The Unforgiving Sea (The Searight Saga Book 2)

by Rupert Colley

  ‘Are you wanting anything, William?’ asked Mrs Hamilton.

  The boy shook his head. With hands in pocket, he sauntered out and left, the shop bell tinkling in his wake.

  I thanked Mrs Hamilton for the groceries and paid my bill. ‘So, do you know, Mrs Hamilton, what happened to Joanna?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The German woman? Owen’s wife.’ She knew full well who I meant.

  ‘Oh, her,’ she said as if she’d just swallowed something unpleasant. ‘No idea. One day she was here, the next she was gone.’

  ‘And you have no idea where she went?’

  ‘No, none at all.’

  Mr Hamilton appeared from the back, wearing his long brown apron, his grey hair slicked back. Pushing aside a bead curtain, he took his place beside his wife behind the counter. ‘Hello, Robert. You’re asking about Joanna, I hear.’

  His wife tidied a display of chocolate bars. ‘I hadn’t realised we’d sold so many of these,’ she said to herself.

  ‘Yes. I’ve just been to her cottage.’

  ‘You won’t find her there.’

  ‘No forwarding address?’

  ‘No. She left… how should I say it, in somewhat of a hurry.’

  ‘Did she? Why was that?’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Now, is there anything else we can help you with?’

  ‘What? Well, yes, as I’m here, I could do with a couple tins of dog meat.’

  *

  Back at home, I had a visitor – my friend Gregory, a short man with round spectacles and a wild sweep of blond hair, wisps of which lay on the collar of his jacket.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, he accepted my offer of tea and asked me, stuttering, whether I was pleased to be back.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It m-must have been awful out there.’ Angie sniffed his shoes.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t want t-to t-talk about it. I understand.’

  ‘Yeah, I don’t want to appear rude but…’

  ‘You’re not ready.’

  I nodded. ‘Here, your tea. Angie, get away.’ I sat down opposite him.

  ‘S-she’s alright,’ he said, stroking her.

  ‘How’s it going with you, Gregory? Still teaching kids the piano?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s bloody painful, t-to be honest. The mothers all think their kids are mini-M-Mozarts yet most of them don’t know the difference between a qu-quaver and a crochet h-however many times I tell them. But it p-pays my way so I mustn’t complain. I’ve got one girl, though, well, a woman.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘S-she’s called, called, she’s called R-R-Rebecca.’

  I knew by the way he had such difficulty saying her name that this Rebecca had taken my friend’s fancy.

  ‘Nice, is she?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, well, you c-could say that.’ He sipped his tea.

  ‘Pretty?’

  ‘S-she’s very good on the p-piano. Well, m-maybe not so good.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Sorry, old man.’ Angie sauntered back to her dog basket next to the stove and, after much scratching and rummaging, settled down.

  ‘So, how m-much leave you’ve got?’

  ‘Four weeks. Time, they said, to help me get over the ordeal.’

  ‘Is that enough?’

  ‘They could give me four years and it still wouldn’t be enough.’ I swept some breakfast crumbs off the table. ‘Tell me, do you know what happened to Joanna?’

  ‘Owen’s wife? No but I know p-people didn’t l-like her.’

  ‘What do you mean? She was fine the last time I saw here.’

  ‘I don’t know. Suddenly people t-took against her b-because of her accent. German.’

  ‘Yes, I know that. I hear June’s husband is back soon.’

  ‘N-not for long, I h-hope, the low life. June is a nice w-woman; she’d be better off without h-him. L-listen, do you fancy c-coming out fox hunting with me?’

  ‘Fox hunting?’

  ‘My d-dad’s lent me his hunting gun and lamp. There’s a fox who keeps terrorizing my c-chickens. The b-bugger even managed to kill a couple. I don’t k-know how. He breaks into the p-pen.’

  ‘Perhaps the slats are too wide apart.’

  ‘Perhaps. Listen to this…’ Placing two fingers in his mouth, he proceeded to make a strange high-pitched mewing noise. The effect on Angie, dozing in her basket, was electric. She sprung up, her ears alert, her tail erect, and darted manically round the kitchen, yelping, her nose to the ground. I laughed – what was she doing, the silly thing?

