Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  David thought: I’ll be ready for you when you come.

  He’d already said his last prayers and made his peace with God. Now he concentrated his mind on the small house in Germany, as it used to be, in the days when they had been so happy.

  He started from the time when Cecile was very small. He remembered her podgy little arms reaching out to touch his nose, he remembered the three of them in the park …

  A wave washed up to his chest and covered his head with spray. He was almost swept away, but managed to cling on.

  Was that the one God had intended for him?

  No. When he could hold on no more, that would be the one.

  He had got to Cecile’s school days when the wave finally came. It was larger than the rest. It washed right up into the bow with a thunderous roar and as it receded his hands were torn away from the boat and he was travelling with the water …

  Free at last. In a way.

  Then he made himself go limp and waited, suspended by the lifebuoy. Water filled his mouth and nose and he choked and spluttered and fought for breath. He was vaguely disappointed. He’d thought it would be easy, just a matter of closing your eyes and waiting.

  But finally the fight for breath became more difficult. He had no strength left. He felt himself ebbing away.

  For one brief moment the soft air touched his face, then a wave hissed over him and filled his mouth and he knew he wouldn’t struggle any more.

  The lifebuoy slipped up over his shoulders and he was floating downwards, drifting gently. In the last few moments panic gripped him, but he calmed himself by remembering that he was a lucky man: his troubles were finally over.

  Chapter 32

  JOE TRELEAVEN SNIFFED the air. Cold. Cold for March and cold for the islands. The low dormer window was opaque with condensation. Puffing a little, he pulled a heavy oiled sweater over his head and, leaning down, rubbed the wetness from the glass and peered through.

  It was almost sunrise. The dawn light was clear and hard as a diamond, the sky a yellow dome above the blackness of the sea. It would stay cold all day, Joe decided.

  Easterlies. He shook his head and stomped down the cottage stairs into the kitchen. Easterlies were the only winds which could bring this kind of cold to St Agnes. Perhaps there was something to be said for turning the fields over to vegetables after all. Before the war he’d grown nothing but flowers and flowers didn’t like too much sharpness in the air.

  Mind you, the bulbs kept coming up: you couldn’t stop them. And now that the transportation of flowers was forbidden there were fancy prices to be had on the black market, so he’d heard. Four pounds for a box of daffodils. By jove, that was enough to keep a man for a month.

  He riddled the stove, opened the vent and poured more coal into the top. He picked up the kettle and, opening the latch, went out into the yard. He paused, as he always did, and looked out towards the Western Rocks. The wind of the previous night had dropped away and the air was still. It might be a good fishing day. Perhaps he’d take the boat and go lining for scad. But then perhaps he wouldn’t; perhaps he’d go weed-gathering for pigfeed instead.

  He filled the kettle from the water barrel and, returning to the kitchen, put it on the stove. He made himself a breakfast of porridge and tea, then pulled on his jacket to go and feed the animals. As he approached, the pigs snorted in wild agitation. He gave them their usual mixture of vegetables and kelp, then threw the chickens a handful of grain.

  The sun was up now, illuminating the tall Tamarisk hedges a vibrant green. Beyond the fields, over the rugged shoreline, the far-away lines of jagged rocks were lit a dull pink-gold in a sea of palest yellow.

  There was a distant buzzing sound in the sky. Joe screwed up his eyes and spotted the glint of a plane far away above the needle-like Bishop, heading south.

  After it had gone he gazed a little longer, but more casually, eyeing the weather and getting the feel of the day. He decided he should really go weed-gathering rather than fishing, though he wouldn’t enjoy it half as much.

  He began to turn away, but something made him pause and look back. He stared at the distant rocks for a long time, a slight frown on his face. Then, slowly, thoughtfully, he walked back into the cottage and closed the door behind him.

  He cleared the breakfast things from the table and piled them in the washing-up bowl. Then he went into the front room to the mantelpiece. The telescope was an old one which his family had come by many years before – probably from a wreck, though no-one would own to it.

