83. Back to Trethwyn
Not long after, it was time for Attila, Ferenc, Gyula, Károly, and Zsolt to return home. Draco's last task was to see them off to a bus station. He steeled himself in advance for possible hugs and handshakes, so he was able to cope with them when they actually came. Then he stood aside and watched the Hungarians board the bus that would take them to an airport.
Draco had read about airports in a textbook. They were places where aeroplanes took off or landed. Aeroplanes were a means of mass transportation and up to ten times as large as a bus. How things so big and heavy could launch themselves into the air was one of the wonders of Muggle technology. But fly they did. Draco had seen them travelling high in the sky where they glistened in the sunlight and left long and narrow clouds behind.
So there was no need to worry about Attila and the others. They would arrive at Budapest safely.
But how did he go back?
He berated himself for his lack of prudence – instead of asking his travel companions what they were planning he had foolishly assumed they would return with him to The Merry Fisherman. It wasn't the first time that he had made this sort of mistake. A year ago, after he had failed to give Mrs Bates sufficient notice of his wish to stay for the summer, he had resolved to be more careful in the future. But here he stood – alone in a town he didn't know and faced with the challenge of having to walk a hundred miles, or thereabouts, on his own.
Where did such carelessness stem from? It was decidedly un-Slytherin.
Was the old arrogance rearing its head again, the arrogance that dated back to a time when he had believed the Malfoys to be the centre of the universe and all other people to be obliged to conduct themselves in a way that pleased his family? This belief was as wrong as it was ridiculous, and the memory of how he had acted on it in the past was mortifying.
Then why did his attitude seem unchanged? Why did he still behave as if other people didn't have plans and intentions of their own? He knew no answer. He pushed the vexing matter aside because he had to deal with the more immediate problem of finding the way back to Trethwyn.
He hoisted the rucksack onto his shoulders and went to study the timetable.
Most busses went to the airport. There were a few that served some neighbouring villages or towns, but he rejected the idea of picking a destination shown as being situated east of his current position because the displayed map was anything but true to scale. There was no telling where he would end up, and he had absolutely no desire to repeat another of his follies and struggle through an odyssey like the one from Runcorn's cottage back to his lodgings at Yule two years ago.
No, he wasn't going to take any chances. He would keep to known territory and follow the well-marked Coast Path. Many people were hiking it in both directions at this time of the year, which was, actually, a plus. The incident with the warded house on the hill had taught him how vital it was for him to have not only telephone boxes or power transmission lines in sight at all times but also a person who was susceptible to Repello Muggletum.
...
The Coast Path was as well-frequented as he had hoped. He never walked entirely alone. He never drew unwelcome attention to his person, either. To the casual observer, his appearance hardly differed from that of an average backpacker of his age. Not even his rucksack, which didn't show the glaring colours typical of Muggle equipment, attracted more than a curious glance once in a while.
Skipping all the detours to old castles and other tourist attractions, he made good progress. As he didn't need to spend hours on choosing picture postcards and writing them, he was able to cover fifteen to twenty miles a day.
The night before he reached Trethwyn – he was in a little holiday resort where he had changed old banknotes the previous summer – Paul Williams transmuted back into Draco Malfoy. There was no point in maintaining the assumed identity any longer. People knew him as Draco Malfoy – Mrs Highbury and Mrs Bates did so as well as the Gills, the lady in the tourist office of Trethwyn, and Jory. Maybe that was just as well. If he had chosen to go by a fake name two years ago, his life now would not be the way it was. Despite all her skill and unwavering patience, Mrs Highbury wouldn't have been able to come by a Birth Certificate for a non-existent person.
...
The Gills seemed delighted to see him again. The room he got was slightly better than the one before, mainly because the window opened to a neighbouring vegetable garden.
He noted that the pictures lining the walls now all had captions like "Maiden's Cliff by Paul Williams, 1999" or "The Merry Fisherman seen from the South-East by Paul Williams, 1999". He wasn't sure whether he should feel embarrassed or amused.
However, spurred on by all those pictures, he set himself a task. A few days still remained until his planned return to the city, and he spent them sketching.
...
84. Opinions
Draco sat on a bench near the Coast Path and did the finishing touches to the picture he intended to give to the Gills. When he raised his gaze for a moment he saw Jory walking up to him.