  ‘What in the Dickens was that?’ I asked once Gregory had finished.

  ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ he said, grinning. ‘My dad t-taught me – it sounds like a wounded rabbit.’

  ‘Ha! I’ve never heard a wounded rabbit but I’m impressed.’

  ‘Well, it certainly f-fooled Angie. Look at her.’ The dog was still in a state of high excitement, following her nose, the fur on her back standing on end, sniffing out the source of the noise.

  ‘Angie, calm down, there’re no rabbits here. Can you fire a gun?’

  ‘Of course. Well, I haven’t tried for years but when I was a k-kid, I did. T-the night after t-tomorrow, after dark. F-fancy it, then?’

  ‘Yeah, why not?’

  After Gregory had gone, Angie continued prowling round, sniffing every conceivable place.

  Poor Gregory. He was obviously smitten with this Rebecca. I’d never heard him mention a girl before and I knew full well that he’d never had a girlfriend; aged twenty-three, the man was still a virgin. I wondered what she was like, whether there was any chance that she might like her piano tutor.

  It was time, I decided, for a spot of lunch. Oh, the joy of being able to decide to eat, and to decide what to eat, and to eat from a plate at a table with a knife and fork. It’s amazing how one longed for these little things when they are out of reach and denied to one.

  So, I wondered, what could have happened to Joanna? Why did she leave? She had a job, a home and a supportive community around her, or so I thought. What had made her up and disappear, apparently, from what I could tell, rather suddenly?

  I went to bed early but couldn’t sleep – too many memories. I had lived – they had not. I should have died alongside them; I had no right to have survived. I felt as if I had been handed a second chance and that, as a result, I should make the most of the rest of my life, as if I should venture out into the world and explore all its delights from one continent to another. But, if truth be known, I was a little scared by the prospect – the world out there seemed a frightening place. I simply wanted to hunker down and hide away from everyone and everything.

  Chapter 17

  I paused at the garden gate, my hand on its latch. I had spent many an hour on the boat remembering my childhood home, enjoying bouts of nostalgia which could keep my mind occupied for hours on end. Oftentimes, I honestly believed I’d never see the place again. But now that I was here I was surprised by how little emotion I felt. I’d expected to be overwhelmed by relief, by my childhood memories, and especially by the anticipation of seeing my parents again. I felt none of these things. Indeed, I felt gripped by an obscure sense of dread. Having seen the house, satisfied it was still there as I had remembered, and safe in the knowledge that my parents would be inside, I had to fight the urge to turn tail and flee. The house was certainly handsome – red-bricked, tall chimneys, arched windows with leaded grilles, trails of ivy. It had character but I couldn’t decide what – by day it resembled a vicarage but by night it had a more Gothic feel, where one might spy a young girl in a white nightdress peering anxiously out of the window. It reflected my father perfectly – solidly middle class, grand in an understated way and proudly old-fashioned, sure of its place in the world. But it was my mother who took the greatest pride in her home. ‘A million miles,’ she would say, ‘from the damp-ridden outhouse that was my home on the west coast of Ireland.’ My mother had put great effort in di
stancing herself from her humble origins, embracing the life of the wife of a middle-ranking, besuited governmental bureaucrat, a ‘bourgeois pen-pusher,’ as my father once described himself in a rare moment of self-deprecation. Occasionally, if she was particularly tired or if one listened carefully, one could detect the hint of an Irish accent. It was a fine house to grow up in – Clarence and I had the woodland behind all to ourselves, perfect for tree houses, swings and hide and seek, and a stream that masqueraded as a river. Rare was the day, whatever the season, that my mother didn’t exclaim at our dirty knees. The house had always seemed big but surely now, without two boys running amok, it was too big for our genteel parents. But it was theirs, it was paid for, and I knew the upheaval of moving would be too insurmountable a prospect to even contemplate. As children, we had an elderly couple who lived in and, between them, did everything – cooked, cleaned, washed, stitched and mended. But on my father’s retirement, they too finally took retirement. ‘We can cope on our own now,’ declared my father, and promptly left everything to my mother.

