Lifeboat!

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘Come and look what I’ve got.’ Behind the car was a trailer and Howard was dragging her towards it. ‘There, what do you say to that?’

  Proudly he waved his arm to encompass the trailer and perched upon it a fifteen-foot sailing day-boat, with the name painted on the bows—Nerissa.

  ‘Oh—a boat!’ Julie said unnecessarily.

  ‘Well, you might show a little more interest, old thing,’ Howard said. ‘Just the ticket, I thought, for a weekend by the sea.’

  ‘Is—is it yours?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Howard said airily. ‘I bought her last week.’

  ‘She’s lovely—really lovely,’ Julie said, but then she could not prevent the words from slipping out. ‘But this coast is not terribly safe for sailing, you know. Not unless you really know what you’re doing.’

  ‘Know what I’m doing?’ Howard laughed aloud. ‘Of course I know what I’m doing. I’ll have you know that some friends I used to spend all my hols with had a boat. We were hardly ever out of the thing.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right then,’ Julie said, relieved and added, ‘Come along in and I’ll show you your room. Dad’s out on a service, I’m afraid, and I’ve no idea when he’ll be back. We won’t wait dinn—I mean—lunch.’ Dinner to Howard, she remembered, was at seven in the evening, not midday.

  ‘A service? What is he—a parson or a motor mechanic?’ Howard asked, laughing at his own joke.

  ‘Neither. Didn’t I tell you? He’s the full-time coxswain/mechanic of our lifeboat.’

  ‘Oh, rescues people who can’t swim and kids in rubber dinghies, does he?’ Howard guffawed again.

  Ironically, she could make no retort for she now knew—Tim had rung through to tell her—that at this very moment her father was indeed searching an area of the ocean for two small boys in a dinghy.

  As the Mary Martha Clamp drew alongside the black-and-orange inflatable, anxious faces peered over the side. Half-sitting, half-sprawling against the side of the dinghy was a semi-conscious Martin, his tee-shirt and shorts saturated, his arms and legs were white, almost a pale blue, from exposure. His eyes were swollen and his lips were cracked and parched by the salt water.

  In the bottom of the dinghy lay the still figure of Nigel Milner.

  Tony Douglas and Chas Blake clambered over the gunwales of the lifeboat and down the scramble net. Carefully, so as not to set it rocking, Tony stepped down into the dinghy and picked up the younger boy in his arms. Gently Tony handed him up to Chas, and Fred and Phil Davis hung over the side, reaching down with willing hands to help.

  ‘Come on, me little laddo. You’ll be all right now.’

  At the sound of the voices of the rescuers, Martin opened his eyes and tried to speak. ‘Me brother, what about me brother?’ he whispered hoarsely.

  ‘Dun’t fret,’ Fred reassured the shivering boy. ‘We’ll get him.’

  ‘Mister—’ee fell over into the sea. I thought ’ ee was drownded, but I got ’im back into the dinghy, but ’ee ain’t moved since.’

  Martin was borne away to the covered cockpit in the bows of the lifeboat.

  Carefully, Tony squatted down beside the still figure in the dinghy. From at first having experienced a profound relief at seeing, that the second boy was in the craft but out of sight until they were right up to it, Tony now felt a renewal of the fear and doubt wash over him. He felt for the boy’s pulse. It was weak and fluttery—but there!

  ‘He’s alive,’ he shouted jubilantly, ‘ but he’s in worse shape than the other little lad.’

  As Nigel was lifted into the lifeboat, Macready spoke to the pilot of the Sea King over the radio link and swiftly explained the situation. ‘One boy’s reasonably okay, but the other’s in bad shape. He needs immediate hospital treatment.’

  The pilot’s voice came over loudly, ‘Make ready to receive the winchman. Over.’

  Macready acknowledged and handed the phone back to Pete. ‘Keep in contact with him.’

  Fred Douglas arrived in the coxswain’s cockpit and took over the wheel, holding the lifeboat steady whilst Macready went for’ard to look at the boys. Squeezing his way beneath the protective tarpaulin covering the for’ard cockpit he glanced at one of the boys sitting huddled in blankets, but attacking a chocolate bar from the emergency rations on board. Martin Milner was still suffering from shock, but Macready could see that he was in no danger now. He turned his attention to the motionless form on the stretcher being wrapped warmly by Tony and Phil.

