by Ruth Sutton
There must be a way to get my leg out, he thought, as he wiped the water from his face and coughed to clear his throat of salt. The braces, undo the braces. Before he could start to get his hands inside the coat to loosen the braces, another wave caught him and he fell back again. Again he let the water wash over him and used the impetus of its ebb to get to his feet. He pulled at the coat, and struggled to pull it up, trying to reach the top of the waders. He tore at the buttons with his numb fingers but they wouldn’t move, locked into the buttonholes. The water was rising and he began to panic. Andrew and the other man were further out, standing clear of the water on the submerged rocks, appearing to walk on the surface. He shouted but his voice whipped away towards the beach on the wind that was now shrieking round his head. He began to tear at the buttons, then gave up and tried again to heave the coat up but still he could not reach in far enough to dislodge the braces and free himself.
The next wave hit him full in the face. He bent with it but could not move his right foot, overbalancing again and wrenching his left knee as he pulled his leg round to support himself against the force of the tide. Using his arms to keep his balance, he shouted but his throat was dry and raw with coughing and salt. They couldn’t hear him. He was stuck. The tide was rising. He would drown here soon.
He wiped his eyes and saw that Andrew was coming back, arms around another man, pushing back through the surf towards him. John waved his arms and shouted. ‘Help, please, I’m stuck, please,’ but Andrew just shouted, ‘Hang on!’ and strode past a few yards away without a glance. As John turned helplessly to watch Andrew’s disappearing back, he fell again, still pinned by his right leg in the waders. This time he couldn’t get up so easily. He struggled for breath. The water washed over his chest and head. Small stones scoured his face. At last, the wave retreated. John forced himself to kneel, and then to stand. Cold. Cold. He lifted his face towards the racing sky. Rain and tears washed sand from his cheeks.
A strong hand gripped his shoulder from behind and a knife swung before his face. ‘I’m going to cut the coat,’ said the voice behind him into his ear. The knife was strong and very sharp. Andrew hacked through the coat just far enough to pull it clear of the braces. He slashed at one of the braces, and then down into the waders to allow John to pull his left leg clear. ‘Now the other side,’ he yelled as John clung to his bent back. Andrew cut wildly at the braces on the other side and scratched John’s stomach with the knife. ‘Sorry! Now pull, pull!’ Andrew cut again at the side of the waders as John clung to him, pulling his other leg clear. ‘Hold on to me,’ screamed Andrew as a wave knocked them both off balance. Coughing and blinded by salt and water, John was hauled to his feet and up the slope, the torn waders flapping around his legs. As the two men reached the smaller pebbles out of reach of the tide they fell to their knees and crawled out of the water. John felt the burning of salt in his wound. Andrew struggled to his feet, grasped John’s torn coat at the back of his neck and hauled him up the beach. Other hands were helping now. John was pushed and pulled, still coughing, to the bank. He fell to his knees again, retching, feeling the fire in his side, then rolled onto his back and lay still.
Chapter 8
They carried John into the Farriers, and straight into the back bar where the fire was still burning bright and hot. Others from the stricken ship were there. One of the men held a monkey in his arms, but John was too exhausted to notice. Andrew helped John with his trousers and sweater and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and over his shaking legs. He poured a glass of whisky for himself, downed it in one, and then re-filled the glass and handed it to John. John sniffed it, and sipped cautiously. Despite these precautions, he choked as the whisky burned into his throat.
‘You were nearly a goner there,’ said Andrew cheerfully. ‘Good job I’d that knife handy. Never wear a coat over waders.’
John stared at him. ‘Thought I was going to die,’ he croaked, as the whisky lingered on his larynx.
‘You and a few others, I reckon,’ said Andrew. ‘But we got them all off. Had to send the mate back to tell them not to try another boat, and we managed to get them all, even the monkey.’
As if responding to this acknowledgement, the monkey began to chatter, holding its teeth in a fixed grin. ‘The captain sent some whisky over, too,’ Andrew continued. ‘You’ve just had some.’
