The Lion of Sole Bay (Strong Winds)

by Julia Jones

  “The weather forecast’s not good later in the week,” said Mr Vandervelde. “People who want fireworks need to have them now. Better not to wait for the weekend.”

  “I’m probably not staying much longer. The rest of my family’s coming home tomorrow and then I suppose we’ll go to our house at Bawdsey. Unless my brother Liam or any of the others want a night on board.”

  “I would,” said Angel.

  Luke shut his ears to that. There were limits.

  He had first turn in the kayak. It was well fun. He went up to the sluice and felt the water pouring though from the stream the other side. There was a sort of lagoon bit that he hadn’t noticed before, half-hidden behind the flood wall. The water was shallow and there was a load of rocks, as if maybe the wall had crumbled. Luke didn’t go in because he was worried about damaging his kayak but he looked across and saw an old boat lying at a crazy angle in the reeds.

  He paddled back to Lowestoft Lass as casually as if he did it every day.

  Ants’s parents said she wasn’t allowed to take the kayak away from the fishing boat. “You’re not experienced as Luke,” they said and he had to pretend that he wasn’t listening.

  Ants was staring at the kayak. She was hopping from one leg to the other and flapping her arms by her sides. What if she did something stupid and fell in again?

  “You gotta concentrate, remember,” he told her, shoving the paddle at her.

  He should have saved his breath. She stepped so tidily into the kayak that the flimsy vessel stayed completely motionless. Then she pushed her paddle down into the water and made the kayak move away fast from the decking, first sideways and then into a long, curving, reverse sweep.

  She did exactly as her parents had said and stayed close to Lowestoft Lass all the time. Watching her was like watching someone in the middle of a private dance, or skating complicated figures on an empty ice-rink. She didn’t look up and no-one interrupted.

  The kayak was gyrating, powering forwards, swooshing backwards, twirling in and out of the cat’s-cradle of mooring lines between Lowestoft Lass and Drie Vrouwen as if they were markers in a slalom race. Ants was bent towards the paddle as if she and it and the water were a single unbroken connection. It was…beautiful.

  When she’d finished and was sitting up again, there was an outburst of applause. Some of the creekies who’d been gathering old wood and rubbish for the bonfire had stopped what they were doing to watch.

  Ants was obviously startled but she managed not to panic. She made a few quick strokes which brought the kayak alongside the decking and allowed Luke to take hold of it while she got out.

  “Thanks,” was all she said.

  “That was awesome.”

  “Does she do stunts?” someone shouted from the bank.

  Ants’s parents had no idea what to say – to her or to each other.

  The ebb tide was sucking the water away from the moorings which meant that it was almost lunch time and they needed to make plans for going to the hospital. Luke said that Ants could come on the bus with him but her parents said that they’d take her home first so that she could get changed into something more suitable. Then they’d drive her in later when Luke had had time on his own with his dad and had double-checked whether it was going to be appropriate for her to see him.

  “Of course we want Angela to make a proper apology but we’d hate to risk upsetting your father in any way.”

  “It’s only two people at a time visiting.”

  “Don’t worry about us. We’ll sit outside.”

  “We could give you a lift home afterwards, if it would help. We don’t mind waiting.”

  “I’ll be okay. There won’t be any special hurry. I’m not doing anything this evening.”

  He wished he’d thought of calling one of his mates from school. Fireworks were only really good when you had someone to chase about with. He supposed it was Liam he was missing.

  “Everyone’s invited to the party,” one of the creekies stopped by to say. “We heard about your dad’s accident but you can bring your friends.”

  Ants looked at him with such a flash of hope. But then down at her feet as if remembering all that had happened.

  “Do we have to pay?” Luke asked.

  “Nothing for kids. You do need an adult to be responsible and they bring a fiver and some food or drink. Or a firework if you prefer.”

  Mrs Vandervelde was shaking her head already but her husband looked at Ants, then at Luke.

  “Did you want to attend?” he asked. “If your father had been here with you, would you have gone?”

  “Dunno. Might’ve done.”

  This would have been half way through their week and instead it was almost the end. He’d made loads of mistakes and he hadn’t turned practical either. Now that he’d seen Ants he knew he wasn’t even going to be anything special at kayaking.

  “Go on my little Luke, say yes. You have to say Yes if you want adventures.”

  It was like a voice that had always been somewhere in his head, encouraging him on, not pulling him back.

  “You can come if you like. And…Angela can come. I’ve got loads of food left. Sausages mainly.”

  “I really can’t…” This was Ants’s mother.

  “I know you can’t,” said her husband. “But should I? And take Angela with me? Would you mind?”

  “What about the burning? Would they be burning a guy?”

  “We’d have to ask.”

  Mr Vandervelde could see Luke looking confused.

  “Angela’s mother is a Catholic. She was brought up in Ireland when there was still a lot of fighting about religion. And killing. She knows it’s not the same any more but she can’t quite get over it.”

  Luke had never thought about that: people minding about a real Guy Fawkes. Like believing that there were properly witches when it was Halloween?