  ‘The pilot’s all set to lower the winchman as soon as we’re ready?’ It was a question as well as a statement.

  ‘About two minutes, Cox’n,’ responded Tony Douglas, all the while his fingers deftly wrapping the boy in a warm blanket whilst Phil Davis was making sure the boy’s nose and throat were clear and that he could breathe.

  Macready returned aft to retake the wheel and relay the message through Pete to the helicopter pilot.

  ‘Saltershaven lifeboat, this is Rescue Five-five. Suggest you steer course on bearing two-three-zero as we begin our approach. Over.’

  Macready promptly turned the helm to bring the lifeboat pointing in the right direction.

  ‘… Proceeding on course two-three-zero. Over,’ Pete informed the pilot who at once began to manoeuvre his machine to hover about forty feet above the water astern of the lifeboat approaching at an angle of thirty degrees to the port side of the lifeboat so that the winchman and winch operator had the lifeboat in view all the time as he descended from the opening on the starboard side of the helicopter.

  Macready watched as the winchman appeared and, swinging slightly, was lowered down towards them whilst Macready kept the lifeboat at a steady speed. The air was filled with noise, the draught from the whirling propellers flattening the waves around the lifeboat as the helicopter came nearer and nearer. The winchman landed on the flat surface of the box at the stern of the boat and immediately disconnected himself from the winch line. The helicopter swung away for a short distance until Nigel Milner had been strapped and secured to the Neil Robertson stretcher the winchman had brought down with him.

  The signal was given that they were ready and Pete called up the helicopter which moved in again. The winchman caught the swinging cable and attached it to himself and the stretcher and then steadily they were hauled aloft, swaying and twisting round and round, towards the helicopter.

  The faces of the lifeboat crew were upturned towards the Sea King still droning noisily above them, until they saw that the stretcher was safely aboard. The helicopter lifted and swung away towards the coast.

  Within minutes the boy would be at a hospital.

  Macready swung the wheel and turned the Mary Martha Clamp towards Saltershaven, pausing only whilst two members of his crew retrieved the inflatable from the water. Pete Donaldson was speaking on the R/T to Breymouth informing them that the boys had been found, the service completed and that the lifeboat was returning to Saltershaven, the estimated time of arrival being 17.45.

  When the lifeboat beached, Joe and Blanche Milner were waiting on the sands with a policeman. So was Jack Hansard, who came right to the water’s edge in his landrover to pick up the casualty. At the end of Beach Road, an ambulance waited.

  The lifeboat drove in, bows foremost, through the shallows, the point of the bow almost reaching dry sand. The launchers were ready with their balancing poles, which were inserted on either side and held by two launchers on each pole, whilst others placed the skeats—wooden slipboards with loops of rope at each end—under the bows of the boat. The cable from the tractor was attached and began to haul the heavy boat from the water.

  As the Mary Martha Clamp came clear of the water out on to the hard sand, there was a pause whilst Martin Milner, with a blanket around his shoulders, was handed down the ladder to Tony Douglas.

  ‘Put me down, mister,’ Martin said and began to wriggle as he saw his mother running across the sand towards him. ‘Put me down.’

  Thinking the boy wanted to show
his anxious mother that he was all right, Tony set him down on the warm sand and, seeing that he was reasonably steady on his feet, allowed the boy to walk towards the woman.

  But the loving, tearful reunion, which Tony Douglas had expected, did not happen.

  Thwarted of her revenge upon both boys, Blanche’s hysterical anger fell upon Martin’s frail and trembling shoulders. She flew towards the child, hand raised and clouted him across the side of the head, felling the already unsteady little boy to the sand.

  Fred Douglas saw his son, Tony, grit his teeth and move towards the screeching woman threateningly. He was beside him in an instant to lay his hand, warningly, on Tony’s arm.

  ‘Here, steady on, missus,’ Fred spoke up first. ‘We know the little lads have done wrong, but they’ve had their punishment …’

  ‘What the bloody ’ell do you know about it?’ She turned on Fred, who smiled sadly at the uncontrolled woman. He watched as Joe Milner tried to take her by the arm and reason with her, but she only struck out at him too, lashing his face viciously.

