Clarissa said:

'It's repulsive! What on earth possessed you, Ambrose? Get rid ofit.'

'Certainly not. It may be unique. I regard it as an interesting addition to my minor Victoriana.' Roma said:

'I've seen the Osborne pieces. I find them repulsive too. But they throw an interesting light on the Victorian mind, the Queen's in particular.'

'Well, this throws an interesting light on Ambrose's mind.' Ivo said quietly:

'As a piece of marble, it's rather well done. It's the association you find unpleasant, perhaps. The death or mutilation of a child is always distressing, don't you think, Clarissa?'

But Clarissa appeared not to have heard. She turned away and said:

'For God's sake don't start arguing about it. Just get rid of it, Ambrose. And now I need a drink and my lunch.'

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Half a mile from the shore Simon Lessing stopped his slow and regular crawl stroke, turned on his back and let his eyes rest on the horizon. The sea was empty. Faced with that shuddering waste of water, it was possible to imagine that there was emptiness also behind him, that the island and its castle had gently subsided under the waves, silently and without turbulence, and that he floated alone in a blue infinity of sea. This self-induced sense of isolation excited but didn't frighten him. Nothing about the sea ever did. Here was the element in which he felt most at peace; guilt, anxiety, failure washed away in a gentle and perpetual baptism of redemption.

He was glad that Clarissa hadn't wanted him tagging along behind her on the tour of the castle. There were rooms he would be interested to see, but there would be time enough to explore on his own. And it would give him another excuse to keep out of her way. He couldn't swim more than twice a day at most without it seeming odd and deliberately unsociable but it would seem perfectly natural to ask if he might wander off to explore the castle. Perhaps the weekend might not be so terrifying after all.

He had only to thrust himself upright to feel the bite of the cold undercurrent. But now he floated, spread-eagled under the sun, feeling the sea creeping over his chest and arms as softly warm as a bath. From time to time he let his face submerge, opening his eyes on the thin film of green, letting it wash lightly over his eyeballs. And deep down there was the knowledge, unfrightening and almost comforting, that he only had to let himself go, to give himself up to the power and gentleness of the sea and there need never again be guilt or anxiety or failure. He knew that he wouldn't do it; the thought was a small self-indulgence which, like a drug, could be safely experimented with as long as the doses were small and one stayed in control. And he was in control. In a few minutes it would be time to turn and strike for the shore, to think about luncheon and Clarissa and getting through the next two days without embarrassment or disaster. But now there was this peace, this emptiness, this wholeness.

It was only at moments like this that he could think without pain of his father. This was how he must have died, swimming alone in the Aegean on that summer morning, finding the tide too strong for him, letting himself go at last without a struggle, without fear, giving himself up to the sea he loved, embracing its majesty and its peace. He had imagined that death so often on his solitary swims that the old nightmares were almost exorcized.

He no longer awoke in the darkness of the early hours as he had in those first months after he had learned his father's death, sweating with terror, desperately tearing at the blankets as they dragged him down, living every second of those last dreadful minutes, the stinging eyes, the agony as he glimpsed through the waves the lost, receding, unattainable shore. But it hadn't been like that. It couldn't have been like that. His father had died secure in his great love, unresisting and at peace.

It was time to turn back. He twisted under the water and began again his steady powerful crawl. And now his feet found the shingle and he pulled himself ashore, colder and more tired than he had expected. Looking up, he saw with surprise that there was someone waiting for him, a dark-clad, still figure standing like a guardian beside his pile of clothes. He shook the water from his eyes and saw it was Tolly.

He came up to her. At first she didn't speak but bent and picked up his towel and handed it to him. Panting and shivering he began patting dry his arms and neck, embarrassed by her steady gaze, wondering why she was there. Then she said:

'Why don't you leave?'

She must have seen his incomprehension. She said again:

'Why don't you leave, leave this place, leave her?' Her voice, as always, was low but harsh, almost expressionless. He stared at her, wild-eyed under the dripping hair.

'Leave Clarissa! Why should I? What do you mean?'

'She doesn't want you. Haven't you noticed that? You aren't happy. Why go on pretending?'

He cried out in protest.

'But I am happy! And where can I go? My aunt wouldn't want me back. I haven't any money.' She said:

'There's a spare room in my flat. You could have that for a start. It isn't much, a child's room. But you could stay there until you found something better.'

A child's room. He remembered hearing that she had once had a child, a girl who had died. No one ever spoke about her now. He didn't want to think about her. He had thought enough about dying and death. He said:

'But how could I find somewhere? What would I live on?'

'You're seventeen, aren't you? You're not a child. You've got five O-levels. You could find something to do. I was working at fifteen. Most children in the world start younger.'

'But doing what? I'm going to be a pianist. I need Clarissa's money.'

'Ah yes,' she said, 'you need Clarissa's money.'

And so, he thought, so do you. That's what this is all about. He felt a surge of confidence, of adult cunning. He wasn't a child to be so easily fooled. Hadn't he always sensed her dislike of him, caught that contemptuous glance as she set down his breakfast on those days when she and he were alone in the flat, watched the silent resentment with which she gathered up his laundry, cleaned his room. If he weren't there she wouldn't need to come in except twice a week to check that all was well. Of course she wanted him out of the way. Probably she expected to be left something in Clarissa's will; she must be ten years younger even if she didn't look it. And she was only a servant after all. What right had she to upset him, to criticize Clarissa, to patronize him, offering her sordid little room as if it were a favour. It would be as bad as Mornington Avenue; worse. The small, seductive devil at the back of his mind whispered its enticement. However difficult things might be at times he would be crazy to give up the patronage of Clarissa, who was rich, to put himself at the mercy of Tolly, who was poor.

Perhaps something of this reached her. She said almost humbly but with no trace of solicitation:

'You'd be under no obligation. It's just a room.' He wished she would go. Yet he couldn't walk away, couldn't start dressing while that dark, oppressive figure stood there seeming to block the whole beach. He drew himself up and said as stiffly as his shivering body would permit:

'Thank you, but I'm perfectly happy as I am.'

'Suppose she gets tired of you like she did your father.' He gaped at her, clutching his towel. Above them a gull shrieked, shrill as a tormented child. He whispered:

'What do you mean? She loved my father! They loved each other! He explained to me before he left us, mother and me. It was the most marvellous thing that had ever happened to him. He had no choice.'

'There's always a choice.'