‘Pebble Cove,’ the lobsterman had said. Could that be the beach where poor Gully was, with the red bucket?
Gloria dropped a double handful of silver into the sink.
‘Pity people don’t eat with their fingers any more,’ she said.
‘But it was so elegant.’ Rose had an idea to try out. ‘One lady said, “I can’t wait to come here again.” She lives the other side of Pebble Cove. Ever heard of that place?’
‘Of course. Where the big caravan site is, up on the cliff.’
Rose let out her breath.
Got it. I’ve got it.
The image of the collapsed donkey was almost gone.
‘Hang on,’ Rose whispered to him silently before he disappeared. ‘I’m coming to you. I don’t know how, but I’m coming.’
‘Stop dreaming, Rose, and get on with those pans,’ Hilda said bossily. She was very full of herself, because old Mrs Yardley had sent for her specially, to compliment her on the trifle.
Chapter Twelve
Rose knew she could not get down to Pebble Cove from inland, because of the fenced-in caravan park. The only hope was to go by sea. Jean and her father had got there easily in their big boat. Rose would have to go in Ben’s small whaler, and risk her luck.
She could not tell anyone. Even if Ben were here, she could not ask him if she could use the boat. She had got to do it all alone, and no one must ever know.
Now she knew the way she had felt compelled to look for the old harbour under the marsh. It was because Favour wanted Ben to teach her how to run the boat, in preparation for this.
She could not leave now, because there were too many people about at the hotel, and there would be others on the beach. Someone would see her. It was too late to start anyway. It would be dark before she got to Pebble Cove.
She fretted her way through the evening – lunch party leftovers for the hotel guests’ supper – and went to bed early so as to try for a few hours’ sleep.
She thought she would lie wide awake, with such a massive enterprise before her, but when the alarm rang at first light she punched it into silence quickly, and realized she had been very deeply asleep.
The sun was not yet up, and it was cold. Rose put on two sweaters and her anorak, and went stealthily out of the hotel and into the garage to collect the oars and rowlocks, and take the key of the engine down from its nail. She also carried in a bag a bottle of water, a tin of Coca-Cola, apples and a small jar of peanuts left over from the party.
Rowing the dinghy was not as easy as it had been before, because the sea was not so calm. Whoever invented rowing should have arranged it so that you could row facing forwards. It was hard to keep the tubby little boat straight when she had to keep looking over her shoulder to make sure she was heading for the buoy where Ben’s whaler rode at anchor.
In the half light, she could just make out its blue and white paint and metal handrails on the far side of the other boats, so she rowed outside them, rather than risk trying to navigate between the boats and their mooring lines.
She reached the whaler and put out a hand to hold on to its side. Although she was out of breath from rowing, and tense with nervous excitement, she made herself think calmly back to how she and Ben had gone about it.
First things first. Tie the dinghy’s painter to a cleat on the stern of the whaler. Unship the oars. Get into the larger boat. Whoops – she almost left one leg behind when the dinghy moved away. Pull up the mooring rope, pass it through the fairlead and wind it round two cleats and haul the buoy on board.
What next? Tie the dinghy to the buoy. Untie the whaler? ‘And drift out to sea without any engine power?’ Ben’s imaginary voice brought her back to order. Suppose the engine key had fallen out of her pocket when her legs were stretched between the two boats?
When her hand closed on the key, it felt like a friend. She turned it in the ignition to check the petrol gauge. Half full. She remembered to see that the throttle lever was in neutral, and turned the key farther round to start the engine.
Nothing happened. The starter made that sickening, hopeless noise of a car with no intention of getting going on an ice-cold morning.
She tried again several times. How often could the starter operate without running down the battery? Rose’s hands were shaking, partly from cold, partly from fear. Was a donkey going to die, and perhaps an old man as well, because an engine would not start?
If only Ben could have been here with her. The engine had started immediately for him. What else had he done? She saw in her mind his left hand going forward to a black knob that even had written on it the word ‘choke’. Stupid Rose. It’s handed to you on a plate and you can’t see it.
