Lying in bed that night, waiting for Sailing By, Anselm involuntarily returned to his earlier reflections. He thought of Pascal and a brutal irony: an accidental consequence of his death was that Agnes was eventually reunited with her son. If Pascal hadn’t died, Victor might never have come forward to give evidence… if he hadn’t given any evidence, Anselm would never have discovered that Victor believed Agnes was dead… it was only when Victor realised she was alive that the whole truth came out…
And, going back further, if Pascal hadn’t died then Anselm would never have gone to France and mentioned the name of Agnes to Etienne Fougeres as the butler poured the tea, and discovered that Etienne knew about her, and Robert, and that his family had kept a secret for fifty years… That jarred on him now, as it had jarred on him then, but suddenly Sailing By began.
Instantly Anselm was in the crow’s-nest of a great dipping schooner, high above the decks, with the scurrying crew in black and white below The spars creaked and groaned and the sails strained against their ropes. Sunlight flashed upon cerulean waves and in the distance thick green foliage burst from the pale sands of a small island. It was a vision that suggested itself every time the music came on and Anselm blissfully surrendered himself to its charms, shutting down the engine of his thinking. However, with his thoughts attuned to the past, a window to his mind was left ajar. Just before he sank beneath the waves he heard a small voice, a little idea. He woke, knocking his radio on to the floor in excitement. This was one thing he had got right.