  At that moment Jack Hansard moved forward and scooped the boy up from the sand and carried him to the waiting landrover.

  ‘Where are you takin’him?’ Blanche screamed after the coastguard and made as if to follow, but Joe held on to her, fighting her flailing arms and kicking feet. ‘Blanche, Blanche, for God’s sake.’

  The police constable took hold of Blanche’s arm. ‘ Now look here, love, he needs a hospital check. And your other lad’s there. Calm down, missus, and we’ll take you there in the police car.’

  Blanche pulled her arm from his grasp. ‘ I ain’t ridin’ in no bloody police car!’ And with that parting shot, she ran, stumbling, up the beach.

  Joe sighed heavily. ‘Officer, I’d be glad to come to the hospital if you’d be good enough to take me.’

  ‘Of course, sir, come along.’

  They turned and followed the landrover making its way up the beach towards the ambulance waiting to take Martin to the hospital.

  Macready saw them go out the corner of his eye, but then his full attention was claimed by the beaching procedure.

  The lifeboat was hauled up on to the carriage, the chains secured and the tractor swivelled around once more, recoupled and the rescue party moved off up the beach.

  Back in the boathouse hot soup and a tea-urn brought in from one of the nearby front cafes—owned and run by Pete Donaldson’s parents-in-law, as it happened, where Angie often helped out in her spare time—awaited the crew and launchers, but the work was not done even yet.

  The Mary Martha Clamp, her carriage and tractor had to be hosed down with soapy water and rinsed again with clear water. The lifeboat was refuelled, the oil level and cooling system checked thoroughly.

  Only then, approximately an hour and a half after beaching, could Macready telephone his headquarters at Breymouth to report that the Saltershaven lifeboat was now back on station and ready for service.

  Out in the Atlantic the depression continued its steady progress towards the Irish Sea.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Dad, you remember Howard?’

  Her father was looking tired, Julie could see, but to her relief he held out his hand towards her young man and smiled. ‘Glad to see you again, Howard.’

  ‘And you, sir.’

  As they sat down to their meal, Howard said, ‘Would you care for a glass of champagne, sir?’

  Macready looked up to see the good-looking young man holding a green glass bottle. He glanced at Julie and saw the blush of embarrassment creeping up her neck.

  Smiling inwardly, but keeping his face straight, Macready said, ‘Thank you, that would be very nice,’ and pushed his glass forward.

  Of course it went with the Ferrari and the brand-new sailing-dinghy standing in the driveway, he could see that, but Macready had only ever bought champagne twice in his life—for his wedding and at the birth of his daughter.

  Attempting conversation, Howard Marshall-Smythe asked, ‘Was it a successful rescue, sir?’

  Macready sighed wearily. ‘ Och, it was one of those times when it leaves a bad taste in the mouth. The rescue itself was successful—one laddie looks in pretty bad shape though. The helicopter took him to hospital.’

  ‘Oh I say, you have a helicopter here as well, do you?’ Howard Marshall-Smythe seemed for a moment impressed.

  ‘Not here, no,’ Macready replied. ‘We call in the R.A. F air/sea rescue helicopter from a base in Norfolk.’

  ‘Oh.’ There was an expressive pause as Howard added, ‘ I see.’

  The silence, whilst they ate, was a little uncomfortable and was not improved by Howard’s next remark. ‘And you’re employed on a full-time basis as coxswain, are you, sir?’ Howard laughed as he added, ‘It sounds just the sort of job that would suit me. One or two rescues a week and the rest of the time free.’

  Macready said nothing. Normally he would not have allowed anyone to escape with such a loaded remark, but this young man was a guest in his house, Julie’s guest, and one glance at his daughter’s face told him that she was already suffering agonies of embarrassment, knowing as she did how Howard’s tactlessness would anger Macready.

  It was not so much anger that Macready felt towards this young man and his like, as an incredulity and a kind of sadness that anyone could be so ignorant of the true nature of the lifeboat service of his country. A service which at any time Howard, or his family, might have to call upon.