Draco stood to greet him. They shook hands and exchanged the customary pleasantries.
"I haven't seen you all summer," Jory said. "Tomas Gill tells me you ran off with a bunch of foreigners."
"They were from Hungary, and they needed an interpreter."
"You speak Hungarian? Fancy that!"
"No, I don't," Draco said and explained how they had communicated with the help of comic strips and a little bit of French.
"Sounds pretty complicated to me," Jory commented. He gestured to the bench. "Shall we?"
They sat down side by side, and Jory glanced curiously at Draco's sketchpad. Draco, who was indeed interested in Jory's opinion, handed the latest picture over.
"That's Gorran!" Jory exclaimed.
"It's supposed to be him, yes. The posture and the general appearance seem to be all right, but I have difficulty drawing his face. That's why he is having his back half turned to the beholder and looking down at his chickens."
"But that's exactly how one would have seen Gorran when walking by his place – dressed in his old grey jacket and feeding his chickens." Jory gave the sketch back. "You've got talent."
"Thank you."
"Well, I mean it. Although I have to admit that I don't really understand much about arts. Pictures like yours I can appreciate, but all that modern stuff... you know, pictures where you can't tell what is bottom and what is top. That's not my cup of tea."
"I'm not really an artist. The people around here just made that up."
Jory nodded mutely. He took a piece of paper from his breast pocket and unfolded it.
"I meant to ask you about this," he said softly, holding it out to Draco.
Draco sucked in a breath and looked away.
"Why did you take it from the bin?" he asked.
"I didn't. The stack of sketches lay next to the kitchen stove. I reckon Gorran took them from the bin, probably thinking it would be a grievous waste of good paper if he didn't use it for getting the stove going. He was that kind of man," Jory said quietly. "There were nearly a hundred pictures like this one here. Does it show a blazing inferno or a horde of animals? To me, it looks like flames with gaping maws, and fangs. What does that mean?"
"You don't want to know."
"Try me."
Draco glanced at the man. Jory looked calm and serious. Nothing in his features hinted at either impending mockery or rebuke.
"That fire was at my school. One of my classmates died in it. I'm only sitting here because somebody pulled me out in the nick of time." He rushed the words out. He didn't want to think about what they implied: He owed Potter. He owed bloody Potter and his cronies. "That's it, put into a nutshell."
"I thought it was something like that," Jory said. "When you're with the police, you get to see things. It's not as if this neighbourhood is a stronghold of crime, but you still get to see one thing or another. Coming within an inch of dying is a creepy experience. It leaves its mark on people."
He fell silent and regarded Draco.
Draco said nothing. Of course, the events had left their marks on him, both on his body and his soul.
"I think you've got talent," Jory broke the silence. "Your pictures look alive, kind of. How shall I put it? When you don't look directly but only glance at them out of the corner of your eye, then you get the impression that something in the picture has just moved. Sorry, I'm talking nonsense."
"Don't apologise," Draco mumbled, squinting at the chickens on the sketch in his hand. They did not move; he was sure of that. You needed spells to animate a picture.
Then again, he was a human being capable of working magic. Could it possibly be that some raw magic leaked accidentally and affected the sketches? He'd be truly surprised. His raw magic had never been much to take into account. He didn't burst windowpanes by simply becoming angry; he had to hurl something solid at them if he wanted the glass smashed. He remembered venting his frustration by beating a large marble statue to dust in the Room of Requirement. He had used a club for that because no matter what amount of distress might have screamed from within him to be let out, he wouldn't have caused a single crack in the polished surface of the ugly thing if he had hit it with his raw magic.
He forced his thoughts back to the present. He had to give Jory an answer, and his explanation had better be dull and mundane.
"That effect is probably due to the shadows not being done accurately," he said.
"Oh, I see," said Jory, sounding slightly disappointed. "Anyway, I'm glad Eva agreed to putting up your pictures of Trethwyn where people can see them. Especially because your works may soon be all that's left of the good old place."
Draco looked up in surprise.
"Why?" he asked.
