The Unforgiving Sea (The Searight Saga Book 2)

by Rupert Colley

  ‘I know it might seem a bit soon; I know we haven’t–’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes? – it’s too soon or…’

  ‘No, silly, yes, I’m saying yes.’ I realised she was quietly crying. With her mascara running, she said, ‘I’ll be your wife.’

  *

  The following day, I invited Alice over and together we visited my parents to tell them the good news. This was something, I decided, that couldn’t be done over the telephone. My mother screeched and hugged us both. My father shook me by the hand and pecked Alice on the cheek. ‘I’m pleased,’ he said. ‘You’ll make a lovely couple. I’m sure.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Father,’ I said, taken aback by his uncharacteristic show of affection.

  Clarence, on hearing the news later that day, said, rather gushingly, ‘Great stuff. I’ll be hoping for lots of little nephews and nieces.’

  ‘Give us chance,’ I laughed.

  ‘I rather see myself as Uncle Clarence.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alice. ‘I’m sure you’ll make a lovely uncle. Not all uncles are necessarily loathsome creatures.’

  ‘I should hope not,’ said Clarence, slightly affronted.

  And so, my fiancée and I began to make arrangements. We met the vicar from Alice’s village and set a date for a church wedding. My mother, according to my father, was pulling out her every dress and trying them on. I went round in a happy daze, unencumbered by thoughts of war and death. I’d met the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, and I couldn’t have been happier.

  *

  About a month later, on a Thursday afternoon in June, I received a phone call at work. It was Alice’s father. ‘Robert,’ he said, his voice sounding breathless. ‘There’s been an accident. It’s Alice.’ My heart stopped. ‘She’s driven into a tree.’

  ‘Oh Lord. Is she all right?’

  ‘Yes, she’s fine – all things considered. It could’ve been a lot worse.’

  Clarence shouted from the kitchen. ‘Fancy a cuppa, Robert?’

  ‘Shh, be quiet, man.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘No, not you, Mr Redman. Is she hurt?’

  ‘Nothing long term, and nothing broken, thank heavens.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She’s in City Hospital in Plymouth. Her mother and I have just come back from seeing her.’ I heard him suck on his pipe. ‘She’s in shock still and awfully weak, and in quite a bit of pain, I fear.’

  ‘I’ll go and see her now.’

  ‘No, steady on, old boy. Visiting times will have finished by the time you get there. And… well, the thing is… she told me to say… try not to take this too personally, but she said she’d rather not see you for a while.’

  ‘Oh.’ I felt myself slump. ‘Oh. W-why… why is that? Did – did she say?’

  ‘I’m afraid she didn’t. Mrs Redman reckons it’s probably a vanity thing. You know, not wanting you to see her in such a state. She’s badly bruised up, the poor love.’

  ‘Yes, I… I suppose. Of course that’s probably it.’

  ‘Absolutely. Now, I know it’s been a bit of a shock, it’s been a shock for all of us, but she’s being well looked after. She’ll be fine. Which is more than I can say about the car,’ he added quietly.

  ‘Tony!’ came a voice in the background. ‘Is that all you can think about?’

  ‘No, of course not, dear.’ Mr Redman’s voice had become muffled as he placed his hand over the receiver.

  ‘Mr Redman? Mr Redman?’ I said louder.

  ‘Hmm? Sorry, what was that?’

  ‘Mr Redman, will she be OK for the wedding?’

  ‘Oh that.’ Yes, that, I thought. ‘That’s another couple months off, isn’t it? She’ll be fine by then. I’ll let you know if there’s any updates. Cheerio for now.’

  ‘Will you send my…’

  Too late; he’d hung up.

  ‘Bad news, I take it,’ said Clarence, bearing two mugs of tea.

  *

  The following day, I called the hospital from the village phone box to enquire about visiting times, then rang work and told them I had an emergency to see to. I donned one of my finer suits, combed my hair, and went to catch the bus to Plymouth. With my brother’s encouragement, I’d decided I would visit, whatever she or her father had said. ‘She’s your fiancée, damn it,’ Clarence had said. ‘You have every right to see her for yourself.’

  I bought a bunch of flowers from a street seller outside the hospital on Lipson Road.