She pulled out the choke, turned the ignition key again, and the engine settled down to a quieter throb.
Now, unhitch the dinghy rope and fasten it to the ring on the buoy. Release the whaler’s rope from its cleats and throw the buoy overboard.
Perfect, Rose. You did it. The boat began to drift away backwards. When it was clear of the dinghy and mooring, she put her hand on the throttle lever at the side of the control panel. She had been afraid all along of what she was doing. Now she was suddenly gripped by real panic.
What on earth am I doing?
Shut up. Don’t think about that. Had Alan stopped to wonder what he was doing when he backed the Lord’s charger Favour out of the horse lines at the castle and leaped on him to gallop down the valley to save the people? He was no more than Rose’s age, but if he had wavered, the Lord or his soldiers would have stopped him. He had plunged ahead, trampling the Lord underfoot, and clattered out under the arch before the guard could shut the gate.
Be like Alan, Rose. Don’t think about it, just do it. Her hand moved the throttle lever gently forward. The gear engaged and the boat stopped going backwards and began to move out to sea.
Here I come, Alan. When she was clear of the other boats, she pushed the lever farther forward and headed out towards the end of Sandy Neck. Here I come, Gully.
When she had come this way with Ben, it had been low tide and a fairly calm sea. There was much more wind now. It blew in her face as she ran parallel to the long, curving beach, and she had to increase the throttle to keep up her speed.
She knew that she had to go far enough out beyond the headland to clear the rocks, but how far was far enough? The tide was higher than it had been with Ben, and she could not see the rocks now, only the swirling, troubled water above them.
Rose looked back. The land seemed miles away. She could only just see Wood Briar hotel, waiting darkly for some early riser to turn on a light.
Beyond the headland, the sea was rougher. Better turn soon. Rose looked at the distant shore to her left and tried to make out the three dead trees and the water tower which were Ben’s landmarks. There was still not enough light to see any details, but she had better start turning anyway before she got too far out.
‘Put a port wheel on, Rose.’ As she turned the steering wheel, the boat slowed, and she had to give it more throttle. It seemed to be going through the rough water quite fast, but each time she looked sideways at the headland, she saw that she was not getting any farther beyond it. The wind blew strongly from her right. Was it her imagination, or was she being blown closer to the rocks?
She turned the wheel to head farther out, but the tide must be rising, because the boat did not respond properly. Rose kept its bow turned away from the land, fighting to batter her way out against the wind and the strong tide in a churning sea where the waves seemed to be hitting her from every direction, and her hair and clothes were soaked with flung spray.
Out on the horizon, the grey sky showed a blue-green line, and as the sickly pre-dawn light crept across the hostile ocean, a sudden ghastly vision of the Lord of the Moor rose up from the waves like a misty sea wraith, pointing her back towards the rocks with a long pale finger that dissolved at the tip as the whole apparition floated away on a howl of wind.
Clutching the
steering wheel tightly, hanging on to the only thing that could save her, Rose fought for her life against the forces that tried to drive her back. She was now in the middle of a sharp, sinister tide race. The waves were shorter and higher, topped with foam. They slapped against the boat, and the flat-bottomed whaler rose high each time and came down with a bang that jarred Rose from the soles of her feet to the top of her skull. Sometimes it jumped and banged and twisted at the same time. Rose was thrown off balance. She slid off the seat and skidded towards the dipping rail, and up from the sea came dripping, bone-white hands, clutching for her to drag her down. When she had lost her grip on the wheel, the tilting boat had swung to port. Waves washed over the side rail. It would turn over, and Rose would slide into the grasping, bottomless hell of the sea.
Evil, mocking voices rushed at her on a gust of wind and passed on, skittering like flat pebbles over the angry sea. After them came another voice, as a huge dark grey seagull swooped close to her head, then soared with its beak wide open to cry down at her, ‘Ro-o-ose!’