  He took the telescope through the kitchen and up the stairs to the bedroom. The small window hadn’t been opened all winter and was warped with damp, but it finally yielded. He extended the telescope, rested it on the still and peered through.

  He stared for a long time before he was satisfied. He closed the window, compressed the telescope and went down to the kitchen again. From the back of the door he took a long oilskin coat, a sou’wester and a towelling scarf, and placed them on the table. He removed his stout farmer’s boots and pulled on a pair of long seaman’s boots. Then, picking up the oilskins, he left the cottage and made his way up the lane towards Lower Town, one of the four settlements on St Agnes.

  When he reached the handful of dwellings he went straight to a cottage near the beach and knocked on the door. A man appeared. ‘Mornin’, Jeremiah,’ Joe said.

  ‘Mornin’, Joe.’ The man eyed the oilskins.

  ‘Ther’s somethin’ out on the rocks.’

  The man nodded and without further comment disappeared inside. After a while he returned with oilskins and together the two men made their way to the beach. A heavy boat was sitting at the top of a long concrete slipway, two pairs of oars lying across the thwarts.

  Without a word the two men threw their oilskins into the boat and began to drag her down the slipway. Once she was afloat they gave a last push, hopped effortlessly in, fitted the oars into the rowlocks, and started to pull away.

  From the cove they crossed the expanse of Smith Sound and passed between the low rocks of the Hellweathers out into the open sea. From here it was two miles to the main group of the Western Rocks.

  They rowed silently, each man intent on the slow, steady swing of his stroke. There was a swell running, the last remains of the waves whipped up by the gale the night before. But the surface itself was unruffled by wind and the sharp bow of the boat cut cleanly through the glass-like water.

  Joe sat on the forward thwart, the better position for piloting. He had noted the thrust of the tide as they passed through Hellweathers Neck and every now and then he glanced over his shoulder to get his bearings on the rocks ahead. They came abreast of Melledgan and the Muncoy Ledges to the south then, after another fifteen minutes, Joe saw the profile of Gorregan and the Rags out of the corner of his eye. Not so far now.

  He paused in his stroke and, turning his head, took a good look at the rocks ahead. The other man paused also. ‘Where d’ye reckon, Joe?’

  Joe pursed his lips. ‘I reckon Rosevean. Well, let’s start there at any rate.’ They began to row again.

  The two men had searched the rocks many times before. Once, before the war, they had found the wreckage of a small boat and, on one of the higher rocks, the body of a man. He was on his knees, his hands clasped together as if in prayer, his body crouched, his head pointing towards the mighty Bishop Lighthouse as if in hope of rescue. When they got to him he was cold and stiff as a board and it had been the devil’s own job to straighten him out.

  Joe feathered his starboard oar to turn the boat to port and head her between the Rags and Rosevear. As Rosevear came up abeam he slowed the pace and examined the rocky surface of the islet with a critical eye. Nothing there. Only gulls, the occasional tuft of scurvy grass, and the jagged patterns of the rocks themselves.

  The boat passed on, going due south now. They came to a scattering of small rocks, then, finally, the islet of Rosevean, a little taller than its sister, Rosevear, but smaller and utterly barren.<
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  As they approached the islet they stopped rowing and let the boat drift under her own momentum. The only sound was the rumbling and swishing of the sea as the swell rose up the sides of the rock and rushed and tumbled in among the cracks and crevices, only to recede again, the water falling away from the granite walls in tumbling cascades.

  The other man was pointing. Joe followed the direction of his finger. There was something in the white froth at the base of the rock face. It looked like wood.

  The boat drifted on. They came abreast of the islet. There were more fragments in the water here. Again, they looked like wood.

  The two men scanned the uneven surface of the rock but Joe saw it first. It was the object he’d seen from the land. A great blob of darkness against the pallor of the rock.

  They came closer and saw that it was a ragged triangle of reddish-black material, caught on a spur of rock some fifteen feet above the sea. It looked to Joe like canvas.