"Well, should that Mr Webster – the businessman from London who married the baker's daughter – get his way, Trethwyn won't be the same anymore. He says what he's doing will boost business. But will that be only his business or that of others as well? And then there are those who object and say we'll lose our 'unique selling position', meaning the tranquillity will be gone once the streets are clogged with cars. Sorry for ranting. I just have mixed feelings about Webster's plans. There are a sizable number of regulars who have come here for years, if not for decades. They come for the quiet, the scenery and-"
Jory broke off and kicked a pebble across the path. He kicked it with force, as if there was pent-up anger that sought an outlet.
Draco didn't miss that little detail. He studied Jory's gloomy face but said nothing.
The man snorted. "There's probably nobody going to admit it openly, but two thirds of our regulars are naturists. People in Trethwyn have made no small part of their living off the so-called weirdoes for the twenty-five years or so since the Cliff Sun Club has been established. I remember the collective outcry when it transpired that Amy Coad, the old nutcase, had sold her property to the British Naturist Society. People around here have opinions about such things."
He kicked another stone.
"Opinions about what?" Draco asked tentatively.
"About walking around stark naked."
"But..." Draco stopped, took a deep breath and started anew. "Is it against the law to swim in a state of undress?"
Jory shrugged. "It's legal as long as the naturists stay in their enclave."
Draco allowed himself a small sigh of relief.
"You do go there, don't you?" Jory asked.
"Would you mind if I did?"
"It's none of my business, really. You're a young man and of age. I presume you can handle yourself. So, if you like to go skinny-dipping you can do just that."
"But you sound upset," Draco observed.
"I'm upset because of Webster and his latest designs. He wants to rid Trethwyn of the naturists. More exactly, he wants to buy the property of the Club because he needs it for the golf grounds he is planning. But the Naturist Society isn't interested in selling and that's why Webster is now proclaiming that the existence of the Club will hamper future business. I was there when he made one of his grand speeches about 'boosting moral' and 'nipping criminal activities in the bud', and I told him that the Club has hampered nothing, especially not business, for the past twenty five years and that the criminal activities on the naturists' beach have amounted to nothing more serious than pinching purses and starting campfires. And you know what he did then? He asked me how I would like it if my daughters walked around in their birthday suit. What a nerve! Of course, I would not like it. Isabel turned sixteen in April and Betsy is fourteen – of course, I would mind if some greasy old lard arse were ogling their bits. But I couldn't say that out loud, not with half of the village population listening in."
The news alarmed Draco. His former lodgings had been Vanished already, and now his preferred bathing place was in jeopardy as well.
...
85. A Father's Woes
"Do I understand correctly that Mr Webster wants the beach all for himself?" Draco asked to confirm his suspicion.
"In a manner of speaking, yes. I suspect he wants the whole village. And he's a complete jerk for bringing the subject of my daughters into the argument. He was trying to bait me, but he'll have to try harder than that."
"Bait you?" Draco wasn't sure where this conversation was going.
"Certainly. He wanted me to say that I would never allow my girls to go to a naturists' refuge. If I had done him that favour, he'd now tell everybody even I objected to the Cliff Sun Club. Which is not true. I don't object to the Club as such. Whoever wants to go there has the right to do so. Whoever doesn't like it can stay away. And since it's a bit of an out-of-the-way area people aren't too likely to walk there by accident, at least not if they can read."
Jory made as if to kick another pebble but apparently thought better of it. He placed his foot slowly and deliberately beside the small black piece of flint and continued, "People are different – they have different beliefs and opinions, they lead their lives in different ways. That's all right as long as they obey the law. That's the main guideline in my job, and I can't go and talk or act differently in private. That wouldn't do. People would stop to respect me."
"Do you think it is important what people say or think about you?" Draco asked, trying to follow Jory's line of argument. "How much does reputation matter to you?"
"Reputation," Jory said slowly and scratched his neck, "reputation is more on the surface, Draco. People can have a high repute and be downright gits behind their shiny facade. I'm talking about integrity. I need to stay true to myself. That is what matters to me."
The concept of an impressive facade shielding the far less impressive person behind was all too familiar to Draco. He suppressed a sigh.
"How do you-" he broke off, not sure what it really was he wanted to ask.