  From reception, I was told I would find Miss Redman on Ward Six on the third floor. I paused outside the swing doors, took a deep breath and felt my fingers tighten round the stems of the flowers. I almost lost my nerve when the door swung open and a nurse walked straight into me. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘No, I mean, well… yes.’

  ‘Who have you come to see?’

  ‘A Miss Redman.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  I had to skip a step or two across the linoleum floor merely to keep up as I was marched through the ward past rows of beds occupied by women of various ages. She delivered me to a bed at the far end near a large window overlooking a patio courtyard. Beneath the window a radiator, cold to the touch, and at the end of the bed a clipboard. ‘A visitor, Miss Redman,’ she announced loudly.

  ‘Thank you, nurse,’ I muttered.

  ‘Sister, if you please,’ she said before making a brisk exit.

  ‘Robert?’ Lifelessly, she lay propped up by several pillows. Over her knees a bed tray on which rested her uneaten breakfast of tea and toast.

  ‘Alice, my love, how are you?’ She had a white bandage wrapped several times round her head almost obscuring her eyes, from which streaks of matted hair poked out. Her left eye was black and swollen, her cheeks red and puffy, her lips were thin and devoid of colour.

  ‘I’ve been better,’ she muttered.

  ‘I know you said… that I wasn’t to come but…’

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s good to see you.’ She reached out her hand but then dropped it again as if the effort was too much.

  ‘I simply had to come see you.’

  She patted the bed. I sat and took her hand. Above her on the wall a poster depicting a pair of hands washing proclaimed ‘Cleanliness is our best friend’.

  ‘Your father rang me last night. He told me what happened; that you’d had an accident. I’ve been worried sick. You look… you look terribly tired, darling.’

  ‘I am. I can’t talk. Tell me what you’ve been up to.’

  ‘Me? Well, erm… there’s not much to say really…’ Nonetheless, I prattled on about work, about life in the village, about what was happening in the news, but I could tell she was too weak to listen. After a while, aware I was tiring her out too much, I ran out of steam. I stroked her hand. ‘I’ll come back – when you’re stronger, yeah?’

  She nodded, her eyes half closed. ‘Yes, I’d like that. I’m sorry. Perhaps the day after tomorrow.’

  Chapter 27

  I’d just fed Angie when I heard the knock on my door. There, I found Gregory, visibly wrought, his face flushed. ‘Something’s wrong?’ I asked as, without waiting to be asked, he barged past me into the house. I noticed the crack in the right lens of his glasses – a result of Parker’s football boot.

  ‘Something’s wrong all r-right,’ he said. ‘Some reprobate’s thrown rubbish all over my front garden.’

  ‘What? Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m bloody sure – you can’t exactly miss it. Litter strewn all over the place. Must be about three binfulls of the stuff. It’s disgusting. I know he’s an idiot, but why would he do that?’

  ‘He?’

  ‘Oh come on, Robert, it’s obvious. We know it’s Parker, or one of his henchmen.’

  ‘And the neighbours, have they–’

  ‘No, just me.’ He sat down at my kitchen table and pushed Angie away.

  ‘You should call
the police,’ I suggested, knowing his response.

  ‘What would be the point in that? It’s only litter, after all. And I’ve no proof. I know it was him but I didn’t see him do it. The man’s a thug as well as an idiot.’ He stood to leave. ‘Anyway, I’m not staying. The real reason I came was to tell you I’ve just had a visit from Rebecca. She’s cancelled all her lessons.’

  ‘Has she? What for?’

  ‘I’ve put her off, haven’t I? I always put women off. It’s not right. How is it a thug like Parker can attract a lovely woman like June while me… lovely Gregory, who’s so nice and kind, Gregory who wouldn’t hurt a fly, Gregory who’s nice to old ladies, and so polite. It doesn’t get me anywhere though, does it? I can’t attract a woman for all the t-tea in China.’

  ‘You’re being too harsh on yourself. She won’t have cancelled because of you – she’s probably too busy or realised she’s not good enough or something, or…’

  ‘No, it’s because of me. Yesterday, I tried to… I can’t tell you, it’s too embarrassing.’ He thumped himself on the thigh with frustration. ‘You didn’t help either.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Come on, Robert; don’t play the innocent with me. You know I like her but it didn’t stop you, did it? Flirting with her like that. She was all over you at Parker’s do.’

  ‘No, Gregory, listen, you misunderstand–’

  ‘Oh, I always misunderstand. I’m incapable of reading the signals. I’m just the village idiot.’

