More Sport for our Neighbours

by Ronald McGowan

  Face to face, the Reverend Hawkins proved to be rather more conversible. I introduced myself, and he remarked upon my sitting with Captain Wickham, of the Garrison, the previous Sunday.

  “I trust my sermon upon Saint Polycarp was to your liking, sir,” he enquired. “I marked the close attention, almost verging upon enthusiasm, with which you observed it, but I fear I am not at my best in public speaking.”

  “I assure you, sir, that it proved most enlightening. It told me far more about Saint Polycarp than I had ever been aware of.”

  “It rejoices me to hear you, sir. An undeservedly neglected martyr, in the modern age. And yet, we all hear of martyrs thrown to the lions, do we not?”

  I had never heard a word of the gentleman in any sermon in my life before, but the ability to make the truth go a long way, and to look rapt in contemplation while being quite elsewhere in one’s mind, is one that any husband must learn very quickly, if he places any value at all upon a quiet life.

  A few words served to exhaust the subject, however, and enabled me to introduce the reason for seeking him out.

  “Mrs Wickham is my daughter, sir, and I am at present visiting her with my wife and two youngest daughters…”

  “Permit me to wish you joy of your new grandchild, sir…”

  “That is very good of you, sir, although perhaps not the word I should have used, but I am also travelling for the sake of my health, and while I am here thought, perhaps, I should take the waters at Sunderland Spa, which my son Wickham recommended to me. I have been unable to find anyone who will admit to knowing its whereabouts, however, nor obtain any directions as to its location, and am come to you in the hope of enlightenment more topographical than spiritual.”

  “I recollect well, sir, that it used to attract a goodly number of visitors during the bathing season, including the Countess of Darlington, who was wont to stay in the town to enjoy the salubrious sea-borne breezes and take the healing chalybeate waters. But we have not had the pleasure of such august company of late, and I believe I remember hearing of the spa being overwhelmed in the storms of last winter. As a bathing place, however, Sunderland, in the summer season, is still a place of great resort. Numbers from the interior of the country embrace the opportunity of enjoying the benefit of sea-bathing. Lodgings are not dear, and easily obtained. The spa may no longer function, but the sea is always with us, and at Hendon there are the most excellent hot baths, and a number of machines for sea-bathing.”

  “I regret to say, however, that I have never visited the place. That is the way with we residents, you know. Since we may visit the local places of note at any time we wish, we never actually do so, and find ourselves outdone in our knowledge of them by visitors who give themselves the trouble of studying the subject. I have a general idea of where to find it, but none at all of whether there remains anything at all there worth the finding. But permit me to consult my churchwarden, who has lived here far longer than I.”

  He retreated into the vestry, and emerged with an ancient person, as tall and emaciated as he was short and spherical.

  “Mr Barkiss,” he addressed this individual, “you know everything that goes on in these parts. Tell me, am I right in my recollection that Sunderland Spa was washed away in the Great Storm, last winter?”

  The churchwarden raised his eyes to heaven, in imitation of the figure on the cross behind him.

  “Last winter warn’t the Great Storm,” he replied. “Last winter was the Great Frost.”

  “Are you sure?” enquired the clergyman. “I thought the Great Storm was last winter. How quickly the time goes by. Was it the year before, then?”

  “It warn’t that neither. T’yor afore that was the Great Snow. And, anyroad, it was the Great Flood that drowned the Spa, t’yor afore that.”

  “Was it? Was it, indeed? Well, well, do you know whether it has reopened since then?”

  “Aah dinnaa. Aah’ve nivor been doon there, mesel. Nivor had any call tae. Leastways, the archway’s still there, ower the back there.”

  “Ah, thank you. Well, Mr Bennet, as you may have gathered, there is some doubt as to whether the Spa is still in operation, but it should only take a moment to find out. If you leave the church and walk round to its east end, you will see a street directly opposite the apse. At the far end of that street you will find an archway, with steps going down. Those steps will lead you to the spa, or what is left of it. It is but a few moment’s walk, and I wish you joy of it, sir.”