She threw herself upwards and sideways and was able to grab the metal edge of the windscreen with one hand, and hang on. Slowly, she pulled herself back until she was lying across the seat and could reach the wheel and turn it. She held it down to starboard and managed to pull herself upright. The boat lurched, and shuddered against the pull of the current. But it was making headway. Glancing back, Rose knew that the rocks were farther behind. The wind was still against her, but she was out of the sharp attack of the tide.
When she was able to turn the boat to port at last, the waves were long, slower rolls that were easy to steer into at an angle, as Ben had shown her. Ahead, the pale dawn colours had deepened through all the shades of pink. The promise of day spread across the water and glowed along the undersides of the clouds that gathered to welcome it, and as the rim of the great sun bulged the horizon, Rose saw in front of the boat Favour’s noble head break through the crest of a wave.
For a moment, the rapidly rising sun outlined his crescent ears with gold. Then he was gone, and beyond where he had been the three dead trees showed up on the edge of the coast, the middle one in line with the distant dim shape of the water tower.
Safely round the treacherous headland, but still a long way to go. Rose could not even see the bluff she had to reach. Exhausted by the battle with the wind and tide, she could only slump on the seat and steer the boat as fast as she dared without letting it be hit head on by a large wave, or roll sideways in its trough.
Before long, she saw that she was offshore from the marsh and the rocks where Ben had seen the old iron ring. The same dark grey seagull – was it the same? – flew out from the feeding ground and circled her boat, with a gentler, mournful cry. This was the place where the body of Favour must have been swept out to sea by the rampaging flood waters, and Rose was shaken with emotion for the whole heroic tragedy of the legend of the Great Grey Horse.
But it wasn’t a tragedy, because although he had died, he had not really been killed. His spirit was alive, and it was with her now because she was his messenger.
The grey gull glided sideways above the boat. Two waves criss-crossed each other, and where they met they broke in a spread of lacy foam, like Favour’s mane fanned out on the moving sea. He was with her, and Rose picked up strength from the energy of his purpose.
With the gull sometimes leading, sometimes following, she increased the speed, and was soon able to make out the dark shape of the bluff. She fixed her eyes on the growing hump of land. It rose quite steeply from the sea, and if Rose was right, the cliff under the camp site was somewhere just beyond, with Pebble Cove below.
Rounding the bluff, she saw the long high cliff, broken up by rockfalls, with several small beaches between the outcroppings of rock. Stunted pine trees crowded at the top of the cliff. She could see their umbrella shapes, blown flat by the wind and twisted backwards. Any one of those narrow beaches might be Pebble Cove. Rose pushed back her soaked, salty hair, and squinted through the spattered windscreen. A darker patch among the tangle of trees was the high, solid fence of the camp site.
Opposite that beach, Rose turned the boat and ran it towards the shore.
‘Ga! Ga!’ the gull cried raucously. ‘Ga, Ga—’ and a throaty squawk that sounded like ‘Gully!’, before its wide wings carried it away over the land.
‘Hang on, Gully, I’m coming!’
The wind was at Rose’s back. The waves seemed to sweep her towards the beach, as if the boat was riding to the rescue on the back of the grey horse.
As she came closer, she saw the rock where Joanne had pretended to be a mermaid, saw the patch of sand where her family had sat and grumbled, saw the steps climbing the cliff, and the red bucket. And she saw, just as she had seen it in the scullery window, the dark, humped shape of the donkey lying among the rocks.
‘Take it easy,’ Ben had said, when they were looking for the old harbour at the side of the marsh. ‘Dad will have a fit if we scrape the propeller.’
Rose put the throttle into reverse to stop the boat, left the wheel and moved to the stern to throw out the anchor. It hit bottom very soon. She made the rope fast, hopped over the side and found that she could stand, in water up to her chest. She pulled out the bag and, holding it high, waded to shore and ran over the pebbles to where Gully lay by a rock, behind which he had probably tried to shelter from the wind.
He was so still that Rose thought he might have died, and was only kept by the rocks from falling on his side. She was afraid to touch him. When she made herself put out a hand to his lowered neck, she expected to find it stiff and rigid. He did not move, but he half opened his eyes, dull and bleary, the white fur circles round them yellowed and sticky.
