The Unforgiving Sea (The Searight Saga Book 2)

by Rupert Colley

  I told myself to ration out my provisions for a few days at least – I knew it could take a while before anything appeared to rescue me. But, unable to restrain myself, I ate everything, bar the sweets, over the course of the day, washed down with the water. Afterwards, as evening began to fall, I felt bloated and drunk and very, very happy. My stomach hurt and I feared I would puke it all up again. But I managed not to.

  Revitalized, I decided it was now time to take leave of Owen. He was stiff to the touch. How ugly we look in death. Not that it mattered to him now. I grunted and groaned as I dragged him to the side of the boat. Having swung his legs over, which remained suspended in the air, I hoisted the rest of him up and over, and watched as he sunk into the water with a splash. ‘Goodbye, old mate. You saved me. Thank you for everything.’ I played with the ring on my thumb. ‘I’ll make sure she gets it.’

  Returning to the centre section of the boat, I lay down, popped a boiled sweet into my mouth and, closing my eyes, starting dreaming about Alice. But no, I thought, as I rolled the sweet round in my mouth, that was too painful. So instead I dreamt about Angie. The thought of my little Jack Russell dog caused me to smile, cracking my lips, for the first time in weeks.

  Chapter 15

  Taking his glasses off, Major Bryant considered me, rubbing the distinctly red bridge on his nose. To his left Private Jones finished writing up the last few words and to his right Doctor Karr took a sip of water only to spill some of it on his pristine white coat. The fan spun above us. Outside, an old bent man in baggy grey clothes was escorting a mule and cart, the cart laden with bananas. Two boys speeded past either side on bicycles, both blowing whistles, causing the mule to momentarily rear its head.

  ‘Interesting,’ said the major. ‘Like I said earlier, there were forty-two of you on the ship, plus the two coolies, ten on the boat. And you were the only one to survive.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘So, within twenty-fours of being spotted by the Liberator, you were picked up by…’ He consulted his notes. ‘By a Norwegian tanker.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Doctor Karr cleared his throat. ‘What a relief that must’ve been. They looked after you well?’

  ‘Very well. I had a wash, cleaned my blackened teeth, got a new set of clothes and slept in their infirmary where I was set up with a drip and my skin covered in various creams. They fed me soup, and allowed me to sleep. And boy, did I sleep.’

  The doctor laughed. ‘I bet.’

  ‘Altogether, a harrowing experience, Searight.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Those U-boats are lethal and they’re run by very experienced men. The ones we’re seeing at the moment are, according to our sources, armed with six 21-inch torpedo tubes and can carry twenty-two torpedoes. You bump into one of those and, as you found out to your cost, there’s likely to be only one outcome. Shame about the mules. They would have proved useful. You still have Gardner’s ring?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s quite a list, isn’t it?’ He picked up his sheet of paper on which he’d written all the names of the men on the boat. ‘To recap – John Clair went mad and died, David Rodríguez Felipe was pushed overboard, Charlie Palmer and Leo Arbatov were lost to the storm, Bernard Swann went for a swim, Edward Davison was taken by a shark, Miles Hodgkin, your senior officer, was killed by Harris Beckett, while Beckett himself was killed, in self-defence it has to be emphasised, by you and Owen Gardner, while Gardner just died from, well, let’s say starvation.’ He paused, casting his eyes over the list of names. ‘It reads like something Agatha Christie would’ve written. What’s the name of that book, Private Jones? You’ve read it.’

  ‘And Then There Were None.’

  ‘Ah, yes, thank you. And Then There Were None. Or, in your case, Searight, And Then There Was One.’

  I felt myself shrink under his scrutinizing gaze.

  Clearing his throat, he continued. ‘Now, the ship went down on June the second. We know because that’s when we lost all radio contact with the Academic. We would have sent a rescue but I’m afraid we had an even bigger crisis nearby. And according to Captain Egeland from the Norwegian tanker, you were picked up on the fourteenth of June, ten days ago. So, I make that a total of thirteen days you were adrift.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Yet, according to my notes, the food, pitiful as it was, ran out on the sixth day.’ Turning to his left, he asked, ‘Is that what you’ve got, Jones?’

  Sophie Jones flipped through her notes, quickly turning back the pages of her spiral bound notebook. ‘Yes, that’s correct, sir. Day six.’

  ‘That means, Searight, you went seven days without a bite to eat. Not a – single – bite – to – eat,’ he said, accentuating each word. ‘Is that correct?’

  I nodded.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said yes sir, that’s correct.’

  ‘And you didn’t exactly have much to eat on the first six days. It’s remarkable given your circumstances – the salt water, the heat, the sun, et cetera, et cetera, that you managed to survive at all.’

  ‘Miraculous, I’d say,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Yes, exactly, thank you, Doctor Karr.’