  “So which side was Guy Fawkes? Someone asked me earlier and I wasn’t sure.”

  “He was a Catholic of course. Seventeenth-century and probably a bit simple. He was the fall guy and he had a cruel end. Tortured then executed by disembowelling.”

  “Mike, please!”

  “Sorry dear.”

  “The girl on the boat next door says she’s a Protestant. Is that what most people are? Am I one?”

  Mr Vandervelde looked at the black barge.

  “Drie Vrouwen, three women. Are there?”

  “What?”

  “Three women on that boat?”

  “Just Helen and her mum. And a cockerel. I haven’t been on board. They’re not English and I don’t think they like us very much. I don’t know why.”

  “Only a historian would understand that. I assume they’re Dutch.”

  “Are you a historian?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is A…Angela?”

  She stopped staring at the water and looked at him instead. It was a miserable, furious, dare-you look. “You know I ain’t. We’re at the same school. I can’t even read properly.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Bonfire Night II

  Wednesday 5 November, fifth of the waning moon

  Elsevier, Helen, Angel, Peter, Luke

  As soon as it was dark she closed the sluice. The cow and the girl had worked for weeks to clear the stream of submerged branches and trailing fence wire but she wasn’t certain how deep the carving would float and they would need plenty of water to hurry their prize to the barge. High water in the creek would be close to midnight, too early for her purpose.

  Elsevier loathed these English tides. In Holland they had controlled their inland waters and enclosed them into meers. The English didn’t have the organisation or the skills. They didn’t seem to care. Look at the way they let their seawalls crumble until they breached. Then it was an emergency and people
rescued from their homes and pictures in the news. That’s not how she would run a country.

  If it were not for the rise and fall of this night’s tides their mission would be so simple. The best time to take their prize was the dark time before dawn when lesser people had gone to sleep and even the road was quiet. But by then it would be ebbing. There would be only centimetres of water in the creek unless she had it stored in advance.

  The fastenings were loose – she had checked that they had been correctly filed through. She would superintend the removal herself. That was an action too crucial, too symbolic to be entrusted to underlings. Then the girl would need time to transport the trophy from the bridge to the sluice. She disliked the girl but assumed she’d manage this efficiently. It was in her interest.

  Remove the electricity and bring the darkness forward. Let the cow cause havoc. They had to get the trophy onto the barge before first light. The girl had done them a favour running off with that appalling cockerel – but she wouldn’t mention that to the mother. More power to her if they were fighting.

  She slipped carefully down the creek side of the flood wall and checked that there was no water coming through. No gurgle from the metal grille. Just the occasional popping of methane bubbles in the smelly mud and the rustle of a hunting rat. She could hear the distant sounds from the party at the moorings and see the glow from the modest fire. So that was their idea of enjoyment.

  ***

  Helen and her mother joined the bonfire party as they’d been ordered. They’d helped themselves to the five pounds entrance fee from the honesty box near the showers and Hendrike was carrying a cauldron of steaming chicken and mushroom soup. It smelled delicious. She’d told Helen that it wasn’t for her.

  “Why? Have you made it with something bad?”

  “No. But it has stock from the hen and since you are now so squeamish, the Kapitein and I have decided that you are permitted no more meat products until you apologise for your behaviour in taking the cockerel. You have to learn obedience to your elders.”

  Helen didn’t care about the soup. She wanted to be a vegetarian anyway but she was tired and hungry and she’d been up most of last night being obedient to her elders and she knew she’d be up most of tonight as well. Her mother hadn’t asked her why she’d taken Leo. Didn’t seem interested in understanding anything about her. She’d loved him because there was nothing else left.

  “Please, moedertje, can’t we give up and go home? Now, before we commit more crimes? Elsevier doesn’t care about us, you know. She doesn’t truly grieve for the sorrows of the past. Wreken de Dame is all about her.”

  Hendrike slapped her. She was glad to feel her heavy hand stinging her daughter’s skin.

  “You are never to speak like that. We women will succeed where men have failed. We will bring home this symbol of the Golden Age. We will drive out the foreigners and once again we will become a strong proud nation.”

  Helen couldn’t cry. She felt as if the last traces of feeling had been slapped out of her. She looked forward to hurting someone else in return.

  The boy was there, standing close to the bonfire and drinking lemonade from a plastic cup.

  He’d been away all afternoon. Visiting his loser father in the hospital, she supposed. It had made it delightfully easy to siphon the last drops of diesel from the fishing boat’s tanks into their own. They’d already taken the tarpaulins, the long ropes and a petrol can.

  He looked childishly pleased to see her. Wanted her to meet his friends: the irritating little redhead who’d been showing off in the kayak and her father, who he introduced as a historian.

  “He can tell you about Protestants and Catholics if you want to know, though it’s actually not very nice. And it’s okay for you to be here if you’re a Protestant because if we were burning anyone – which we’re not – it’d be a Catholic. Which is why Ants’s mother isn’t here. This is Ants. Her real name’s Angela but it doesn’t suit her and she says she doesn’t mind. My dad thinks that she’s an angel but that’s particular to him. We’ve been to the hospital. He seems a lot better.”