‘Oh, Gully.’ Rose fell on her knees with a sob. She lifted his heavy head with one hand and managed to get the neck of the water bottle between his gums behind the long front teeth. When she poured in a small amount, it trickled out. She tried again. This time he held it in his mouth, until at last his thick throat convulsed in a swallow.
She gave him some more. Then she sat beside his head and tried him with a handful of peanuts. He blew down his nose at them, and then he moved his muzzle against her hand and mumbled at the peanuts with his loose old donkey lips. He was able to take a few into his mouth, and even chew them feebly, although some of them dribbled out on to the sand.
Rose gave him another swig of water, and then they both rested for a moment, Gully with his nose leaning on the palm of her hand, Rose propped against a rock. Her eyes closed when the donkey’s did. She was exhausted from her long ordeal and from the incredible relief of finding him alive.
‘Here, this won’t do.’ She opened her eyes and woke Gully. ‘Try an apple.’ But he could only nose at it. He did not have the strength to open his teeth and take it, so Rose put it in a hollow in a rock near him, and ate an apple herself. She was starving, now that she thought of it. She ate another apple and opened the can of Coke.
‘Let’s share it, Gull.’
She got up to fetch the red bucket, and poured half the Coke into it and drank the rest herself. When she held the bucket up to the donkey’s muzzle, he stirred the Coke with his top lip, then sucked at it.
He was lying like a dog, with his back legs under him and his short front legs bent sideways. The top one felt all right when Rose ran her hand down it. Very carefully, she felt the one that had seemed to be broken. It was a bit puffy, but as far as she could tell it was not broken, and there was no open wound. Perhaps he had only bruised it.
Thank God. ‘I think you’re going to be all right, Gully,’ she dared to say. ‘Now we’ve got to get you going.’
She had hardly thought about how he could be got off the beach. She could not put him in the whaler, but someone might be able to lift him into a bigger boat, like the lobster fisherman’s. Or could two men carry him up the cliff steps between them? He wasn’t a very big donkey. Could they rig up some sort of hoist to haul him up the cliff?
The first thing was to get help, in some anonymous way that would not identify her with the donkey’s discovery, since no one must guess who had found him. It could take her ages to get back to Wood Briar and telephone, and with the added time it took for rescuers to get to Pebble Cove, a few swallows of Coke and water and a handful of peanuts would not be enough to keep Gully going.
There might be a telephone at the camp site above her. She poured the rest of the Coca-Cola messily into Gully’s mouth, gave him some more peanuts, and climbed up the steps.
The gate at the top of the cliff was much lower than the fence. Rose climbed it easily, and found herself in a large enclosed space of grass, with picnic tables and swings and a central building that had a sign: ‘Bellevue Camping’, and telephone and electricity cables running to it from the road. The building was locked, but this was a desperate crisis. Rose broke a window with a stone and got her hand in round the shards of glass to turn the catch and open it, so that she could climb in. The phone in the office was dead, but there was a public telephone in the passage outside. Even a ragged phone book.
There was his name. Reade, A. J. Riverside Lane, W. Newcome. Rose dialled the operator. Just before someone answered, she remembered that she must disguise her voice.
‘I – er, say, listen, I haven’t got any money.’ She copied Abigail’s American accent. ‘This is a collect call.’
‘What number are you calling?’
Rose gave Arthur’s number from the phone book. After a short wait which seemed like an eternity, the operator came back on the line to ask, ‘May I have your name?’
‘Just tell them it’s about the donkey. They’ll talk to me.’
Another maddening wait. Then the operator: ‘Go ahead, caller.’
‘Hullo.’ Rose’s voice cracked.
‘Hullo? Who is it?’ Judy’s voice, breathless.
‘I’ve found your donkey.’ Rose added a lower pitch to the accent. Judy must not guess who she was. ‘He’s on a beach below the Bellevue camp site, on the road at the top of the cliff, about four miles east of Newcome Hollow.’
Cry of a Seagull Page 12