by Julia Jones
Which they did, of course:
Sacrifice forgotten? Was this generation worth fighting for? Our ancestors crossed the channel: this girl won’t cross a river!
There was a new, sponsored, St Peter’s Saxon Shore page with thousands of likes already. It showed the whale, the beetle and the spud pier being towed into position to make a mini Mulberry harbour. Then it repeated the invitation to all East Coast Little Ships to visit the Saxon Holdings Memorial Facility. Every boat that visited would be welcomed and entertained, all free of charge and a substantial donation made to the Royal National Lifeboat Institution or a Veteran’s Charity of the owner’s choice.
The first vessel had arrived last night. Xanthe’s experience – some of it anyway – had been for real.
Former East Coast fishing smack Igraine from Flinthammock on the River Blackwater in Essex, answered her country’s call on May 27th 1940. She sailed to Ramsgate to assist the evacuation but was not, in the end, required to continue on to France.
The Igraine returned to her home river but had the extraordinary bad luck to hit a mine off the end of Flinthammock pier. Her owner, local fisherman Abraham Farran, drowned but his son, the late Elijah Farran, subsequently spent many years rebuilding the smack.
In the later years of the twentieth century, the Igraine became a familiar sight as she continued to use traditional techniques to fish home waters long after the majority of her sister ships had gone out of business.
Circumstances finally forced Mr Eli Farran to abandon her and for many years she was presumed lost. Saxon Holdings are proud to have recovered the Igraine and to have invested a substantial sum restoring her.
After the forthcoming commemoration ceremony the smack will be moored off the Saxon Shore Hotel as a permanent tribute to the unsung heroes of the East Coast.
She was a lovely-looking smack, Xanthe could see that. And Iris had been right: it had been the Igraine that she had photographed on that extraordinary morning of mirage. She must have been well out to sea, crossing Ramsgate to join the other Little Ships and then the early morning light rays had bent round the layers of hot and cold air to make her image visible maybe twenty miles away.
She couldn’t now make any sense at all of what Gareth and Dominic had claimed. They said they’d ‘scuttled’ her but here she was, back in her home river, doomed to be stuck at St Peter’s forever. Maybe she’d become a bar for hotel guests to enjoy their evening drinkies.
In the scale of Xanthe’s problems that didn’t feel such a big one.
Madrigal Shryke had liked and shared the St Peter’s Saxon Shore page and so had most of her thousands of friends. She had added a comment to say how humble she felt that she’d been asked to play some small part in the Commemoration as one of Britain’s young sailors To Follow. Then there was a long, predictable, conversation with friends asking her how she felt hearing that Xanthe, her former sailing rival, had also been invited.
I’m cool. I’m strong enough.
Later she’d posted a status update describing her disappointment that Xanthe had refused the invitation to the Charity Sailing Match:
Maybe it’s hard for people like her, whose families weren’t involved, to understand why it’s so important for us English people to remember.
Likes and shares for that one were spreading like a petrol slick over water.
“What do you think?” Xanthe asked Martha and the kids. “You’ve read the texts from my sister. I got an invitation to be part of a charity sailing match to commemorate Dunkirk and World War Two and I turned it down.”
Anyone who said she was a coward – yes, they were right. She could see it now.
“Martha’s already told you that I used to be a racer. I didn’t know how lucky I was. I got a sponsor and a really good boat and I made it to the junior pre-Olympic training camp. Then I lost my temper and I punched my main rival. She’s the one who’s going to be at the Dunkirk sailing match.”
She didn’t give them a chance to ask anything.
“It was a totally dumb thing to do. I knew she was needling me. She’d been doing it all week.”
The mental stuff had been just as much a test as the sailing – and she’d failed it, dismally.
“So I’m banned for six months and all the Test regattas will have happened by then and the long-list selection. I had to tell my sponsors what I’d done and offer to give my boat back. That was almost the worst thing. I loved my boat.”
She remembered how Madrigal had dissed Spray and the casual way she’d let her get damaged. She must have guessed how Xanthe had felt.
“There was a load of bad publicity on social media and I wasn’t handling it. My mum sent me here to keep out of the way. Then, when I got asked to appear in this sailing match and I guessed Madrigal might be there, I wimped out. I’d been told to keep away from her and I didn’t want to start it all up again. I didn’t realise they’d asked my family and everyone.”
She had to be completely honest. “I also didn’t know that my sponsors would be letting me use Spray. I’d do pretty much anything to get my dinghy back.”
“Are you s-sorry you p-punched her?” asked David.
There were loads of things she regretted – but still not that. Not exactly. She’d never forget the shocked look on Madrigal’s pretty pink face when she fell backwards into the water. And when she’d replayed that scene in her head she was almost certain there’d been one or two of the people standing round who had wanted to laugh. Or who had covered their mouths to try and look shocked when they weren’t. People who might even have been…pleased?
“She sort of needed punching. Though not punching, obviously, because that put me straight in the wrong. I should have been able to punch her without actually punching her, if you see what I mean. I am genuinely ashamed about that bit, about losing my temper.”
