The Shivering Sands

by Victoria Holt

  “They come inland when it’s stormy,” Edith remarked. “So perhaps their absence means it’ll be a lovely day.”

  I said that I had never before seen such a magnificent display of gorse to which Edith asked if I knew the old saying that when the gorse was out that meant it was kissing time.

  She smiled rather charmingly and went on: “It’s a joke, Mrs. Verlaine. It’s because the gorse blooms all the year round somewhere in England.”

  She had become animated and clearly enjoyed introducing me to the country. I realized more than ever that I was a town woman. The parks of London, the Tuileries and the Bois de Boulogne had been my countryside. But this was different and I was reveling in it.

  She brought the trap to a standstill and told me that if I looked round I should see the battlements of Walmer Castle. “There were three castles,” she told me, “all within a few miles of each other, but only two of them remain. Sandown is a ruin. It was the encroaching sea which has taken it. But Deal and Walmer Castles are in perfect condition. If you could look down on them you would see that they are built in the shape of Tudor roses. They’re only small castles ... fortifications really to protect the coast and shipping in the Downs which is the four miles between the coast and the Goodwins.”

  I looked at the grey stone battlements of the castle—the home of the Warden of the Cinque Ports—and then back to the sea.

  “You’re looking for the wrecks on the Goodwins,” said Edith. “You should be able to see them today. Ah yes...” She pointed, and I saw them—those pathetic masts no more than sticks at this distance.

  “They call the sands the Ships Swallower,” said Edith and she shivered. “I saw them once. My ... my husband took me out to see them. He thought I ought to ... to overcome my fear of things.” She added half apologetically: “He’s right, of course.”

  “So you’ve actually been out there!”

  “Yes, he ... he said it was safe enough ... at the right time.”

  “What was it like?”

  She half closed her eyes. “Desolate,” she said. She went on hurriedly: “At high water the whole of the sands are covered with the sea ... even the highest point when submerged is eight feet or so under the water. You simply would not know they were there. That is why they are so dangerous. Imagine in the past the sailors not suspecting that only eight feet under water were those terrible sands waiting to swallow them.”

  “And when you saw them?” I prompted.

  “It was at low water,” she said, and I sensed that she did not want to talk of this but could not stop herself. “That would be the only time to see them, wouldn’t it, because if they were covered you wouldn’t see anything, you’d only know they were there. It would have been more horrible, don’t you think, Mrs. Verlaine. Things you can’t see are more frightening than things you can.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, “that’s true.”

  “But ... it was low water and I saw the sands ... lovely looking clean golden sand, all rippled. There were deep holes and these were filled with water; and the sand moves as you watch and forms itself into strange shapes, like monsters some of them ... with claws ... waiting to catch anyone who wandered there and pull them down. There were gulls circling overhead. Their cries were so mournful, Mrs. Verlaine. Oh, it was frightening, so lonely, so desolate. They say the sands are haunted. I’ve talked to one of the men from the North Goodwins Lightship and he says that when he’s on watch he sometimes hears wild heart-rending cries from the sands. They used to say it was the gulls, but he wasn’t so sure. Terrible things have happened there, so it seems likely...”

  “I suppose at a place like that one would have the oddest fancies.”

  “Yes, but there is something so cruel about the sands. My husband told me about them. He said the more you try to extricate yourself the deeper you go. Long long ago there was no lightship. Now it’s there, and they say that the Goodwins’ lightship is the greatest benefit to sailors ever set on the seas. If you could see those sands, Mrs. Verlaine, you would believe that.”

  “I believe it now.”

  She pulled gently on the reins and the horse trotted on. I was thinking of Napier taking her out to see the Goodwins. I imagined her reluctance. He would laugh at her cowardice, and tell himself that he must teach her to be brave when all the time it was to satisfy some sadistic desire to hurt her.

  She changed the subject and told me how when she was very young her father used to bring her to Lovat Stacy. In those days, it seemed, it had been a kind of El Dorado.

  “Everything at Lovat Stacy seemed exciting,” she told me. Of course Beau was alive then.”

  “You remember him well?”

  “Oh yes, you’d never forget Beau. He was like a knight ... a knight in shining armor. There was a picture of one in a book I had and he really looked just like Beau. I was only about four years old and he used to put me on a pony and hold me there.” Her face hardened a little ... “So that I shouldn’t be afraid. Sometimes he put me on his horse and held me. ‘Nothing to be afraid of Edith,’ he used to say. ‘Not while I’m here.’ ”

  Poor Edith, she could not have said more clearly that she was comparing the two brothers.

  “So ... you were fond of Beau,” I pursued relentlessly.

  “Everybody was. He was so charming ... never cross.” Again her face puckered. So Napier was often cross, impatient with her simplicity and inexperience.

  “Beau was always laughing,” she went on. “He laughed at everything. He seemed about ten feet tall and I was so little. Then suddenly I didn’t visit Lovat Stacy and I was very miserable. After that, when I did come here it was all changed.”

  “But when you used to come here your husband was here too.”