  Helen-at-Home might have asked the girl what name she liked to be called. New Helen didn’t bother and the only reason that she stood still and forced her lips to smile was because she and her mother were under orders to be as visible and as cheerful as possible throughout the evening. The creekies were a friendly lot when they came out from their boats. They were keen to make everyone welcome even though the women from Drie Vrouwen had been avoiding them since August.

  This time tomorrow they would be gone. Goodbye muddy creek.

  Helen confidently expected that they could avoid answering any awkward questions by pretending that their language skills weren’t too good. Except it turned out that red-head’s father spoke Dutch.

  All the months they’d been here Helen hadn’t met a single English person who spoke Dutch. Now here, on their last evening was this man who spoke her own language. Spoke it in the formal, slightly old-fashioned way that her mother’s friends used to speak in the days when her mother’s friends were other academics and curators. Not self-styled charismatic leaders – or weirdoes.

  It almost broke through her self-control.

  He was a small, enthusiastic, wildish-looking man. Said his name was Michael, asked her to call him Mike. He had untidy white hair though he probably wasn’t very old; glasses perched on the end of his nose, a wispy beard and an irritating habit of rubbing his hands together when he got excited about what he was saying. He followed her around eagerly though she tried to get rid of him onto her mother. He seemed to have some obsession with getting her to tell him about the Dutch education system and the way history was taught in schools. She wanted to say that all she cared about was getting back into the Dutch education system. She didn’t mind what she got taught.

  He was terribly excited when he learned her surname.

  “And you a de Witt! And I, would you believe, am a Vandervelde! The surname run together in the English way and not in any sense a direct descendent of those admirable artists. But when I look at the sketches VV the Elder produced tossing about in some little galjoot between the great ships and their cannon, I do feel proud of the association, however slight. Did you know that they moved to England after Sole Bay? Watched the later battles from the other side. And are you connected with the lamented brothers de Witt?”

  “De Witt’s a common name in Holland. I’ve never thought about it.”

  That was such a lie. Her mother would hardly let her think of anything else. Hendrike said that they were descended from the great Johan de Witt, who had led the United Provinces into their Golden Age and had then been shockingly murdered. Her mother said that the direct connection was a secret, which she had established though her research. Helen was not allowed to tell anyone in case it might tempt her to brag. As if people her age would have been the smallest bit bothered. Why should they care about some failed politician three hundred years ago?

  Hendrike had different rules for herself. She shared her Big Secret with anyone she wanted to impress. Helen assumed that was the main reason Elsevier had taken her up. That and her mother’s belief in her powers and her knowledge of all those maritime prints and drawings she’d been employed to catalogue. If Hendrike hadn’t obsessed over the detail of all the warships in the Van der Velde pictures then Elsevier would never have hatched up this hateful stunt.

  She kept her smile fixed. “So sorry,” she said.

  Mike looked disappointed. “History and religion. No interest to the young of today. I forget what a boring old fart I’ve become. Last week I got so desperate I repeated my entire lecture series to my wife’s collection of garden gnomes. They didn’t ask many questions but at least they kept smiling and stayed where they were until the end. So tell me, my dear, what do you enjoy? Those electronic games, perhaps?”

  She talked about her rowing
club for a while and then her mother came up with a helping of the chicken and mushroom soup. Helen assumed that her mother would have laced it with her knock-out nightcap. She wanted to tell Mike not to have any but she knew that she mustn’t. She couldn’t bear to watch him drink it so she said she was off to see whether the fireworks would soon be ready.

  It was a dark night with no moon and a feeling of damp in the air. Elsevier had been passage-planning as she hid in the cabin all day. Mainly to make sure they were back in good time for her press conference. She had told them that the barometer was falling and the forecast bad, but – as long as everyone obeyed orders and the heist was successful – they would make the crossing whatever the weather.

  “The blood of seafarers flows scarlet in my veins,” she’d declared.

  Helen didn’t see that Elsevier’s blood colour was going to make much difference to the weather but she didn’t say anything because she wanted to get home to Holland more than anything else. Her mother looked adoring. How stupid was she! She didn’t know she was going to get dumped.

  The creekies were trying to sing. They couldn’t get the right notes.

  “We need Bill’s concertina,” someone shouted.

  “Where’s his boy? He was here with the old man.”

  “Saw him in the gents. Not looking so good.”

  “Must have sampled some of your home brew!”

  There was a lot of laughter about very little and the bonfire was beginning to die down. Soon they would have finished their fireworks and then what would they do? Would they go back to their boats or would they stand around still drinking beer? She had been ordered to tip it away wherever she could.

  “But if they have no more beer then they’ll go to the pub.”

  “The Kapitein will be commanding from inside the bar and you will wait in the dark for her. I will bring them flocking at the time decreed.”