Their faces told her nothing so she carried to the end. “And now that I’ve met you I realise that you know more about violence and intimidation than I’ve ever imagined. Which makes me feel even more stupid for making such a fuss about my issues that are only to do with sport.”
She knew the saying that sport was like war but minus the shooting. But theirs had been a gangland war. With shooting. Siri’s mother, who wasn’t even involved, had been killed. With Siri strapped to her wrist. There couldn’t be much that was worse than that.
“Your sister sounds as if this sailing race is pretty important to her,” commented Kieran.
“Yeah, and the rest of my family. Seems like I’m the one who’s changed.”
There was that silence whenever she used that f-word.
“That isn’t so much the issue – they’ll get it when I explain. But I am bothered that I might have made things worse for you – because of the pictures on Facebook and stuff.”
“I think Jonjo will have sorted that now,” said Martha. “There won’t be any more photographs.”
But Xanthe hadn’t completely finished answering David. “And the other main thing that I’m sorry about is if I might have made it worse for anyone else who’s being bullied by Madrigal.”
“Because when p-people see all the b-bad things that have happened to you, they’ll be m-more scared of upsetting her.”
“Yes.”
There was a defeated sigh around the group.
“When you go into witness protection they tell you you’re going to be okay,” said Kelly-Jane. “You think you’ll have new names and your parents will have different jobs and you’ll live somewhere new and that it might be better. Cos maybe you didn’t like your old school all that much and maybe there was stuff in the playground that was…wrong. So, even if you do mind leaving your friends and your house and never being able to tell anyone the truth, you think it’ll be worth it for your family not to be scared any more.”
She spoke as if all this had been bottling up inside he
r and now it was bursting out.
“But you still are scared,” said Kieran. “And your parents are. And then maybe you work out that your dad’s going to be put in prison anyway. Whatever he says.”
“And he’ll be a g-grass,” added David.
“So if anyone finds out who he really is – and what he might have said – he’ll get beaten up.”
“Or k-killed.”
“Then you could wish they hadn’t done it in the first place – offered to help the police.”
“Yeah but, no but—they totally had to. Waddever!” Nelson was passionate.
“Because of Siri’s mum,” said Kelly-Jane.
“And the big bosses going too far.”
Their voices came in a rush. All of these kids had something to say about being bullied and scared. And resistant and brave.
Siri had withdrawn deep within herself. She’d not moved nor spoken since they’d heard the rifle shots. There was nothing anyone could do that would bring her mother back. She would always be collateral damage in someone else’s dirty war.
“I don’t know why Jonjo hasn’t got back,” said Martha. “But there’s nothing I can do except report it.”
She looked at her watch yet again and stared across the marsh towards the other side of the river.
“You have to give a different answer now, don’t you?” she asked Xanthe. “You have to go to this match and face her.”
“If it stops them thinking I’m personally a coward or that people with my colour skin don’t care about history then I suppose I do. But it won’t.”
“Don’t bother then,” said Kelly-Jane.
“Except that it’s about remembering the dead,” said Nelson.
His big brown eyes were fixed on Siri. “They lived in the same road, her mum and mine. Could have been any of us walking past that day.”
“But this don’t feel like that. It’s more like bullying the living,” said Kieran.
“And getting publicity and making money,” his sister agreed.
“I hate M-madrigal,” said David. “Even though I’ve never m-met her.”
“My sister says it’s wrong to hate,” said Xanthe. “But – I might not necessarily agree.”
She took back her phone and sent Maggi a text.
U & parents don’t know half. St Peter’s project stinks. Remember WW1 conchies? I might be one. Will decide am. Mad stinks 2 xx X
She was so grateful to David: so grateful to them all.
Chapter Seventeen
Mined
Sunday June 2, lw 0822 hw 1436 lw 2036 hw 0256
There was an explosion in the night. Maybe there were several. One after the other, under water – or under mud, more like. They happened soon after it had started to ebb. They weren’t big and no one on Godwyn exactly heard anything. All anyone could have felt was possibly the vibration; a muffled shock that made the lightship flinch.
Xanthe was up first, then Kieran and David. They’d agreed an early start to wipe the dew off Fritha. The barometer was rock steady and if the day stayed as hot and as fine as forecast Xanthe reckoned they could get two full coats of varnish on the Firefly and still have her dry enough to turn over before dark.
They’d started down the short companionway to the working area beside the creek before they realised that it wasn’t there. The protective bank that Dominic had built round Godwyn had been almost completely blown away. It wouldn’t be dew they would be wiping off Fritha – if they dared reach her now – it would be mud and pebbles and grass. The hull had been rolled round and over and was dangling above a newly-formed precipice with a sheer drop into the almost-empty creek.
“I think there’s been a mine,” said Xanthe. Her mouth had gone dry. “Like a buried bomb. It could be seriously dangerous. We mustn’t shout or stamp.”
She had to get the boys away. Then she needed to tell Dominic and get the others out.
“Here’s my phone,” she said to Kieran and David. “I know you’re not keen on police but we have to have them now.”
