There could be no
denying that it was grim and ugly under these conditions. It might
be that when the spring came there would be flowers in the gardens
and the trees would break out into fresh green and the sands would
gleam with mother-of-pearl and the sea would glitter with sunshine.
All that perhaps would come. Meanwhile there was not a house that
was not hideous, the wind tore screaming down the long beaches
carrying with it a flurry of tempestuous rain, whilst the sea itself
moved in sluggish oily coils, dirt-grey to the grey horizon. Worst
of all perhaps were the deserted buildings at other times dedicated
to gaiety, ghosts of places they were with torn paper flapping
against their sides and the wind tearing at their tin-plated roofs.
Then there was the desolate little station, having, it seemed, no
connection with any kind of traffic-and behind all this the woods
howled and creaked and whistled, derisive, provocative, the only
creatures alive in all that world.
Between the Fashion and the Place the Church stood as a bridge.
Centuries ago, when Skeaton had been the merest hamlet clustered
behind the beach, the Church had been there-not the present
building, looking, poor thing, as though it were in a perpetual
state of scarlet fever, but a shabby humble little chapel close to
the sea sheltered by the sandy hill.
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