  “I assure you, sir,” I replied, “if you have gathered anything at all from the conversation which I have just witnessed – in complete mystification, I may add – then you have done better than I. But I thank you for your assistance, and will gladly follow your directions.”

  So saying, I left them to their dispute about whether it was the Great Storm, the Great Flood, the Great Fire, or, for all I know, the Great Plague that had caused so much damage to the town. The argument –if, indeed, it may be called an argument when all the dogmatic statements were made by the servant, and only the tentative suggestions by the master – was still thriving when I closed the door behind me.

  The vicar’s directions were easy enough to follow, and I soon found the archway to which he referred. It was evidently a brick-built construction of the sort often referred to as a folly, when found in the garden of some gentleman with more money than sense. The side facing the town had been faced with limestone, and on the vault above the entrance was engraved –

  “SUNDERLAND SPAW

  O fons Fissae Terrae, splendidior vitro.”

  O fountain of the sundered land, clearer than glass, indeed! The reference did not escape me, although I had my misgivings about the substitution of the double spondee for the dactyl of ‘Bandusiae’. Together with - the what in all kindness can only be called eccentric - spelling of the word ‘Spa’, this inspired some confidence in the proprietor’s ambitions, but rather less in his execution. There were the stone steps underneath it, as advertised, leading round a corner to descend in the direction of the shore.

  I stepped through the arch, marveling at how solid and firmly-set the steps were, and turned the corner.

  A scene of destruction and desolation met my eyes, with great blocks of stone and piles of shattered brickwork strewn over the sands below. Great gouges had been scooped out of the cliffs, and of the stairway, so solid and monumental at the top, defying, one would have thought, the efforts of giants to destroy it, there was not a sign, nor was there of any other buildings which may have been there. A trickle of water, oozing from the base of the cliff and meandering to the sea, was all that was left of the chalybeate spring that had once raised the ambitions of this far north-eastern town to rival Brighton or Weymouth.

  Such is the power of the elements, and of the wind and waves in particular. Having lived my entire life inland, I had had no conception of the power of the sea, particularly when combined with a storm. ‘Loud roared the dreadful thunder’ had been no more than the first line of a song in my mind, but the sailors’ dread of the ‘Bay of Biscay, oh’ was now clearer in my mind than ever before. The Horatian reference up above seemed more apt than ever. No doubt whoever had had the inscription chiseled into the archway had thought to himself ‘exegi monumentum aere perennius’, but it was another Latin tag that sprang to mind at the time.

  “Vanitas vanitatum, omnia vanitas,” I murmured as I took in the scene, and had forcibly to prevent myself from adding “Sic transit Gloria mundi.”

  There would be no taking of the waters this morning, nor would there be any gaining the seashore by this route for any creature less agile than a mountain goat. I must either abandon my walk, and return to the barracks to drown myself in baby talk rather than in earnest, or find another route for my excursion.

  The weather continued so gloriously fine that I found myself reluctant to return. I had set out to indulge in the pleasures of a watering place. To do so internally was now impossible, but did not all coastal resorts also
make much of the restorative powers of seawater?

  I recollected what Parson Hawkins had told me, about the bathing machines at Hendon, and directed my feet southwards. I soon found a path which meandered along the cliff edge – if, indeed, it could be called a cliff, declining, as it very soon did, into a gentle slope, leading down to a sandy beach, where two bathing machines could be seen at the edge of the waves.

  Of any other sign of life there was none, other than a hut at the base of the slope, which I took to serve as a refuge for the bathing machine attendants. Much is said about the benefits of sea bathing to the constitution, but my experience at Buxton had not rendered me fond of immersion in cold water, so that when a barefooted person of a certain age emerged from the hut with his “Bathing machine, Sir?” I was able to decline without hesitation. By now, however, I was beginning to feel the effect of my morning’s exertions, and enquired if there was any place nearby at which I could obtain refreshments.

  It took me some little time to make my meaning clear, but, when eventually I did so, I was disappointed to learn that no such place existed. So much for Sunderland as ‘a great resort for visitors’! It was obvious that the vanished Spa was greatly missed.