John nodded but he wasn’t really taking anything in. The place was filling up with wet bodies, smoke and steam.
Someone entered the room. Andrew looked up, saw who it was and rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, God,’ he murmured to John. ‘Here we go. Trust him to turn up when the action’s over.’
The newcomer stepped into the centre of the room. He was tall, well over six feet, with a large head crowned by white hair dishevelled by the wind and standing proud in a halo round the long pale face. Bright eyes contrasted with the damp exhaustion in the crowded room. The newcomer wore an expensive coat trimmed with sheepskin, which he removed to reveal a black suit and clerical collar. The landlady put her head round the door to ask if he wanted a drink, which was accepted with a nod. The man held out his coat to her without a word. She took it from him, also without a word, and hurried away.
Looking slowly round the room, the Reverend Lionel Leadbetter, raised his arms. ‘Let us give thanks,’ he boomed, ‘for the deliverance of these good people from the storm.’ One or two of the men bowed their heads, while the rest stared at him. Andrew lowered his eyes.
‘Dear Lord,’ continued the vicar, his face raised and eyes closed. ‘We thank you for your mercy, and for the courage of all those who helped to save these men from a terrible fate this day. May we remember always that it is by your will that we live or perish. Thanks be to God. Amen.’
John repeated ‘Amen’ in a mumbled response, bred of years of churchgoing.
Lionel took a long stride across the room and rested a hand on Andrew’s shoulder. ‘Fine work, my boy,’ he proclaimed in a slightly quieter tone. Andrew flinched under his father’s hand. ‘All over by the time the lifeboat turned up, thanks to you and the Brigade. And this poor fellow owes his life to you I’m told.’ He leaned down to shake John’s hand. The grip was firm and uncomfortably sustained. There was a commotion behind him as the monkey gleefully urinated into the fire. The laughter made Lionel break his hold and turn around, before making his way across the room and off to find his drink.
‘Who was that?’ asked John, shaking the feeling back into his crushed hand.
‘That,’ said Andrew, resignedly, ‘was my father.’
John did not know what to say, and so said nothing.
‘What were you doing on the beach, anyway?’ asked Andrew, holding out his socks to the heat of the fire. By now the room smelled strongly of wet wool and sweat.
‘I was on the train,’ John said, finding his voice at last through the fire in his throat. ‘The through train from Lancaster to Carlisle … it got stuck just south of here and the driver said we’d have to wait till tomorrow, so they could clear the line. There was a tree down, or rocks blown off the walls, or something, not sure what. So I walked up here. Then the landlady –’
‘Mrs Eilbeck,’ Andrew interrupted him.
‘Yes, her. She said everyone was down at the beach and offered me someone’s waders and a coat to wear.’
‘Oh, lord,’ said Andrew, ‘They were probably Willie’s waders, her man,’ he laughed, ‘and he was a big man alright. He died last year. Why were you on that train anyway? Where’re you going?’
‘Here,’ said John. ‘Newton. I’m starting a new job, at the quarry.’
Andrew turned away from checking his socks to look at John more carefully.
‘Doing what at the quarry?’
‘Accounts.’
Andrew put back his head and laughed. ‘Well I’ll be damned. Thought the name was familiar when you told me on the beach, but I didn’t put it together. John Pharaoh. We’ve been expecting you.’
‘Who’s “we”?’
John put down his whisky.
‘All of us at the quarry. I’m the manager – well sort of.’ He leaned across to shake John’s hand. ‘They wrote to you about the job while I was in Keswick last month.’
‘So that’s why you helped me out of the sea,’ said John, ‘to save the trouble of finding someone else.’ This time they both laughed. Andrew found another glass on the mantelshelf, poured two glasses of the whisky and they clinked and drank.