  “Oh yes, he was here. But he never took any notice of me. I don’t remember him very much. Then a long time after—it seemed a very long time after—my father brought me back and neither of them were here. It was all different. But Alice and Allegra were here and there were the three of us—although they seemed so much younger.”

  “At least you had someone to play with.”

  “Yes.” She looked dubious. “I think my Papa was worried about me. He knew that he wouldn’t live long because he had consumption, so he arranged with Sir William that he should be my guardian and I came to Lovat Stacy when he died.”

  Poor Edith, who had had no hand in forming her own life!

  “Well now that you are mistress of the house that must make you very proud.”

  “I always loved the house,” she agreed.

  “You should be happy now everything Is settled.”

  A trite and foolish remark, because clearly she was not happy and everything was far from settled.

  We had come down to the sea, which was gently rising and falling on the shingle.

  “This is where Julius Caesar landed,” said Edith. And she pulled up the trap for a few moments so that I could savor this.

  “It didn’t look very much different then,” she went on. “It couldn’t, could it. Of course the castles weren’t there. I wonder what he thought when he first saw Britain.”

  “One thing we can be certain of—he wouldn’t have had much time for admiring the scenery.”

  Before us lay the town of Deal with its rows of houses almost down on the shingle, and lying on that shingle were many boats so close to the houses that their mizzen booms seemed as though they were running into them.

  Edith told me that the yellow “cats,” the smaller luggers, were used for fueling big ships which lay at anchor in the Downs.

  We drove past Deal Castle—circular in shape with its four bastions, its pierced portholes, its drawbridge, its battlemented gateway and thickly studded door—set deep down in its grassy moat and on into the town.

  It was a busy sight on that lovely spring morning. Several fishing boats had just come in and were selling their catch. One fisherman was bringing in the lobster pots—another was mending his nets. I caught a sight of Dover soles
and cat and dog fish, and the smell of fish and seaweed mingled in the salt sea air.

  Edith bad come to shop and she drove me away from the coast to an inn where she said she would leave the trap and perhaps I would cafe to explore the town a little while she visited the shops.

  Because I sensed that she wished to be alone I agreed to this and I spent a pleasant hour wending my way through a maze of narrow streets with enchanting names—Golden Street, Silver Street, Dolphin Street. I wandered along by the sea, as far as the ruins of Sandown Castle, that one which had not stood up to time and sea, and I sat for a while on a seat which had been put in a convenient spot where the crumbling rock made a natural alcove. From there I looked across that benign sea and my eyes sought the masts on those ship-swallowing sands—a reminder of how quickly change could come.

  When I returned to the inn where I was to meet Edith she was not there, so I sat outside on one of the wicker seats to wait for her. In my anxiety not to be late I had arrived ten minutes early, but it had been a pleasant morning and I felt very contented.

  Then I saw Edith. She was not alone. Jeremy Brown was with her, and I wondered whether they had met by appointment. The thought flashed into my mind that I may have been asked to accompany her to divert any suspicion that she was meeting the curate, if suspicion there was.

  I think they had been about to say goodbye to each other when Edith caught sight of me. There was no doubt that she was a little embarrassed.

  I rose and went over to them. “I’m a little early,” I said. “I was afraid of misjudging the distance.”

  Jeremy Brown explained with his frank and disarming smile: “The vicar is taking the girls for their lessons this morning. He feels he should now and then. I had one or two calls to make ... so here I am.”

  I wondered why he felt he had to explain to me.

  “We—ran into each other,” said Edith in the rather painful, breathless way of someone who is not accustomed to telling untruths.

  “That must have been very pleasant.” I noticed that she carried no packages, but perhaps whatever she had bought was already in the trap.

  “Mrs. Verlaine,” said Edith, “you should try our local cider. It’s very good.”

  She looked appealingly at the curate who said: “Yes, I’m thirsty too. Let’s all have a tankard.” He smiled at me. “It’s not very potent and I expect you’re thirsty, too.”

  I said that I should like to try the cider and as the sun was shining and we were sheltered from the breeze we decided that we would sit outside and drink it.

  As Jeremy Brown went into the inn Edith smiled at me almost apologetically, but I avoided her eyes. I did not want her to think that I was putting any special construction on her meeting with the curate. In fact, it was only her manner which suggested that there might be something to be suspicious about.

  The curate rejoined us and in a very short time three pewter tankards were brought out to us. I found it very pleasant sitting in the sun. I did most of the talking. I explained where I had been and how enchanting I found the town and I asked all sorts of questions about the boats which were lying on the shingle. The curate knew a great deal about local history, which is so often the case with people who are not natives. He talked of the smuggling that went on and how many of the boats were forty feet long and hollow; that they had enormous sails which helped them to escape the revenue ships and so bring in safely their contraband brandy, silks, and tobacco. Many of the old inns had secret underground cellars and in these the goods were stored until there was no longer danger from the excise men.

  Such activities were by no means rare along this coast.