  “But we’re just putting the kettle on worsells,” my interlocutor continued, “an’ you’re welcome to join us in a dish of tay.”

  It would have caused great offence to decline, and in any case I was definitely thirsty, so, after some slight internal debate, I accepted gratefully.

  He had observed my hesitation, I fear, for he continued –

  “Dinna fret about the watter, man. It’s fresh from the Bodlewell this morning. Sit yersel doon in the sun, there, and tak yer ease.”

  So I did, sitting on the sand with my back to the hut, indulging in the feel of the sunshine and the light breeze upon my face, listening to the gentle lapping of the waves upon the sand and marveling at the sunshine upon the sparkling water. The combination was potent indeed, and within minutes I was asleep.

  I awoke feeling perfectly refreshed. I know not how long I had been insensible, but it was long enough for Mr Bathing Attendant to have built a fire of driftwood and boiled a kettle upon it, and for us to be joined by Mrs Bathing Attendant, with a basket with crockery and the ubiquitous stotty cake.

  She had obviously run home for the crocks, for the tea was poured into proper teacups from a teapot adorned with a picture which I recognized as the great iron bridge we had crossed on our way.

  My recognizing this local landmark was obviously pleasing to my hosts, but my protests that they had been to far too much trouble, and my offers to pay for my refreshment were met with determined resistance.

  “It’s nae trouble at all, man. We always hev a bit o’ bait around this time, dinnot we, hinny?”

  His spouse assented with a mute nod, while extending the plate of buttered stotty cake.

  “Besides, it helps to pass the time. There’s naebody comes for the bathing these days. Trade just gets worse all the time. I doubt it will ivvor be the same.”

  This inevitably led to a disquisition on the state of trade and lack of visitors.

  “What with the spa gone and these French privateers cruising up and down, folks are frightened to come here these days. I think if the war finished things might look up, but those of us who are old enough remember the American War, and that villain Paul Jones, and the damage he did with his bombardments, and it’s nae wonder folks fret about summat like that.”

  We were interrupted at this juncture by the incoming tide, which necessitated the heaving of the two bathing machines further up the beach, to prevent their complete inundation. I believe that in the smarter resorts, this task is performed by horses, but there were no such amenities here, and everything had to be done by human hand.

  In the circumstances, I felt obliged to offer my assistance, which was how, in a few minutes, I found myself barefoot in the shallows, doing my best not to impede my companions with my inexpert efforts. The water – or at least the inch or two which I experienced – I found surprisingly warm, and most refreshing to the feet. I was assured, however, that further out it was much colder.

  The task was soon done, and consulting my watch confirmed that it was time to return to the bosoms of my family. I thanked my hosts for their entertainment and set off, feeling strangely refreshed.

  Returning the same way I had come, I was struck by how much better I felt both in myself and in my mind. It is remarkable how no more than a break from constant female company can set a man up, especially when those females are broody. The sunshine and fresh air, and the thinking about nothing much in particular, and that nothing much completely divorced from babies, had left me relaxed and fit to face the future.

  Or perhaps there is something in what they say about sea bathing?

  Chapter Twemty-four : News from the South

  The next day foreshadowed a change in our fortunes. A letter was brought in to Wickham at breakfast, and, begging our leave, he opened it immediately.

  His face was unreadable while he perused it, although his eyes widened somewhat.

  “This is a report from the mayor of Hartlepool,” he said. “If I am to credit what he says, the fishermen there have apprehended a French Spy.”

  “What I find rather more believable,” he continued, “is that having made their capture, they are, according to the mayor, refusing to hand their prisoner over to the constable, and declaring that they will hang him themselves, sooner than trust him to the courts, of which they have a deep-rooted suspicion. Factions within the town are arguing over possession of this trophy, with the landsmen set against the mariners, and his worship fears disturbance of the peace, or even rioting. He asks me, as officer commanding the nearest regular army unit, to dispatch a force ‘in aid of the civil power’ to prevent such an event.”