"How do I stay upright and do not succumb to a pushy git like Webster? Well, verbal assault is something a policeman learns to deal with. The best strategy for impertinent questions is to not dignify them with answers. So, I turned the tables on him and asked whether he thought he would make lots of friends by discussing intimate topics in public, and why he thought the way I raise my children had anything to do with his attempt to buy another estate in Trethwyn. That stumped him sufficiently. And I had the impression that part of the audience had not yet been aware how well his selfless campaign against the 'hotbed of immorality' matches with his business interests. I think he deserved the little damper. What angers me most is how he is using people's secret fears to sway them to his side. My girls are rebellious enough to do something that might embarrass me. It grieves me to see them in their crazy clothes – skimpy skirts, and blouses that look as if they were wearing them inside out. Not to mention Isabel's most recent hairstyle." He sighed. "But what can I do? They are young and go for what they believe is modern and fashionable."
"Would you want your daughters to respect tradition more than they do, Jory?" Draco asked, intrigued by the man's openness. "Do you set great store by tradition?"
Jory gave him a quizzical look.
"Being traditional doesn't necessarily mean being good," he said then. "Tradition is fine, but there also has to be change. It can't be any other way. There's a difference, though, whether something is old and obsolete and making people unhappy or whether somebody wants to tear down things – facilities that are still intact and working just fine – because he hopes to make more profit with something new. That is my opinion, Draco. Not everyone shares it. There are those who would like to maintain tradition at all costs and others who say only progress matters and is worth a few sacrifices along the way." Jory shifted slightly to the side and turned to face Draco more fully. "And as for my daughters' silly clothing habits – well, I'm afraid I'll have to put up with it. In all likelihood, they'll grow out of it," he continued. "When I was young, a bit younger than you're now, I walked around in rhinestone-studded shirts and trousers made of purple velvet – very much to my father's chagrin."
Draco almost gasped. "You wore special garments to spite your father?"
Jory chuckled.
"I wore those 'special garments' in order to draw the eyes of pretty girls." He smiled wistfully. "Well, it worked... in a way."
"But your father was angry with you."
"Yes, he was. Quite often. I'd be lying if I said otherwise. But I never annoyed him on purpose. It was more like accepting an unpleasant side effect that couldn't be avoided. I'm not particularly proud of it."
"Did he-" Draco hesitated. Jory didn't seem to mind answering personal questions, but Draco feared this one went beyond the limit.
"Did he do what?" Jory prompted.
"Forgive you?" Draco said it so quietly, the words were barely audible.
"Of course," Jory said, speaking very softly as well. He shoved the piece of flint aside that had lain next to his right foot. Then he went on at normal volume, "Of course, he's forgiven me. He loves me. He loves me no less than I love my daughters."
There was minor pause, but before Draco had the chance to digest what had just been said Jory continued, "I'll tell you something, Draco, something I've kept pretty much to myself until now. When my girls were cute little toddlers – well, Isabel was a toddler; Betsy was still in the pram – back then I made a silent promise. I made it only to myself; not even my wife knows. I promised that I would always put what is best for my children before what is best for me. But I had to learn that such things are more easily said than done. I'm only human; I'll make mistakes like everybody else. But that's not even the real problem. The real trouble is that deciding on behalf of somebody else is much more difficult than making decisions that are only for yourself. I'll give you an example: What if my girls want to go to the Cliff Sun Club one day? What am I to do then? It's just hypothetical – Isabel hasn't mentioned any such wish yet, and Betsy is simply too young – but what if? Should I deny them to go and risk bringing about heated disputes and ceaseless quarrels and all that unpleasant stuff that is bound to ruin domestic harmony in the end? Or should I let them go despite my better judgement – or what I believe to be my better judgement, anyway – and risk them running into serious trouble? Perhaps getting pregnant at the age of seventeen? I honestly don't know. It's got nothing to do with obeying laws and following guidelines. There are no guidelines for this sort of decision. Look, last year, when Jenna came to fetch her father, I had to decide whether to let him go with her or to invite him to stay with me for the winter. I knew, I just knew, I would regret either choice. I knew that I wouldn't see him again if he went with her. But if I had insisted on him staying here, I would most likely have robbed him of his last chance to see his grandsons. Even now, in hindsight, I'm not sure I did the right thing. It can't be helped, though. I will have to live with that unanswered question."
Draco listened with bated breath even though Jory kept meandering between topics that hardly concerned Draco directly. But he was intrigued, most uncommonly intrigued, because Jory wasn't dishing out time-hallowed truths. Instead, he was voicing worries and doubts.
