet pylons and whispered and dragged along the foreshore. The dank smell of it was pleasant and familiar. Jenny looked across the narrow gap to the Island. There was a lamp now, at the landing and a group of men stood by it. Their voices sounded clear and tranquil. She saw that the coloured lights were strung on metal poles mounted in concrete, round whose bases sea-water eddied and slopped, only just covering the causeway.
    Patrick returned and with him Trehern who was effusive in salutations and wore a peaked cap with ‘Boy-and-Lobster’ on it.
    ‘There’s a motor launch,’ Patrick said, pointing to it. ‘For the peak hours. But we’ll row over, shall we?’ He led the way down the jetty to where a smart dinghy was tied up. She was called, inevitably, The Pixie.
    ‘There were lots of people in the bus,’ said Jenny.
    ‘I expect so,’ he rejoined, helping her into the dinghy. ‘For the Festival, you know.’
    ‘Ar, the por souls!’ Trehern ejaculated. ‘May the Heavenly Powers bring them release from their afflictions.’
    ‘Cast off,’ said Patrick.
    The gurgle of water and rhythmic clunk of oars in their rowlocks carried Jenny back to the days when she and Patrick used to visit their little bay.
    ‘It’s a warm, still night, isn’t it?’ she said.
    ‘Isn’t it?’ Patrick agreed. He was beside her in the stern. He slipped his arm round her. ‘Do you know,’ he said in her ear, ‘it’s extraordinarily pleasant to see you again.’
    Jenny could smell the Harris tweed of his coat. She glanced at him. He was staring straight ahead. It was very dark but she fancied he was smiling.
    She felt that she must ask Trehern about Wally and did so.
    ‘He be pretty clever, Miss, thank you. You’ll see a powerful change in our little lad, no doubt, him having been the innocent means of joy and thanksgiving to them as seeked for it.’
    Jenny could find nothing better to say than: ‘Yes, indeed.’
    ‘Not that he be puffed-up by his exclusive state, however,’ Trehern added. ‘Meek as a mouse but all-glorious within. That’s our Wally.’
    Patrick gave Jenny a violent squeeze.
    They pulled into the jetty and went ashore. Trehern begged Jenny to visit her late pupil at the cottage and wished them an unctuous good night.
    Jenny looked about her. Within the sphere of light cast by the wharf lamp, appeared a shop-window which had been injected into an existing cottage front. It was crowded with small indistinguishable objects. ‘Yes,’ Patrick said. ‘That’s Miss Cost. Don’t