They nodded. It was obvious enough.
“Go right to the end of the path – run once you’re on the gravel – and ring 999 from beside the sail lofts. Tell them we think that there could have been sabotage, then don’t go anywhere until they come. And if anyone else arrives, like other boat owners, you have to warn them that they should wait with you for the police.”
Could she be overreacting? Was it just subsidence or something?
Kieran and David ran.
Xanthe woke Martha first and asked her to wake Dominic. Then she roused the other kids.
“I might be wrong – and I hope I am – but we need to evacuate. Grab some clothes and pick up your shoes but don’t put them on. Tread as gently as you can and meet me by the gangway. Try not to be scared. I don’t think you’re in danger.”
She saw Kelly-Jane giving her the bullshit look.
“Seriously, I think it’s Godwyn that’s in trouble here, not you.”
Once the embankment had been destroyed there would be little to stop those tugs coming across the river on the next night’s high tide and towing the lightship away.
Fritha’s equipment was on board Godwyn. Xanthe gave each of the crew something to carry: rudder and tiller, centreplate, sails.
“We tell people not to take possessions.” Martha had caught up with them.
“And you’re completely right. Can you give K-J a hand with the mast, please, Martha? And maybe a sail bag as well? Think of it as salvage. We haven’t any time to argue. Kieran and David are waiting by the sail lofts on their own.”
“On their own?”
Martha gave one agonised glance at Godwyn’s upper deck before she hurried away with Siri, Kelly-Jane, Nelson and all of Fritha’s gear.
“Don’t worry,” Xanthe called after her. “I’ll go hassle Dominic.”
The Companion-in-Chief was so totally predictable. He’d made his own phone calls to the emergency services and now he was standing on the outside deck, directly below the tower that housed the foghorn and the lamp. He wasn’t even looking at the damage. He was gripping the metal rail and was staring across the river to St Peter’s. She felt she could see every bone in his head.
“Godwyn stays on station.” He spoke without looking at her.
“Yeah, sure, 100 percent. But you need to get ashore and tell that to the police. She’s ok right now. Your father can’t get his tugs up to take her because there isn’t any water.”
The backs of his hands were white and all his knuckles were standing up like mountain peaks. There was a vein pounding up the side of his neck. That must be his heartbeat.
“I do get it, Dominic. I’ve met your father. I realise he’s got loads of influence so if he can prove that Godwyn’s a danger he might insist on towing her away for public safety.”
“He could not!”
“That’s OK then. But, if she was mine, I’d be calling up a lawyer – and I know one if you don’t. And at the very least I’d be getting along to the end of that path to join Martha and the kids and to convince everyone that you’ve got the situation totally under control.”
He didn’t look like a man in control. He’d started to sweat.
“You can do this, Dominic. This is England. It’s the twenty-first century. You’ve got the law on your side. Have some water or something.”
The Companion-in-Chief swallowed. She could see his epiglottis convulse. Maybe he physically couldn’t get the words out. She took her own advice; fetched a glass of water and handed it to him. He took a deep breath and downed it in one.
“My father part-owns Godwyn,” he spoke hoarsely. “He made me pledge her when I founded the charity. But when Jonjo went over to St Peter’s yesterday he shot out the cameras.”
“Cameras?”
“He’d ins
talled cameras for surveillance. On the top of the scaffolding. They should have been covering the site but they were pointing across here, 24/7. Your friend Anna proved it.”
“Anna?”
“She made contact with Jonjo directly. Decided you weren’t really listening. She’d worked out the trajectories and the relative density of each image. Plus the type of camera used. They were part of the building contractors’ safety spec. Safety spec – that’s a joke.”
He was bitter.
“He’s been watching me all the time, everything I’ve tried to do.”
“So Jonjo…took them out? With a rifle. That’s what we heard?”
“I persuaded him to do it. He only wanted to evacuate the children. I was too angry. Even more when I saw my father flaunting the Igraine.”
“You were right.” She surprised herself there. “Are we thinking that the Commander’s got Jonjo?”
A silent nod.
“You’re guessing or you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“Like he’s a prisoner?”
“Hostage.” Dominic sort of panted out the word.
“Okay, so Jonjo’s a hostage – and your dad wants to trade him for Godwyn?”
Dominic shook his head. “Not yet. I’ve still got something else I can use against him – it’s my nuclear option. At the moment he just wants you.”
“Huh? So what was all this about?” She gestured downwards at the mess of blown-away earth.
“Pressure. Threat. Retaliation. The pattern of behaviour I’ve lived with all my life. He must have bribed someone to bury these devices when I was constructing the berth for Godwyn. They’ll have been here since I founded the charity, waiting for me to annoy him more than usual. And now he’s detonated them.”
Godssakes! Dominic must be well into his 40s. Could be 50, even!
“My father’s furious with me but mainly he’s trying to keep the other half of Saxon Holdings sweet. He realised who you were when he found you checking out some pillbox or something. His partner has a daughter who wants your head – so it suits my father to give it to her.”