  Finally, I pushed open the gate and, closing it behind me, stepped onto the gravelled path. The lawn either side of the path leading to the porch was, as always, finely manicured and the honeysuckle bush as resplendent as ever. My father had always insisted on an impeccably-clean garden, especially the front, exposed as it was to the visitors he never received, and employed a gardener all year round to see to it.

  Halfway up the path, I saw the flutter of a downstairs curtain and, seconds later, the front door opening. ‘Robert!’ screeched my mother, waving at me from the porch. She’d dressed up for me – a long blue skirt, a dark green blouse with a matching necklace. ‘It’s really you. Praise be! Robert, let me take a look at you. Oh, my dear boy. Come here and give your mother a hug.’

  ‘Hello, Mum.’ We embraced. Her skin, which had always defied the years, still looked smooth, her hair as long as ever, carefully plaited.

  ‘Oh, Robert, I can’t tell you… we thought we’d lost both of you. It’s been so… just so difficult.’

  ‘I can imagine. I’m sorry.’

  ‘What are you apologizing for?’

  ‘It’s OK, Mum. Don’t cry now, don’t cry.’

  She thumped me playfully on the chest. ‘You almost die in the middle of the ocean and you tell me not to cry. Robbie, I’ve cried so much in the last weeks I could have made my own ocean.’

  ‘How’s Father?’ I’d always called my father ‘father’ while calling my mother ‘mum’. Habits die hard.

  ‘Looking forward to seeing you. We weren’t sure what time to expect you. He’s in the drawing room having his mid-morning nap. Come, let’s go in; I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  Inside, we sat down at the kitchen table. I used to love the kitchen as a child, spending hours at the huge old table, drawing and writing stories. It was high-ceilinged with heavy beams decorated with brass plaques; the fireplace was so big that as kids, during the summer when it remained unlit, Clarence and I used to hide behind the stove. During the winter, the heat it gave off was wonderfully intense and comforting.

  ‘Can you come also for lunch on Friday?’

  ‘Yes, guess so. My time is my own for now.’

  ‘Good. I’ve invited your Uncle Guy and Aunt Jo. They can’t wait to see you.’

  ‘Yeah, that’d be great.’

  ‘Robert, I know…’ She scooped up a tea towel. Twisting it in her hand, she continued. ‘I know you have a tale to tell, about your experiences and everything, but…’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum, I won’t tell it.’

  ‘Oh but, Robert, you’re probably dying to–’

  ‘No. I had to tell it often enough to the debriefing chaps. I don’t need to tell it again.’

  ‘It must have been awful, I know, but I can’t face it, Robert. I’m not strong enough to hear what ordeals my poor boys underwent. I want to believe that Clarence died without pain, that he quietly slipped away but I’m not naïve; I know he would have suffered.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Did he mention me?’ she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  ‘Of course. You were never far from our thoughts.’

  She bit her knuckle and almost staggering took a seat at the kitchen table beside me. Taking my hand, she whispered, ‘I know the two of you didn’t always get on but he was a good boy; you both were. I was awfully proud of you both, you know that, don’t you, Robert?’

  I patted her hand, forcing a smile. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘You were such lovely boys, always so considerate. Different though, both so different.’ She smiled, her eyes faraway. ‘Robert, I don’t know what day he died on. What day did Clarence die?’

  ‘June the second.’

  ‘June the second,’ she repeated slowly, as if mulling the date round her mind. ‘June the second, 1944. Thank you.’

  ‘Father’s napping still?’

  ‘Yes. Poor Lawrence.’ She picked up the saltcellar, turning it around in the palm of her hand, eyeing it as if seeing it for the first time. I remembered it. It’d been there for as long as I could remember. In fact, looking round, there was nothing in the kitchen that was new. Nothing had changed – the clock on the wall decorated with a hen, the ceiling hooks on which hung various kitchen utensils, the portrait of the king, and a souvenir coronation cup and saucer. My Irish mother had always embraced the Royal Family with a passion. ‘It’s been difficult for him too, of course. He sleeps a lot now. Always early to bed. He used to be such a night owl.’