  Karr addressed me. ‘You told me, Robert, you didn’t know how heavy you were to begin with. But we reckoned,’ he continued, turning to the major, ‘assuming an average weight for a man of Robert’s size and age, that he lost about thirty pounds during the ordeal.’

  ‘Mm. Two and a bit stones. Could have been worse, I suppose. You’re one very lucky man, Searight.’

  ‘I appreciate that, sir. I thought I was going to die,’ I said, rather too loudly. Private Jones looked up from her notebook, her eyebrows raised. ‘At various stages, like I told you, I wanted to die. It couldn’t have been any worse.’

  ‘Yes, all right, Searight,’ said Bryant, palms face up. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not trying to imply anything. I just want to make sure we have the story as straight as possible. After all, it’s now my unpleasant duty to write to each of the next of kin and inform them that their son or husband, whoever, is dead. Although I have absolutely no details for the Spaniard or the Indian chaps. Concerning the other eight men on the boat, I shall keep it vague. No one needs to know the details. You got everything, Jones? Good. Well, thank you, Searight. You’ve been very thorough. I apologise if this has been difficult for you but it’s done now. We’ve detained you long enough. Unless there’s anything else you want to add, you’re free to go.’

  ‘No, sir, I can’t think of anything else. Nothing that springs to mind.’ I stood up, self-consciously straightening my jacket and patting my pockets. ‘Thank you, sir.’ I nodded my thanks to Doctor Karr and Private Jones. They both half smiled back at me. I glanced up at the portrait of the king.

  Removing his glasses, Bryant said, ‘I understand you’ll be heading back to England in a couple of weeks. Once home, you’ll have twenty-eight days’ leave. Something to look forward to, I would’ve thought.’

  Yes, I thought, it was. Very much so. After all, I had to see someone about a ring.

  Part Two: The Village

  A Village in Devon, Southern England, August 1944

  Chapter 16

  Unsurprisingly, the morning after my welcome home do at the White Ship, I woke up with a sore head. I opened my eyes to find Angie lying at the foot of the bed. She squirmed up, her short tail wagging, and licked my face. Exactly the same routine as before. Funny how dogs never forget. I wondered whether she’d done the same during her extended stay with Jenkins. I rather hoped not.

  The memories of the party the night before came back to me – Gregory playing the piano and Mr Jenkins, the headmaster, mentioning a football match and saying Owen’s wife had left the village: She just upped and left one day, he’d said. Didn’t even have the decency to hand in her notice. The house is empty. I remembered how Abigail, Parker’s daughter, had grown and her mother, June, escorting me home.

  Stumbling downstairs, I looked
through Mr Hamilton’s cache of groceries, half of which he’d placed in the fridge. There was bacon, bread, tomatoes, eggs, tea, milk and sugar. Perfect – apart from the bacon.

  I liked the kitchen. Being small it maintained the heat during the winter, yet, with thick walls, remained cool during summer. It had a bulky dresser decorated with cake tins I never used, a large sink, and dominated by a large green stove. I half expected to see Clarence. I almost called out to him to ask whether he fancied a cup of tea. Poor old Clarence. I had to face my parents some point.

  Feeling revived after a hefty breakfast, I ambled across the village square to the public telephone box. I rang my parents. My mother answered – she always did. She screeched on hearing my voice, berated me for not telling her I was coming home and told me she hadn’t stopped crying since she’d received the telegram about Clarence. I listened, twisting the phone wire round my fingers. The pips went; I had no more change. She told me to come round for lunch today. I couldn’t face it and managed to postpone it twenty-four hours. It was a date, she said as the line went dead.

  Returning home, I dug out my old bicycle from the shed at the back of the house, put Angie in the little basket at the front, and cycled the steep hill up to the moor gate. Leaving the bike at the gate, Angie and I went for a bracing walk. The sun peeked out from behind a pure white cloud; the grass was as green as it could be. My word, it was good to breathe in the moor air, to feel the grass beneath my feet, to watch Angie running round in circles, randomly sniffing at things. I’d been looking forward to this for weeks. Often, on the boat, I would dream of walking on the moor, brushing my hand against the bracken, of breathing in the pure moorland air. I dreamt of walking along the granite wall that ran along the path, of going up to the field with the piebald horse. She was still there. She came trotting up to me, shaking her head, as if she recognised me. I held out my palm with a sugar lump and laughed at the feeling of her bristly lips on my skin as she scooped up the lump. Lurking behind me, Angie growled at her.

  I picked up a stick and threw it for Angie. She ignored it entirely, too busy with her own business. I walked up the hill, not too far, and on reaching a familiar spot, a small mound of stones, I sat down and admired the view. Angie trotted up and sat beside me, panting. There, in the distance, was the town of Brent-in-the-Moor with its church spire clear to the eye. If one squints, one can follow the route of the railway line. Sure enough, a train passed, billowing steam, barely audible from this distance. I traced its course as it disappeared and re-appeared from the trees in the valley, across a viaduct and through Brent. Beyond the village, it turned a corner and faded out of view, its steam the only evidence that it had passed. It had a long journey ahead of it – all the way to London, some two hundred miles or more.