  ‘That’s quite a claim.’

  He glared at me. ‘Sorry,’ I muttered.

  ‘Yeah, not funny, Robert; not funny at all.’

  It was only after he’d left that I realised in his anger he’d lost his stutter.

  *

  I decided to explore. I wanted to work out where William went to on his bike. Leaving Angie at home, I took my bicycle and headed towards where I’d seen him go a couple days before. The sun was out but there was still a chill in the breeze as I cycled through the village and down the lane. Finding the rutted track, I pushed my bike up the steep incline, and around the corner. On reaching the top, I spied in the distance a barn, a lone building amongst the fields. Remounting, I cycled along the bumpy track. Leaving the bike propped up outside, I pushed open the heavy barn doors and peered inside. Lines of sun slanted through the slats, catching the motes of dust. The place felt deserted. The mud-packed floor was strewn with cardboard boxes, old brown newspapers and rusty cans. In the middle was an ancient car, a Ford, one of its windows smashed, its bonnet open revealing a rusted engine. Looking inside the car, I could see the seats had been ripped, exposing the springs inside. Elsewhere, planks of wood lay around in higgledy-piggledy piles, an old wheelbarrow, mounds of discarded tools, a coil of rope and, propped up against the barn wall, a long ladder.

  I thought I saw movement. A figure, a person.

  From out of the dimness, someone, a woman, spoke. Whoa, I clutched my heart – I wasn’t alone. ‘Hello? William?’ said the voice from the far end of the barn.

  ‘Hello?’ I called out hesitantly. ‘Hello? Who’s there?’ I heard a scuttling. ‘Hello? I’m Robert. Robert Searight.’

  ‘Robert? Is that really you?’

  With a jolt, I realised I recognised the German accent. ‘Joanna?’

  She appeared before me. ‘It is you. Robert.’ She came towards me. She looked bedraggled in a brown cardigan, a grey skirt, a long red scarf, her hair long and unkempt, her face gaunt. She stopped a few feet from me. We looked at each other, disbelieving.

  ‘Why aren’t you at home? What – what are you doing here?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’ She tried to smile. ‘It’s so good to see you. Owen – is he back too?’

  She didn’t know; I’d have to tell her. ‘No. I’m sorry.’

  ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  I nodded.

  She shut her eyes. ‘Let’s sit down,’ she whispered.

  She led me to a corner of the barn where, to my surprise, she’d made herself a little hideaway – a battered-looking armchair, an upright chair with a broken leg, a small rug even, and a camping stove. ‘Welcome to my new home.’

  ‘What happened, Joanna? I don’t understand. Why are you here?’

  She had always had bulging eyes, which gave the impression of always being in a state of constant surprise, but now, her face so thin, her eyes were even more prominent. ‘I’ve got everything I need. Look…’ She showed me a cardboard box and inside were various tins, mainly of soup, chocolate bars and a couple of bananas. ‘I can’t offer you a drink though. Water and that’s about it. There’s a water pump round the back. I’m dying for a coffee. Take a seat. Here, sit on the armchair.’

  I sat down. Looking around, I thought if one had to live as a fugitive, then this place was as good as it could get – it was dry, protected from the wind, and warm enough. Nonetheless, it wasn’t right for a woman such as Joanna to be living like this.

  ‘Joanna, I don’t understand…’

  ‘You must tell me – what happened to Owen? How did it happen?’

  I shook my head. ‘He didn’t make it. I’m sorry.’

  Tears formed in her eyes as I tried briefly to tell her the story. She sat perched on the edge of the chair with its broken leg, and listened intently. ‘He talked of you often. It was obvious how much he loved you.’

  ‘Oh no, my poor, poor Owen. I feared this,’ she said, bowing her head. I noticed she was wearing her wedding ring.

  ‘He wanted you to have his wedding ring. It was important to him. I’ll bring it over later this afternoon.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.

  ‘He was a good man, your Owen. I liked him a lot. When I returned to the village, I felt it was the one thing I had to do – to give you his ring. When I found out you’d gone, I felt as though I had failed him.’

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘I followed that boy – William.’

  ‘William. He’s been my saviour. What did people say about me?’ she asked, fishing a handkerchief out of her cardigan pocket.