"Draco, do you think it would be safe for a teenage girl to go to the Cliff Sun Club?"
It took Draco a moment to realise that the question hadn't been rhetorical.
"I'm afraid I cannot not help you with that. I've never noticed" – He heard the note of uncertainty in his voice. What was the appropriate phrasing? – "I've never noticed activities that would be suited to cause pregnancy."
"Sorry; I didn't mean to embarrass you," Jory said, sounding slightly embarrassed himself. "I just thought you might have some insight."
Insight? Into what? As a matter of fact, Draco didn't feel so much embarrassed than completely at sea. Pansy had known a spell that prevented pregnancy. Which was, by the way, another clue that she had benefited from her mother's guidance. He hadn't been knowledgeable at all. He had tried to discuss the subject matter with Zabini, but Zabini had brushed him off. And, of course, he didn't have the faintest idea how the problem was dealt with in a world where spells didn't exist. Besides, why would anyone proceed to have intercourse in public? Then again, why would anyone choose to appear nude in public or, more to the point, why would anyone wish to swim? These questions and their answers belonged to this world here. Whatever he might have learned in his former life didn't apply.
"No, I'm afraid I don't have much insight into anything," he said softly. "Besides, I only go to that special stretch of beach when there are few people around, preferably none at all. I go there late in the evening, around nightfall, or very early in the morning before everybody else is up."
"Why's that?" Jory asked, perplexed.
"I don't know. I seem to have a lot of quirky habits that I can't really explain. Maybe it's just that I didn't own swimming trunks in the beginning. And now... now I've come to like the feeling of water on skin. Wearing trunks somehow diminishes the pleasure."
"And here I thought to see and to be seen was an essential part of the naturist experience."
"I wouldn't know, Jory. I'm not acquainted with any of the people you call naturists. Their place suits me. That is why I go there, and nobody has ever chased me off or said that I had no business being there."
"No, it's all right. You don't need to be a club member."
"I wasn't even aware..." he trailed off. The thought that he might be trespassing on private property had never occurred to him. "Never mind."
"You can talk, Draco. It's all right."
"Talk about what?" Draco asked more sharply than intended. Talking about nudity was decidedly awkward but safe. What did Jory, who was obviously unable to keep to one topic for long, want now?
The silence stretched for almost a whole minute. Jory didn't answer, and Draco waited, hoping the other wouldn't come up with a question that tempted him to violate the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy.
Finally, Jory reached into his breast pocket again. This time, he took out a little piece of white cardboard.
"Draco, I don't mean to impose. Just keep this."
Draco took the proffered card and studied it. It held Jory's full name, an address, and two rows of digits.
"Is this your phone number?" Draco asked, indicating the lower half of the card.
"Yes, both landline and mobile," Jory said, rising. Draco followed suit. "Draco, I know it can be hard to ask for help. But should you feel one day like you would want somebody to help you then call me. Don't wait until it's too late."
"But..." Draco felt stunned almost beyond words. The conversation had taken many unexpected turns, but an unreserved offer of help topped all previous surprises. "Why... what makes you think-"
"What makes me think you might need help?" Jory said. "I can tell when somebody carries a lot of weight with them. And you do. Hundreds of pictures showing a classroom on fire, going on holidays with people whose language you don't understand – that all tells a story."
Draco was at a loss for words. He was suddenly conscious of Jory's sincerity. There was no patronising attitude and no fake joviality. And, standing face to face with the man, Draco saw something else: he was taller than Jory, not by much, one inch perhaps, but taller; he didn't have to look up. He knew he was taller than Mrs Highbury or Mrs Bates or his mother, but that hadn't led him to realise that he was, physically, a grown man.
"Thanks," he managed eventually.
"You're welcome," Jory said, turning to leave. "See you around."
"I... I'm about to return to the city," Draco said as Jory took the first step away. "Term starts."
"Oh, right. I see. Good luck, then," Jory smiled. "What are you studying, anyway?"
"I want to study genetics. I hope my exams were good enough so that I'll be allowed to continue."
"Well then, I wish you all the best," Jory said, coming back to give Draco a brief hug.
Draco let it happen, wondering why he didn't mind.
...
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Author's note:
Many thanks go to Kevyn, TheMightyKoosh and Nooka for beta reading and advice.