Terry Bisson - England Underway

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England Underway

a short story by Terry Bisson

Mr. Fox was, he realized afterward, with a shudder of sudden recognition

like that of the man who gives a cup of water to a stranger and finds out

hours, or even years later, that it was Napoleon, perhaps the first to

notice. Perhaps. At least no one else in Brighton seemed to be looking at

the sea that day. He was taking his constitutional on the Boardwalk,

thinking of Lizzie Eustace and her diamonds, the people in novels becoming

increasingly more real to him as the people in the everyday (or "real")

world grew more remote, when he noticed that the waves seemed funny.

"Look," he said to Anthony, who accompanied him everywhere, which was not

far, his customary world being circumscribed by the Boardwalk to the

south, Mrs. Oldenshield's to the east, the cricket grounds to the north,

and the Pig & Thistle, where he kept a room--or more precisely, a room

kept him, and had since 1956--to the west.

"Woof?" said Anthony, in what might have been a quizzical tone.

"The waves, " said Mr. Fox. "They seem--well, odd, don't they? Closer

together?"

"Woof."

"Well, perhaps not. Could be just my imagination."

Fact is, waves had always looked odd to Mr. Fox. Odd and tiresome and

sinister. He enjoyed the Boardwalk but he never walked on the beach

proper, not only because he disliked the shifty quality of the sand but

because of the waves with their ceaseless back and forth. He didn't

understand why the sea had to toss about so. Rivers didn't make all that

fuss, and they were actually going somewhere. The movement of the waves

seemed to suggest that something was stirring things up, just beyond the

horizon. Which was what Mr. Fox had always suspected in his heart; which

was why he had never visited his sister in America.

"Perhaps the waves have always looked funny and I have just never

noticed," said Mr. Fox. If indeed funny was the word for something so odd.

At any rate, it was almost half past four. Mr. Fox went to Mrs.

Oldenshield's, and with a pot of tea and a plate of shortbread biscuits

placed in front of him, read his daily Trollope--he had long ago decided

to read all forty seven novels in exactly the order, and at about the

rate, in which they had been written--then fell asleep for twenty minutes.

When he awoke (and no one but he knew he was sleeping) and closed the

book, Mrs. Oldenshield put it away for him, on the high shelf where the

complete set, bound in morocco, resided in state. Then Mr. Fox walked to

the cricket ground, so that Anthony might run with the boys and their

kites until dinner was served at the Pig & Thistle. A whisky at nine with

Harrison ended what seemed at the time to be an ordinary day.

The next day it all began in earnest.

Mr. Fox awoke to a hubbub of traffic, footsteps, and unintelligible

shouts. There was, as usual, no one but himself and Anthony (and of

course, the Finn, who cooked) at breakfast; but outside, he found the

streets remarkably lively for the time of year. He saw more and more

people as he headed downtown, until he was immersed in a virtual sea of

humanity. People of all sorts, even Pakistanis and foreigners, not

ordinarily much in evidence in Brighton off season.

"What in the world can it be?" Mr. Fox wondered aloud. "I simply can't

imagine."

"Woof," said Anthony, who couldn't imagine either, but who was never

called upon to do so.

With Anthony in his arms, Mr. Fox picked his way through the crowd along

the King's Esplanade until he came to the entrance to the Boardwalk. He

mounted the twelve steps briskly. It was irritating to have one's

customary way blocked by strangers. The Boardwalk was half-filled with

strollers who, instead of strolling, were holding onto the rail and

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looking out to sea. It was mysterious; but then the habits of everyday

people had always been mysterious to Mr. Fox; they were so much less

likely to stay in character than the people in novels.

The waves were even closer together than they had been the day before;

they were piling up as if pulled toward the shore by a magnet. The surf

where it broke had the odd appearance of a single continuous wave about

one and a half feet high. Though it no longer seemed to be rising, the

water had risen during the night: it covered half the beach, coming almost

up to the seawall just below the Boardwalk.

The wind was quite stout for the season. Off to the left (the east) a dark

line was seen on the horizon. It might have been clouds but it looked more

solid, like land. Mr. Fox could not remember ever having seen it before,

even though he had walked here daily for the past forty two years.

"Dog?"

Mr. Fox looked to his left. Standing beside him at the rail of the

Boardwalk was a large, one might even say portly, African man with an

alarming hairdo. He was wearing a tweed coat. An English girl clinging to

his arm had asked the question. She was pale with dark, stringy hair, and

she wore an oilskin cape that looked wet even though it wasn't raining.

"Beg your pardon?" said Mr. Fox.

"That's a dog?" The girl was pointing toward Anthony.

"Woof."

"Well, of course it's a dog."

"Can't he walk?"

"Of course he can walk. He just doesn't always choose to."

"You bloody wish," said the girl, snorting unattractively and looking

away. She wasn't exactly a girl. She could have been twenty.

"Don't mind her," said the African. "Look at that chop, would you."

"Indeed," Mr. Fox said. He didn't know what to make of the girl but he was

grateful to the African for starting a conversation. It was often

difficult these days; it had become increasingly difficult over the years.

"A storm off shore, perhaps?" he ventured.

"A storm?" the African said. "I guess you haven't heard. It was on the

telly hours ago. We're making close to two knots now, south and east.

Heading around Ireland and out to sea."

"Out to sea?" Mr. Fox looked over his shoulder at the King's Esplanade and

the buildings beyond, which seemed as stationary as ever. "Brighton is

heading out to sea?"

"You bloody wish," the girl said.

"Not just Brighton, man, "the African said. For the first time, Mr. Fox

could hear a faint Caribbean lilt in his voice. "England herself is

underway."

England underway? How extraordinary. Mr. Fox could see what he supposed

was excitement in the faces of the other strollers on the Boardwalk all

that day. The wind smelled somehow saltier as he went to take his tea. He

almost told Mrs. Oldenshield the news when she brought him his pot and

platter; but the affairs of the day, which had never intruded far into her

tea room, receded entirely when he took down his book and began to read.

This was (as it turned out) the very day that Lizzie finally read the

letter from Mr. Camperdown, the Eustace family lawyer, which she had

carried unopened for three days. As Mr. Fox had expected, it demanded that

the diamonds be returned to her late husband's family. In response, Lizzie

bought a strongbox. That evening, England's peregrinations were all the

news on BBC. The kingdom was heading south into the Atlantic at 1.8 knots,

according to the newsmen on the telly over the bar at the Pig & Thistle,

where Mr. Fox was accustomed to taking a glass of whisky with Harrison,

the barkeep, before retiring. In the sixteen hours since the phenomenon

had first been detected, England had gone some thirty five miles,

beginning a long turnaround Ireland which would carry it into the open

sea.

"Ireland is not going?" asked Mr. Fox.

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