  “How very grand and portentous that sounds,” I remarked. “And shall you detach such a force from your great host here?”

  “Who would I send?” he replied. “Officially I have a company of light infantry under my command, but in reality I have only forty men instead of the hundred a full company should muster. If a riot is really to be anticipated, every man I have would not be too many, and yet I cannot leave the fort here ungarrisoned. And neither of my officers have anything like the experience to deal with such a situation. Yet I am in command, and mine is the responsibility. If anyone is to go, I shall have to go myself. Excuse me, I must go send a galloper to Colonel Lambton with a request for instructions. He can certainly spare more men than I can, and we may only hope that he deals with it himself. Otherwise, there is time for a messenger to return today with any orders. In any event we should not be setting off before tomorrow.”

  The ladies, meanwhile, had been carefully ignoring the news. Mrs Bennet is certainly never capable of rational thought before breakfast. I love her dearly, but I must admit that she is rarely capable of such an onerous task at any time of the day, but unquestionably, until she has had her pound cake and tea, she may, for all practical purposes, be reckoned comatose. Mary had long since given up attempting to distract her elders from his Majesty the Baby, and had her nose buried in a book, while Kitty and Lydia were assiduously paying court to said majesty, and were oblivious meanwhile to everything else.

  At Wickham’s rising, Lydia rose and clung to him, however, for he had not been wont to leave for his duties without joining in the ceremony of la Levée du Bébé Soleil.

  “Where are you going, in such a hurry, Wickham, dear? Will you not bid your son a proper goodbye?”

  “I will return as soon as may be, my sweet, but just now I must attend to this business of the French Spy they have caught.

  “A French Spy?” she repeated, with a little shriek of delicious horror. “ Don’t be silly. How can there be a French spy here?”

  Without waiting for his answer, she returned to her offspring, who, indeed, was encouraging her to do so by pulling lustily on her ringlets.

  “
A French spy!” she crooned. “We won’t have a French spy here, will we my pet? We don’t want any nasty Frenchman coming here to eat poor baby, do we? Do we? No, we don’t. No, we don’t. Mam shan’t let him, though. Mama shan’t let any nasty baby-eating Frenchman come to get her darling, will she? No, she won’t. No, she won’t.”

  I confess I found all this sentiment far more indigestible than any baby. It had, not for the first time, quite taken away my appetite, and I resolved to take a turn around the yard in an effort to restore it.

  Wickham joined me there after a few moments.

  “I have not forgotten, sir,” he said, “that I promised to show you St. Peter’s Church. I have now given all the necessary instructions, and am at your disposal. I fear that I shall have to return by mid-day in case orders for me may have arrived from Newcastle, but until then, my time is yours. If you do find anything there that merits your further study –which, I regret to say, I think unlikely, for it is a mere old hovel of a place, not at all like our notion of a great church and the source of so much learning – you are at liberty to stay as long as you wish. You demonstrated yesterday that you are perfectly capable of finding your own way about this town, or else I should scruple to desert you thus, but I have complete confidence in your power to be able to retrace your steps.”

  I was not at all certain that the presence of Wickham while I studied such a venerable site would be an advantage.

  “Are you sure that you may spare the time?” I asked. “I would not have you neglect your duties for my sake.”

  “To tell the truth, the fort practically runs itself just now, unless there are problems with the building workers, and they are almost finished now. It would be different with a full battalion here, but with a mere half-company, and that with efficient and trustworthy sergeants, a half-way competent lieutenant could manage perfectly well. Pickersgill is much more than halfway competent, and young Washington is mustard keen, and not quite as foolish as he seems. All that really needs to be done – if ‘need’ be le mot juste – is to pretend to read the mountain of papers at present on my desk, and initial every page. If I am to go to Hartlepool on this fool’s errand – for I do not credit this French Spy at all – then Pickersgill may as well excavate the mountain as I. I would give Washington the task, to keep him out of mischief, but he does not actually hold the king’s commission as yet, which might be a problem if any of the pen-pushers at the Horse Guards wished to cause trouble.”