  I found it all very stimulating, sitting there idly in the sunshine while Edith glowed with pleasure, chatting and laughing so that it seemed to me a new personality emerged.

  Why could she not always be like this? That very morning I discovered the answer, for as we sat lightheartedly chatting there was the sound of horses’ hoofs in the cobbled yard close by and a voice said: “I’ll be an hour or so.” A well-known voice which made Edith turn pale and my own heartbeats quicken.

  Edith had half risen in her seat when Napier came into sight.

  He saw us immediately.

  “Well,” he said, and his eyes were cold as they swept over Edith. “This is an unexpected pleasure.” Then he saw me: “And Mrs. Verlaine too...”

  I remained seated and said coolly: “Mrs. Stacy and I came together. We met Mr. Brown.” Then I wondered why I had felt I had to explain.

  “I hope I’m not intruding on a merry party.”

  I did not speak and Edith said in a flustered voice: “It’s—it’s not exactly a party. We just happened...”

  “Mrs. Verlaine has just told me. I hope you will not object to my joining you for a tankard of that cider.” He looked at me. “It is excellent, Mrs. Verlaine. But I am repeating what you already know, I am sure.” He signed to one of the waiters who were dressed like monks in long dark robes tied about the middle with cords, and said he would have some cider.

  As he sat down opposite me with Edith on one side and the curate on the other, I knew he was conscious of the embarrassment of those two, and I wondered whether he guessed at the cause of it.

  “I’m surprised to see you here," he said to the curate. “I always imagined you were so overworked. But sitting outside an urn sipping cider ... well, it’s quite a pleasant way of working, don’t you agree, Mrs. Verlaine?”

  “We all have to have our leisure moments and I imagine work all the better for them.”

  “Right ... as I’m sure always are. Still, I must confess that I’m pleased to see you all at leisure. What do you think of the neighborhood?”

  “Fascinating,” I said.

  “Mrs. Verlaine has been exploring as far as Sandown,” said the curate.

  “What ... alone?”

  The curate flushed; Edith cast down her eyes.

  “I had some shopping to do...”

  “But of course. And Mrs. Verlaine had no wish to visit our shops. Why should she? I believe you live in London, Mrs. Verlaine, therefore you will find our little shops scarcely worthy of your attention. With Edith it is different. She is constantly driving around to see...” he paused and smile from Edith to the curate ... “the shops. What have you been buying this morning?”

  Edith looked as though she was going to burst into tears.

  “I really couldn’t find what I wanted.”

  “Did you not?” he looked surprised and again his glance took in the curate.

  “N ... No. I wanted to match some ... some ribbon.”

  “Ah "he said. “I see.”

  I put in: “Colors are so difficult to match.”

  “In these little towns, of course,” he said. And I thought: He knows that she has come to meet Jeremy and he is angry about it. Or is he angry? Doesn’t he care? Does he just want to make them uncomfortable? And for myself, why is he harping on my coming from London? Why should he be angry with me?

  “Well, Mrs. Verlaine,” he said, “what do you think of our cider?”

  “It’s very good.”

  “Great praise.”

  He finished his and setting his tankard on the table, stood up. “I know you will excuse me if I hurry away. I have business. You didn’t ride in?”

  Edith shook her head. “We came in the trap.”

  “Ah yes, of course. You wanted to take all those purchases back with you. And you?” he had turned his contemptuous gaze on the curate.

  “I came in the vicarage trap.”

  He nodded. “Thoughtful of you. You were going to help with the purchases. Oh but of course, the meeting was accidental, wasn’t it?”

  For a few moments his eyes lingered on me.

  “Au revoir,” he said.

  And he left us.

  We sat silently at the table. There was nothing to say.

  Edith was very nervous during the drive back and once or twice I thought we were going into the ditch.


  What an explosive situation, I thought; and I felt very sorry for the young girl beside me—scarcely out of the schoolroom. How would she cope with the kind of disaster to which she could be heading? I wanted to protect her, but I could not see how.

  I sat in the vicarage drawing room, Allegra beside me, while I listened with some pain to her performance of scales.

  Allegra made no attempt to learn. At least Edith had a little talent, Sylvia was in fear of her parents and Alice was by nature painstaking. But Allegra possessed none of these incentives; and she was not going to bestir herself for anyone.

  She brought her hands down on the keys with an abandoned finale and turned to grin at me.

  “Are you going to report to Sir William that I’m quite hopeless and you refuse to go on with me?”

  “But I don’t consider you hopeless. Neither do I refuse to go on with you.”

  “I suppose you’re afraid there won’t be enough work for you here if you let one of your pupils go.”

  “That had not occurred to me.”

  “Then why did you say you didn’t consider me hopeless?”

  “Because no case is hopeless. Yours is a bad one admittedly—largely due to yourself—but not hopeless.”

  She regarded me with interest. “You’re not a bit like Miss Elgin,” she said.

  “And why should I be?”

  “You both teach music.”

  I shrugged my shoulders impatiently and picking up a piece of music set it on the stand. “Now!” I said.