  ‘That you’d just left one day. That was it.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘They make it sound as if I had a choice.’

  ‘You do want to tell me about it?’

  She sighed. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes. ‘I never felt comfortable here, Robert. I was fine in Plymouth, even after my first husband died – no one noticed me there. But here… As soon as the war started, people were civil, but I could see it in their eyes – they saw me as a wolf in sheep’s clothing, ready to turn on them at any moment. But then, things got a little better. We may have been at war but of course nothing happened during those early months. It still seemed far away. Life in the village carried on as normal. And I had Owen. You know Owen; like you say, he loved me very much and he looked after me. He was a good husband. But then you left, both of you. And then we had Dunkirk and suddenly the war felt very real. Things got worse again after the bombs started falling. Plymouth was badly hit. People cursed Hitler and his aeroplanes that brought death from the skies. And that’s when it began. The first incident, I remember, was a letter through the door. It didn’t have a stamp on it. Inside, on a single sheet of paper, the words ‘German bitch’. Robert, I was so upset. But that was nothing to what came later. No one spoke to me. Even my friend Sylvie. Do you know her – Sylvie Jenkins, the headmaster’s wife? I was still teaching. The kids were fine, at first, but the other teachers… No one talked to me in the staffroom. Only Mr Jenkins showed me any decency.

  ‘One day, someone posted a large envelope through my letterbox. I knew I shouldn’t have looked inside because, again, there was no stamp. But I did. Inside was a stool. Yes, I know. I knew it was human. Can you believe that, someone had taken the effort to defecate inside an envelope for my benefit? I was sick. I felt so hurt – my husband, my English husband, was out there, with you, fighting for his country – their country, our country, and they were doing thi
s to me. My only friend was Jet. You remember Jet? My little black cat.

  ‘One morning I got up to find someone had painted a swastika over my front door. I tried to clean it off with turpentine. A crowd of people gathered to watch me as I scrubbed, jeering at me, calling me a Nazi scrubber. How amusing. People I had known for years, laughing at me, calling me the foulest names, as if I was personally responsible for the Blitz in Plymouth. I was frightened, Robert. After they all left, having had their morning’s entertainment, that little boy, William, came up to me. I knew him from school. I waited for him to call me some horrible name – as usually happened now with the kids. Instead, without saying anything, he handed me a piece of chocolate. I collapsed into tears. For the first time in months, someone had shown me a little kindness.

  ‘I went to see Reverend Pritchard. He advised me to leave, said it might be for the best. Best for whom, I asked. Them or me? I said no, I refused to be hounded out by the mob. I returned home from church and my house had been broken into. Nothing was taken, as I far as I could see, but they had ransacked the place. The contents of my larder scattered on the floor, broken crockery, upturned furniture. On the mirror in the bathroom, they’d written ‘Death to Hitler’ in red lipstick. My lipstick. I went to the police. They didn’t say it directly, but the message I got was what did I expect? I knew now that the vicar was right – I had to leave. But where, Robert? I have nowhere to go.

  ‘One night, I was treated to a recital of sorts. It was gone midnight, a group of men gathered and clanged dustbin lids loudly outside my window. Poor old Jet – he disappeared sharply and didn’t return for hours. They kept it up all night, taking turns, as if they were on shifts. I cried, Robert; I cried for myself and for Owen. They wouldn’t have done this had Owen been around; if he hadn’t been fighting for their liberty. The following night, they returned. And the night after that. Every night starting at twelve. They would have kept all my neighbours awake too, but they didn’t complain. Perhaps they felt it was in a good cause – to harass the enemy living beside them.

  ‘And then they killed Jet. That was the final straw. I found him in the garden. They’d broken his neck. On his little body, another note, warning me I’d be next. How could they do such things, Robert? The cruelty of it took my breath away. That night, before the dustbin lid players arrived, I packed my bags and, carrying as much as I could, I disappeared into the night. I came here. And I’ve been here ever since, trying to work out what to do. I’ve still got my keys, but I’ve no money and no access to my bank account. Stupidly, it’s all under Owen’s name. I saw William one day, flying a kite in the field just there. I begged him to help me, and he did. He came back the following day with a can of soup. I had to wait another day though before I could ask him to bring me a tin opener. It’s almost funny. I’ve had cold soup everyday now. I can’t tell him I’d like something else for a change. The boy’s been an angel.’