  The care and attention that Macready lavished on the Mary Martha Clamp, on its mechanical and electrical equipment and on the tractor and even the boathouse too, was almost a full-time occupation in itself. Engines and motors could not be left to chance. It was vital they started first time, every time. All the life-saving equipment, ropes, pulleys, life-jackets, the breeches-buoy, flares, first-aid supplies and equipment—all had to be in perfect condition at all times.

  The coxswain was in daily, almost hourly, contact with his local coastguard, with the Coastal Rescue Headquarters at Breymouth and with Bill Luthwaite, the local honorary secretary of the lifeboat, to say nothing of the publicity side of his work. Because the Royal National Lifeboat institution was a voluntary organisation, existing only from funds raised from the public, the lifeboat station was open daily throughout the summer and literally thousands of people would climb the wooden steps to look over the Mary Martha Clamp. Though they were not allowed on board, they had a good view of the inner workings of the boat and Coxswain Macready was nearly always on hand to answer their hundred and one questions.

  There was speech-making, lectures and film shows to give all the year round and throughout it all Macready was on call twenty-four hours a day. At any time, day or night, he could be called out on a service. Never, ever, was there a time in the day when Bill Luthwaite did not know Macready’s exact whereabouts.

  With great forbearance, Macready changed the subject, at least partially. ‘I see you have a sailing dinghy.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. I bought her last week. Haven’t had chance to try her out yet. I was hoping we’d have the opportunity this weekend.’

  ‘Have you had any experience?’ Macready asked, careful to keep any sharpness, any sign of anxiety, from his tone.

  ‘Oh yes, sir. I row for my House at the University, and I was telling Julie, as a nipper I used to spend all the hols with some friends of mine who had a boat. Never out of it hardly.’

  Macready smiled thinly. ‘Well, take care. Julie knows this coast well, of course, but it can be very treacherous.’

  Howard laughed again. ‘ I hear there’s a very good rescue service in this area.’

  For a dreadful moment Macready felt a shudder pass through him and a shadow cross his eyes like a terrible premonition, like Fate striking a blow at the young man’s wisecrack.

  Macready laid his knife and fork together and rose from the table. ‘Will you excuse me now? I’m away to ring the hospital an’ see how that wee laddie is.’

  In the ha
ll, Macready dialled the number of the hospital at St Botolphs—the nearest major hospital to Saltershaven. He was put through to the appropriate ward and he asked the sister in charge for news of the boy, Nigel Milner.

  ‘Are you a relative?’ the sharp voice asked.

  ‘No, no, I’m not but I was concerned about the wee laddie.’

  ‘Who is that speaking? What is your connection with the boy?’

  ‘It’s Macready from Saltershaven, the coxswain …’

  He got no further for immediately the woman’s tone altered. ‘Oh Mr Macready—I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it was you. The boy is in Intensive Care at the moment, but he is already showing signs of improvement since he was first brought in.’

  ‘But you think he will be all right?’

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Macready. If all goes well he should be out of the I. C Unit tomorrow and in the Children’s Ward.’

  ‘Good, good.’

  The Sister added, ‘We’ve had the mother here …’ She paused as if waiting for some comment from Macready. He could well imagine the Sister’s reaction to Mrs Milner if the woman had put on the same show at the hospital as she had at the beach. But Macready remained silent. It was not his nature to condemn Blanche Milner. He was a kindly, compassionate man and over the years had seen anxiety and fear play cruel tricks with people’s emotions.

  ‘Aye well, I’d be across mysel’ to see the laddie, but we’ve a busy weekend here, ye ken?’

  ‘I do understand, Mr Macready.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch again, though. Thank you, Sister.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mr Macready.’

  He had replaced the receiver and was about to go back into the dining-room when the phone began to ring.

  ‘Macready.’

  ‘Mac—it’s Bill. There’s been another call about a flare seen out on Haven Flats again. This time it came from the police, but again no further information, no name, nothing. Someone just dialled nine-nine-nine and yelled down the phone that they’d seen a red flare out at sea.’

  Macready let out a long sigh. ‘Eeh, dear, dear. And no one else has seen anything? Have you checked with Jack?’