Part 3 (1/2)

Mrs. Parsons allowed a small frown to show between her beautifully aligned eyebrows. ”Is the party in the studio?” she inquired, obviously suspecting doctored drinks and doped cigarettes.

”No, it's out at Lanyon at a farm called Penfolda, some sort of a barbecue on the cliffs. A camp fire and fried sausages ...” Alice saw that Virginia was longing to go. ”... I think it might be rather fun.”

”I think it sounds terrible,” said Mrs. Parsons.

”I didn't think you'd want to come. But Tom and I might go, and we'll take Virginia with us.”

Mrs. Parsons turned her cool gaze upon her daughter. ”Do you want to go to a barbecue?”

Virginia shrugged. ”It might be fun.” She had learned, long ago, that it never paid to be too enthusiastic about anything.

”Very well,” said her mother, helping herself to lemon pudding. ”If it's your idea of an amusing evening and Alice and Tom don't mind taking you along . . . but for heaven's sake wear something warm. It's bound to be freezing. Far too cold, one would have thought, for a picnic.”

She was right. It was cold. A clear turquoise evening with the shoulder of Carn Edvor silhouetted black against the western sky and a chill inland wind to nip the air. Driving up the hill out of Porthkerris, Virginia looked back and saw the lights of the town twinkling far below, the ink-black waters of the harbour br.i.m.m.i.n.g with s.h.i.+mmering reflections. Across the bay, from the distant headland, the lighthouse sent its warning signal. A flash. A pause. A flash. A longer pause. Be careful. There's danger.

The evening ahead seemed full of possibilities. Suddenly excited, Virginia turned and leaned forward, resting her chin on crossed arms on the back of Alice's seat. The unpremeditated gesture was clumsy and spontaneous, a reflection of natural high spirits that were normally battened firmly down under the influence of a domineering mother.

”Alice, where is this place we're going?”

”Penfolda. It's a farm, just this side of Lanyon.”

”Who lives there?”

”Mrs. Philips. She's a widow. And her son Eustace.”

”What does he do?”

”He farms, silly. I told you it was a farm.”

”Are they friends of the Barnets?”

”I suppose they must be. A lot of artists live out around this part of the world. Though I've no idea how they could ever have met.”

Tom said, ”Probably at The Mermaid's.”

”What's The Mermaid's?” Virginia asked.

”The Mermaid's Arms, the pub in Lanyon. On a Sat.u.r.day night all the world and his wife go there for a drink and a get-together.”

”Who else will be at the party?”

”Our guess is probably as good as yours.”

”Haven't you any idea?”

”Well . . .”Alice did her best.”. . . Artists and writers and poets and hippies and drop-outs and farmers and perhaps one or two rather boring and conventional people like us.”

Virginia gave her a hug. ”You're not boring or conventional. You're super.”

”You may not think we're quite so super at the end of the evening. You may hate it, so grit your teeth and reserve your judgment.”

Virginia sat back, in the darkness of the car, hugging herself. I shan't hate it.

There were headlights like fireflies, coming from all directions, converging on Penfolda. From the road the farmhouse could be seen to be blazing with light. They joined the queue of a.s.sorted vehicles which b.u.mped and groaned their way down a narrow, broken land and eventually were directed into a farmyard which had been turned temporarily into a car park. The air was full of voices and laughter as friends greeted friends, and already a steady trickle of people were making their way over a stone wall and down over the pasture fields towards the cliffs. Some were wrapped in rugs, some carried old-fas.h.i.+oned lanterns, some-Virginia was glad all over again that her mother had not come-a clanking bottle or two.

Someone said, ”Tom! What are you doing here?”, and Tom and Alice dropped back to wait for their friends, and Virginia went on, loving the feeling of being alone. All about her the soft, dark air smelled of peat and sea-wrack and wood-smoke. The sky was not yet empty of light and the sea was of so dark a blue that it was almost black. She went through a gap in a wall and saw, below her, at the bottom of the field, the golden flames of the fire, already ringed with lanterns and the shapes and shadows of about thirty people. As she came closer, faces sprang suddenly into focus, illuminated in firelight, laughing and talking, everybody knowing everybody. There was a barrel of beer, propped on a wooden stand, from which br.i.m.m.i.n.g gla.s.ses were being continually filled, and there was the smell of potatoes cooking and burning fat, and somebody had brought a guitar and begun to play and gradually a few people gathered about him and raised uncertain voices in song.

There is a s.h.i.+p And she sails the sea, She's loaded deep As deep can be.

But not as deep As the love I'm in . . .

A young man, running to pa.s.s Virginia, stumbled in the dusk and b.u.mped into her. ”Sorry.” He grabbed her arm, as much to steady himself as her. He held his lantern high, the light in her face. ”Who are you?”

”Virginia.”

”Virginia who?”

”Virginia Parsons.”

He had long hair and a band around his forehead and looked like an Apache.

”I thought it was a new face. Are you on your own?”

”N . . . no. I've come with Alice and Tom . . . but . . .” She looked back. ”I've lost them . . . they're coming . . . somewhere ...”

”I'm Dominic Barnet ...”

”Oh . . . it's your party ...”

”No, my father's, really. At least he's paid for the barrel of beer which makes it his party and my mother bought the sausages. Come on . . . let's get something to drink,” and he grabbed her arm with an even firmer grip and marched her down into the seething, noisy fire-lit circle of activity. ”Hey, Dad . . . here's someone who hasn't got a drink ...”

A huge bearded figure, medieval in the strange light, straightened up from the tap of the barrel. ”Well, here's one for her,” he said, and Virginia found herself holding an enormous mug of beer. ”And here's a sausage.” The young man whisked one nearly off a pa.s.sing tray and handed it to her, impaled on a stick. Virginia took that too, and was just about to embark upon some polite social conversation when Dominic saw another familiar face across the circle of firelight, yelled ”Mariana!” or some such name, and was away, leaving Virginia once more alone.

She searched in the darkness for the Lingards but could not find them. But everyone else was sitting, so she sat too, with the enormous beer mug in one hand and the sausage, still too hot to eat, in the other. The firelight scorched her face and the wind was cold on her back and blew her hair all over her face. She took a mouthful of beer. She had never drunk beer before and immediately wanted to sneeze. She did so, enormously and from behind her an amused voice said, ”Bless you.”

Virginia recovered from the sneeze and said, 'Thank you,” and looked up to see who had blessed her, and saw a large young man in corduroys and rubber boots and a ma.s.sive Norwegian sweater. He was grinning down at her and the firelight turned his brown face to the colour of copper.

She said, ”It was the beer that made me sneeze.”

He squatted beside her, took the mug gently from her hand and laid it on the ground between them. ”You might sneeze again and then you'd spill it all and that would be a waste.”

”Yes.”

”You have to be a friend of the Barnets.”

”Why do you say that?”

”I haven't seen you before.”

”No, I'm not. I came with the Lingards.”