  ‘Has he talked about it?’

  She shook her head. ‘I wish he had.’ She looked at me, her eyes filled with wistfulness. ‘You know your father – never been a talker. But this, what happened to Clarence, has driven him into a corner so dark, so far away, I’ve lost him altogether.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Placing the saltcellar neatly beside the pepper pot, she continued. ‘He doesn’t think that perhaps I need to talk, that holding this sadness inside me, never being able to give voice to it, is torture for me. What can I do?’

  ‘Your sister? Uncle Guy? They don’t live that far.’

  Sighing, she let her head fall back. ‘I know. But it’s not the same. Grief – it doesn’t announce its arrival. I’ll be hanging out the washing when suddenly it creeps up on me and takes my breath away. I find myself in floods of tears while a pile of wet underwear fall at my feet. That’s when I need my husband but no…’ Fishing out a handkerchief from her skirt pocket, she wrapped it round her forefinger until it resembled a bandage, unaware, I think, of what she was doing. ‘I’ve known grief like this before.’

  ‘Uncle Jack?’

  ‘Jack Searight. Killed at seventeen. Still a boy. Just a boy…’

  ‘Are you OK, Mum?’

  ‘What? Yes, yes. I’m sorry. It was all a long time ago. Robert, please go see your father now.’

  ‘Of course. Perhaps then you could make that tea.’

  She laughed. ‘Oh my goodness. What a mother I am. Silly me. You go now.’

  *

  I found my father, as mother had said, in the drawing room. The curtains were drawn but a crack illuminated the familiar room. I caught a shadow of my reflection in the huge gilt-edged mirror above the mantelpiece. The ornate clock flanked by cupids which my father always loved and my mother found overly ostentatious, showed a few minutes to eleven o’clock. Father, his legs crossed, in his corduroy trousers and V-necked jumper, was sprawled in the armchair, his glasses resting on a newspaper open face downwards on his lap. Next to him, on the small rounded table, a cup and saucer, a few crumbs of a biscuit or two, his pipe resting in an ashtray. He looked older than I remembered – his face heavily lined, his beard almost grey. I realised I felt the familiar twinge of anxiety – that old feeling I had so frequently as a child, the sense of having done something wrong, but having no idea what it was, the fearful anticipation of being berated. Everything about the room was how I remembered it, a pair of prints depi
cting finely-dressed Japanese ladies, the bookshelves, a bonsai tree, the standard lamp.

  My presence was enough to stir my father. He opened his eyes and seeing a figure before him, squinted. ‘Clarence? Clarence, is that you?’

  This wasn’t a good start, I thought. ‘No, Father, it’s me, Robert.’

  He sat up, fumbling for his glasses, his hands trembling. ‘No, it can’t be,’ he said with a nervous laugh. ‘Don’t be daft.’

  I waited as he put his glasses on. On seeing me, his hand clutched his heart. ‘Oh, God, I thought…’ he said breathlessly. ‘Oh my, it’s you. Oh, my Lord.’ Sitting forward, he clasped his temples. The newspaper slid off his lap. He muttered my brother’s name numerous times.

  I stood, as nervous as a child before his headmaster, wondering whether to apologise, when I realised my mother had joined me.

  ‘Lawrence, it’s Robert.’

  He looked up at us, a fury within his eyes. ‘I can bloody well see who it is. It’s Robert. Welcome back,’ he said in a tone that implied he didn’t mean it. ‘Welcome back. You survived. I thought you were…’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But Clarence didn’t survive, did he? No, you survived – he didn’t.’

  ‘And you know that, Lawrence.’

  ‘I hoped… Aren’t those his clothes? I recognise that jacket.’

  ‘My clothes are too–’

  He sprung up from his chair. ‘What are you doing wearing his clothes? The boy’s dead and you’re–’

  ‘Lawrence, stop this. Stop this now.’

  He scooped up the newspaper off the floor. ‘I wish to be left alone.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to welcome your son home?’

  Leaning against the mantelpiece, his back to us, he said, ‘I’ve said it, haven’t I? I’ll hang out some bunting later. Now, leave. Please.’