  Joe began to row the boat round in a circle away from the islet. Still the men stared at the rock.

  There was something else: a touch of bright scarlet. This, too, was quite high up, half hidden behind a knoll. Joe pointed to it and the other man nodded. As they rowed away, more of the object came into view. It was familiar, something both men had seen before: the brightly painted transom of a small boat.

  ‘Better take a look.’

  They rowed back towards the rock, to a ledge they knew well: a ledge a man could jump on to.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Joe said.

  ‘Right-ho’.

  Joe shipped his oars and, as the other man brought the boat in towards the rock, he stood up. He waited while the swell took the boat down then, as the boat rose again, he placed a foot on the thwart and, in the moment that they hovered at the top of the wave, he stepped across on to the ledge.

  From here there was a gully which led to the top. There was only one point which was difficult to climb, but Joe knew the handholds.

  When he reached the top he clambered across the rock to the side where he’d seen the blaze of scarlet. He peered down over the edge. It was wood all right, and, as he had thought, part of a boat. By the brightness of the paint, a fishing boat. By the gay designs, a French one.

  He moved to where the triangle of reddish-black was spread across the rock. Yes: part of a sail. It was still attached to the gaff. The gaff was suspended by a halyard which had caught itself round the spur of rock.

  But there was more.

  Trapped by fingers of rock or marooned in rock pools and tiny plateaus there were all kinds of jetsam: rope, more pieces of tattered canvas, fragments of black-painted wood – even a lifebuoy.

  The small boat had been smashed into a thousand pieces.

  He climbed on, as close to the edge as he dared, peering down among the gullies and crevices.

  He reached the northern side of the island and turned back. There was nothing worth risking his neck for.

  Then he realised he’d missed something: a black sack-like object draped over a small outcrop. There was something else underneath it.

  He went nearer until he could look directly down on the objects. He stared for a long moment then murmured, ‘Poor devils.’

  He clambered back to the other side of the islet until he could see the rowing boat. He whistled and indicated to the other man that he should row the boat round to the east side.

  The other man nodded and Joe clambered back to the point directly above the sack-like object. With his face to the rock, he climbed carefully and slowly downwards. He paused to look down and get his bearings. Yes, at least one body and perhaps another.

  The last few feet were difficult: almost vertical rock. He found a foothold and jumped the last few feet. He waited for the boat to appear round the corner and waved until he was sure that Jeremiah had seen him. Then he went over to the bodies.

  He knelt down. One was a woman, her body arched backwards round a finger of rock, as if a wave had tried to pull her back into the sea and the rock had prevented it.

  Beside her was a child of about seven or eight, his face white, his eyes closed.

  The two were roped together.

  Joe put his hand on the woman’s forehead. Cold. He put his hand against her neck and felt for the artery. Nothing.

  Then a flutter. A glimmer.

  He moved quickly. He straightened the woman’s body and laid her on her back. He saw that there was a nasty wound on her head.

  He rubbed her hands vigorously then patted her cheeks. He felt her neck again. The fluttering was still very faint.

  Something made him look up. He started with surprise.

  The child’s eyes were open, staring blankly.

  Joe went to his side and took his hand. It was icy cold. The child was almost frozen to death. Joe rubbed his hands, roughly, almost angrily, then patted the sheet-white cheeks.

  The child blinked.

  ‘Now then, young fella, ye’re goin’ to be all right, you hear? I’m just goin’ to get ye’ something warm. Right?’

  The child stared. Joe turned and shouted to Jeremiah, who threw a rope up. A few minutes later Joe had hoisted up the oilskins and an old piece of canvas they kept in the boat. He took off his own sweater and placed it over the child with an oilskin on top. Then he put the canvas and Jeremiah’s oilskin over the woman.

  He shouted down to Jeremiah. ‘We’ll need four more men, another boat, more warm clothes – oh, and a plank of wood to get them down on, Jeremiah.’