  I closed my eyes and revelled in the utter silence. I had longed for this stillness. We spent long periods on the boat in silence but it wasn’t the same. The sense of anxiety never left one; the sound of the sea and the boat was always there, menacing even when calm. But this, this was heaven. I felt myself relax as I breathed in the freshness of the air. The navy had granted me four weeks’ leave in order to recuperate, to use their word. I planned to do absolutely nothing, except perhaps paint the fence in front of the house, and enjoy these weeks of peace. I deserved it.

  The only sound was that of Angie’s jaws snapping shut as she tried, unsuccessfully, to catch a wasp. ‘You silly thing,’ I said, patting her on the back. I waved at an elderly couple walking further down the hill, their Golden Labrador bounding up the hill to greet Angie. They waved back. Angie had no interest and growled at the dog. The man called his dog back.

  Walking home, I wondered how I would find Joanna. Surely, she must have left a forwarding address, otherwise how would Owen, had he survived, have found her?

  I cycled back down the hill into the village, perhaps too fast as Angie, in her basket perched above the front wheel, looked somewhat worried, her ears flapping in the wind. I slowed down as I entered the village square. I spied Abigail and a boy of about eighteen loitering inside the bus shelter, Abigail sitting on the bench while the boy hovered over her in what, to my eyes, appeared a rather intimidating stance. I guessed this must have been Dan. I jumped off the bike and pushed it. He was a big chap, strong-looking with thick arms, thick black hair, wearing a red-checked shirt. They did not give the impression of being love’s young dream. Indeed, Abigail seemed to be crying. ‘You wouldn’t speak like that if Dad was around,’ I heard her say. Of course, I thought, her father – Pete Parker, due back on leave any day.

  ‘Yeah, but he isn’t, is he?’

  On seeing me, Dan stepped back, muttered something and left. I noticed he walked with a limp.

  ‘You OK?’ I asked her, pausing at the bus shelter.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said with a petulant shrug of the shoulders.

  Sensing it wise not to push her, I remounted and cycled away.

  I cycled over to Joanna’s cottage. She lived on the outskirts of the village; a quarter of a mile past the village shop. The house did indeed look deserted. The garden gate had become unhinged and I had to lift it in order to push it open. The small area of grass either side of the path was overgrown with brambles and stinging nettles, but the house itself looked in good nick – the window sills looked freshly painted, although the flower pots next to the front door were in poor health. Placing Angie on the ground, she skipped round my feet as I knocked on the door despite knowing it was pointless. Sure enough, no answer. Raising the flap, I peered through the letterbox into the darkened interior; I peeked through windows but the curtains were drawn at each one. Pushing open the garden gate, I went through to the back garden. Still no sign of life. On the trellis table was a cup; a patch of mould had grown inside. The branches of an apple tree pushed against the panes of an upstairs window. The back door was locked. I wondered whether I should return with the ring in an envelope and push it through the letterbox, but I had the feeling she had gone for good.

  From Joanna’s, I cycled the short distance to June’s house.

  She opened her door and seemed pleased to see me. ‘Good night last night, weren’t it? Have you recovered?’ she asked, leaning against the doorframe, accentuating the shape of her hip.

  I laughed. ‘I came to apologise–’

  ‘Don’t be silly; we all have one too many every now and then.’

  ‘It was more than the one.’

  ‘Well, Robert, if anyone deserves it, it’s you after all you’ve been through.’

  ‘Well, I just wanted to say thank you for looking after me and getting me home in one piece.’

  ‘Robert, I was wondering…’ She glanced back indoors, as if making sure she wouldn’t be overheard. ‘Would you like to come over for dinner? Perhaps on Wednesday?’

  ‘Erm, well, yes, that’d be lovely. Thank you.’

  ‘Shall we say seven o’clock?’

  ‘Sure. It’s a date.’

  Another date.

  *

  Returning home, I stopped off at the shop. Outside, in front of its large windows, shaded by a red and white stripped tarpaulin, a small display of vegetables fresh and, mostly, not so fresh. Inside, Mrs Hamilton, her hair in curlers, was serving a young woman whose son lurked near the door. Upon the counter was a display of cereal packets, alongside a set of scales. A ladder rested against the stacks of shelves. Having made her purchases, including a wax bag of assorted sweets, the woman walked out but not the boy. I realised then they weren’t together. A freckly chap, about eight or nine, he wore long grey shorts and an oversized herring-bone jacket that looked as if it belonged to an adult. The poor boy; one could tell at a glance he was a loner.