The White Gate

Excerpt from The White Gate

John Cuthbertson made his way down the harbour pier at Dover, looking like a big brown bear in his rough ulster. There was expectancy in the kind blue eyes set wide apart in the fresh-coloured face. Like many big men, John Cuthbertson had a shy and silent dignity. He moved slowly, spoke slowly, and smiled with his eyes when smaller people would have laughed.

A March sky hurried overhead, and the sea kept up a monotonous splashing on the other side of the great grey breakwater. Landwards, Dover Castle stood out dimly on a dim hill, the grass and the chalk looking sad and soiled under the grey sky. The Calais boat was in. John Cuthbertson could see her masts above the roofs of the shelters on the quay.

"I'm late, I suppose."

The boat, train came steaming towards him, and he stood to watch it pass. People were settling themselves there, reading books and papers, or looking with tired and apathetic faces at nothing in particular.

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