  The other man called ‘Right-ho’, and rowed off in the direction of St Agnes.

  Joe leant down beside the woman and went through his rubbing and patting treatment again. Warmth and blood-flow, that was what she needed. There was no response, but he kept going. It was probably the bump on the head that was doing the damage.

  Then he returned to the child. This time the boy watched him as he approached.

  ‘Hello, young lad.’

  Fear came into the child’s eyes and he looked desperately around, as if realising for the first time where he was. His lips moved but he couldn’t speak, his teeth were chattering so much.

  Joe smiled. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll soon ’ave yer warm!’

  Finally the child said, ‘Mummy!’ And tried to move nearer the woman.

  Joe restrained him gently. ‘She’ll be all right, don’ yer worry!’

  ‘Mummy!’ He was sobbing now.

  Quickly Joe said, ‘Look ’ere, who else was with yer? On the boat? Can yer tell me?’

  The child was crying, rivers of tears falling from his cheeks, his face contorted with despair. ‘M-M-ummy! P-p-lease let me g-go to M-M-Mummy!’

  It was perplexing. Joe didn’t know what to do. He’d never had dealings with children. He didn’t know they could be so – strong-minded. ‘Look ’ere, she’s not too well. She’s best left on ’er own, take my word for it!’ He put a friendly but firm hand on the child. He didn’t want the lad throwing himself around the place.

  The child was sheet white now, his eyes staring. ‘G-go away! Go away, you horrible man! L-leave us alone!’

  Joe was taken aback. That was strong talk. He retreated a little and said uncertainly, ‘Well … You won’t touch ’er ’ead, will yer?’

  ‘N-no!’

  ‘Right, well …’

  The child got to his knees and, crawling across to the woman, put his arms round her waist and pushed his head against her side. He murmured to her as if she were awake.

  Joe shook his head. What a thing. He covered the boy with the clothing again and, when the child was calmer, asked him again, ‘Was there no-one else with yer, lad?’

  This time the child turned his head and nodded slightly.

  ‘Yes? ’Ow many?’

  The boy looked away and Joe thought he wasn’t going to answer. Finally the child said, ‘D-David. D-David.’

  ‘David, was it?’

  The child closed his eyes and pushed closer to his mother.

  ‘Was it j
ust ’im?’

  The child said something. Joe put his head closer. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Just him,’ the child whispered.

  Joe patted his arm reassuringly. He should say something but it was difficult to think of anything. Eventually he murmured, ‘Well, don’ yer worry. We’ll find ’im. We’ll find ’im. One way or the other.’

  And they did. Four days later. When his body, bloated with gases, floated to the surface again.

  Part Five

  May 1943–June 1945

  Chapter 33

  THE CAR CAME to a halt. It wasn’t difficult to see why. The road was blocked by fallen debris. A row of tall buildings had been almost totally destroyed. The ruins were smouldering in the dawn light, the heavy smoke in strange contrast to the pink blossom on the one surviving cherry tree.

  Doenitz said suddenly, ‘I’ll walk from here.’

  The driver leapt from his seat and opened the rear door. Doenitz stepped out and walked briskly away, picking his way round the piles of stone and mortar, his staff officer on his heels. The Hotel-am-Steinplatz was only just round the corner. Doenitz noted that the hotel was still standing: one of the few in central Berlin that still was.

  He strode into the hotel and went down to the basement. But instead of going straight to the tracking room as usual, he turned into his office and closed the door behind him.

  He needed time to think.

  It was the day of decision.

  The figures had been placed on his desk. He eyed them as he slowly and methodically pulled up the chair, sat down, and straightened his tunic. He picked up the sheet of statistics. It was now 23rd May. In the first twenty-one days of the month the U-boat arm had managed to sink 200,000 tons of Allied shipping – a lot less than in any of the previous three months but still a commendable total, considering—

  He brought his eyes down to the paragraph marked ‘U-boat Losses’.

  Thirty-one boats lost in just twenty-one days.

  It was an unprecedented rate.