Two more tots of whisky later, Andrew left him for a while, to talk to the men from the ship about plans for their accommodation. John sat alone by the fire. The whiskey and the heat made his brain revolve inside his head. Why? Why did he follow a man he’d never met into a raging sea? He should have stayed in Ulverston. It was safe there. He could have moved out of the house but why come all this way? Maybe he was just different now. Different parents, different person. Maybe this person, the person he had become, took risks. And look what had happened. He’d nearly died. And the man who’d saved him was his boss. John didn’t like that. Did he owe this man? How was he supposed to behave towards him?
He looked across the room. Andrew was strong, and everybody knew him, respected him. John shrank further into his blanket as the whiskey continued to boil in his head. When he looked up Andrew was standing in front of him.
‘Where are you going to stay?’ he said, looking down at John.
‘What?’ John’s mind was fuddled.
‘Where are you going to stay?’
‘Here, maybe?’ Actually John had no idea.
‘Here? The Farriers?’
‘Yes.’
Andrew laughed so loudly that people looked around. John shrank away from him again.
‘Are you going to walk to work, then?’ said Andrew.
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘Come on, man. You’ve must have had a better idea than that. It’s five miles from here up the valley, and you’re in no fit state to walk tonight, or tomorrow come to that.’
John felt like a child. He wanted to have an answer, but nothing happened. He wanted to sleep.
‘I’ll have a word,’ said Andrew finally. ‘Stay here tonight. Sleep it off. Tomorrow I’ll bring the bike down and we’ll head up to the quarry. There’s a spare room at my house, you can have that while you find somewhere.’
He stood up, stretched, finished the drink in his hand and went into the back bar to sort things out, while John stared into the fire and tried to collect himself. At least he had a place to stay. That would do for now. He could think about the rest tomorrow. All he really wanted to do was sleep. The whisky, he shouldn’t have had the whisky.
Chapter 9
It was the day after the storm. Andrew Leadbetter lay in his bed at the manager’s house beside the quarry, staring at the ceiling above him and listening to the wind. The storm had worked its way into every gap in the slates and the house smelled of mould. The ceiling was marked with stains from the snow that had blown into the roof space at New Year and then melted, not enough to drip through but enough to leave a brown stain behind as it dried. Not worth trying to repaint the ceiling until he’d tackled the gaps in the roof, to stop the snow blowing in again. And how long would he be here? Was it worth it? He’d have to get up soon. The yard was a shambles.
For the second time in his life, Andrew thought about getting away. Going to the mining college in Glasgow had been his first chance: coming back had been a bad mistake. If anything it was worse than before, as if his father thought of him as a competitor, to be quashed. Maybe that was the problem. But he wouldn’t have got a job like this, or the money, if he’d stayed in Scotland. His dad knew the Skeffingtons who owned the quarry, and the job was there for the taking. But he still shouldn’t have taken it. The quarry was in a mess, the paperwork wasn’t what Andrew either enjoyed or was good at, and he was tired of his father’s bullying. It galled him that most Newton people saw his father as the well-meaning vicar who’d pushed Sir John to put running water into all his tenants’ houses. They never saw him at home bossing everyone around. Andrew wasn’t the only one who’d had to get out: Alan had escaped to London, Ben to Newcastle. Even Julia, so quiet and compliant, she’d gone too. Mother had been distraught but the old man didn’t care: too busy with his ‘good works’. Even when the old bugger’s motives were good, he was so pompous about it.
There was only one good reason to stay a while in Newton. Jessie Whelan, the teacher. He’d noticed her on coronation day in May. Talked to her, just for a few minutes but he remembered every word. Then there was that funeral, but she was too upset to talk and he left her alone. For weeks he hadn’t seen her, until last weekend. He’d been in the shop, Saturday morning. It was busy and she was in the queue ahead of him. He’d moved a little to get a better look at her. Good shape, rounded. Dark hair curled at the nape of her neck. He thought about her back, her skin. Behind his eyes he saw her long hair loosed from the pins that held it, falling onto pale shoulders. As she passed he’d caught the scent of her. Lemons.
He’d had a few women over the years. He knew how to catch what he wanted. It was like hunting, you got a feel for the prey and went after it, planning ahead, thinking about the next move. She might be curious about him, might hear stories about the business on the beach. He’d played it well so far, polite, interested. Maybe she was interested in him too. Can’t tell with older women. She seemed to spend a lot of time with that Plane woman. That might be a problem. She was a snob, that one. Didn’t like him, and it was mutual. Have to think about that.
Andrew knew what he wanted. No more silly girls, had enough of them. He wanted a woman with some life behind her. There was something about Jessie. She was different from the others in the valley. He could sense the passion in her, see it in the way she looked, heard it in her voice. He had to bide his time, but he would track her down: at the end she would know, breathless, that he had come for her.
He forced himself out of the scant warmth of his bed and into cold clothes that he’d dropped in a heap on the floor. Downstairs there was little comfort in the dark kitchen, still strewn with the remains of the previous night’s supper. He left the house, fired up his motorbike and roared off down the valley, stopping as he went to clear more debris and branches off the road. At the Farriers, John was sitting in the snug in front of a plate of bacon and sausage, looking as sick as he felt.
‘Eat up, lad. Put hairs on your chest,’ said Andrew as he passed by towards the kitchen. John heard laughter and a minute later Andrew emerged with his own plate piled high. A mug of tea was delivered to the table and Andrew drank it in silence as John watched him. Andrew eyed John’s plate.
‘Are you going to eat that?’
John shook his head.
‘Give it ’ere then.’
Without waiting for a response Andrew leaned over, scooped most of John’s untouched breakfast onto his own plate and continued to eat. Finally he pushed the empty plate away, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled. ‘I’ll enjoy having you around,’ he said, ‘but I’ll probably get fat.’ He looked at John’s pale face. ‘Yesterday shook you up a bit. It would anybody, no shame in that. You can rest up at my place for a day or two while we’re clearing up the mess in the yard and then we’ll get you started on the mess in the office. I’ve let things slide a bit. A few days dealing with that’ll take your mind off yesterday.’
‘Don’t feel too good,’ said John. ‘Awful headache, and can’t get the taste of salt out of my throat. It burns. Maybe it was the drink. I’m not used to it.’
‘Soon change that,’ said Andrew smiling again. ‘Not much else to do round ’ere.’
They got up and John fetched his bag. ‘Leave it,’ said Andrew, realising it wouldn’t fit on the bike with John as well. ‘The wagon’ll bring it on. Take whatever you want for now and leave the rest.’
As they drove up the branch-strewn valley Andrew wondered why they’d given a man’s job to this boy.
* * *
> After the necessary clearing up, the rest of the week at the quarry passed without incident. There was no blasting to organise, just the routine of getting stone onto the train for transport to the crusher further down the line. There was also a load to be taken down to the main line at Newton, where the railway trucks were emptied directly down a chute onto lorries waiting on the road below. The chute had needed repair and Andrew wanted to check that all was well before the process could continue.
He travelled down to Newton on the train, sitting up in front with the driver. It was a windy day and the ash and cinders from the boiler flew away from them into the woods, rather than straight into their eyes as happened sometimes. Andrew always loved this trip. Of course it was slower than the bike, but the sound and smell of the steam engine delighted him as it had always done since the first time he encountered it as a child. The line had been in the doldrums during much of his boyhood, but now it was back running successfully again, and attracting visitors too, during the summer. The busy season was over, but the line was in daily use and the quarry would have struggled without it. The roads down the valley were simply not good enough to carry the weight.
The little train rattled through woods and over bridges, at the base of the steep hillside. The bracken was fading to brown and it took Andrew a moment to spot the dappled head of a solitary deer watching from the shadow of birches. As the smoke swirled between them the animal turned and disappeared. To the west the valley flattened into the estuary and the wind brought a tang of salt from the incoming tide.
The chute on the bridge was checked and Andrew was walking down towards the shop when he saw Jessie outside the school. Just like the last time he’d seen her, he felt the shock. She was carrying some boxes into the building, and he quickened his pace to catch up to her before she disappeared.