He started running, deciding to stick to the sandy areas and splash through the occasional wave rather than stumble along the pebbles that were sloped up against the wall. He quickly ascertained that he could not climb the sea wall, as it was much taller than him and concave to deflect the sea’s power. Even if he could have scrambled up it, the unstable cliffs behind had slumped to such a degree that they rested on its edge. The occasional spatter of mud would be heard as another sodden dollop would be pushed forward to land on the pebbles below. The seventh wave caught him unawares every time and he was thrown into a stumble, twice it swept him from his feet and dumped him into a sprawl against the pebble bank.
Rizzo began to feel frightened; the promenade still seemed a great distance away and he was beginning to tire. Being a penseur rather than a doer meant that his level of fitness was a great deal lower than he had cared to think and certainly lower than his fitness timetable might suggest. Struggling back to his feet after a particularly strong wave, he put his hands on his wet gravelly knees and paused to catch his breath, his heart thumping and his shins hurting from the pounding on the uneven surface.
He looked at the cliffs in front of him, trying desperately to see a route out and then watched in disbelief as they began to move…slowly at first, then gaining momentum. Bushes and small trees stayed upright and he felt as if he were watching a film set as a large hunk of the cliffs slipped quietly down in front of him. He leapt back in horror as the tons of earth and rocks crashed onto the beach with a loud whomp! effectively blocking his escape.
The noise was deafening and, suddenly galvanised into action, he stumbled backward, stepped on an undone shoelace and fell back into the sea with a feeble cry. A wave crashed over him bundling him up onto the pebbles, panicking him into a thrashing frenzy. The wave withdrew, trying its hardest to suck him back into its fold aiming to roll him back and forth until he was exhausted and then claim him as its own.
Eventually he rolled onto his hands and knees and was able to withstand the suction. He crawled onto the pebble bank and then scrambled to his feet, grey saltwater pouring from his clothing and rucksack. Feeling tears come to his eyes, he wanted to sit down and cry and let what would be, be, but a deeper resolve came from somewhere and urged him to press on to the landfall fifty yards in front of him.
He half ran, half crawled along the pebbles, each step pushing him sideways to the waiting waves as the stones gave beneath his weight and slithered seawards. His progress was slow and tiring, but he kept going, using his hands to haul himself back up the slope with each step. The waves lapped at his feet and the pebbles helped to diffuse their power, but his progress was slow and the tide was rising. It wasn’t long before he had been hunted to the top of the pebble bank, his hand on the sea wall that afforded him no protection.
The thought briefly crossed his mind that he might wade out through the breakers and then swim out in the bay and head for the safety of the slipway. But, it didn’t take long for this thought to be discounted; he may not get smashed against the concrete sea wall, but he would instead be drowned within minutes as the white horses would wear him down, then stampede roughshod over him. The thought of being discovered naked and puffy on the beach by disinterested dog walkers didn’t appeal to him in any way and therefore he decided he must take his chances and continue along the shore.
As he finally reached the landslip, he allowed himself a small rest, breathing shortly and sharply, the adrenaline racing through him, effectively proving his previous essays about fight or flight completely unresearched. He scrutinised the slump for a route – but, as it had toppled over the wall, the mass had rotated and therefore any vegetation that may have provided useful handholds was now underneath. Despite this, some gravelly-looking mud and the occasional outcrop of rock gave him hope.
His complacency about the forgotten threat from the sea rewarded him with one last tumble, dragging the rucksack from his back as his arms splayed out behind him. He frantically crawled up the bank of shingle and he felt like a mouse on a wheel as he scrabbled up the slope, pushing pebbles out behind him. Two steps forward, one and a half steps back. He managed to grab at a tree root that stuck out of the sloppy mud and although it stripped his hand of soft skin, it saved him from being claimed by the next wave and allowed him to pull himself upright. He barely looked at his rucksack as it was bundled down the remainder of the beach and lost to the sea forever.
With a final burst of energy, he hurled himself at the face of the slip and started scrambling up with the effort and attainment of an exerciser on a stair climber. Very occasionally, his foot would hit a piece of rock in a stable section of the mound and he would gain a few inches. Eventually, he was beyond the immediate jaws of the sea and allowed himself the luxury of plotting a route that may get him out of danger.
Finally he found a stable ledge and he sat there for a while, allowing the breath to return to his lungs and the aching muscles of his legs to rest. Yes, perhaps here was a spot he could stay for a few hours and simply wait for the tide to abate. He felt his confidence return and even a little elation. What a tale! No, people wouldn’t dismiss him as easily as they had done after this. Perhaps he should try for the Mountain Rescue?
Allowing himself the indulgence of looking down, he saw that the sea had now reached the sea wall. His escape route was being slowly undermined and eroded by the powerful waves and his heart twinged once more as another chunk of mud and stone fell from under him and crashed into the sea below. Biting his lip in fear, he turned back to all fours and returned to his frantic hamster scrambling, gaining a couple of feet and then slipping back down again, mud caked on his shoes and knees made them heavier and more cumbersome than ever.
If he had looked towards Lyme at this point, Rizzo would have seen two people standing on the promenade staring at him. They were desperately trying to think what to do since hearing that the lifeboat had been called out to a boat in distress at least two hours south-east of there. But, he didn’t look; he couldn’t. Every ounce of energy was being sapped by the effort of gaining just a few inches more height to get him to a point of relative safety. He wasn’t even sure what he was battling towards. He knew that many of the landslips were, in part, liquid mud – he may even be struggling up only to fall into the coastal equivalent of a slurry pit. His aspirations were a bit of stable ground, perhaps allowing him to scramble onto the cliffs themselves whereby he could rest and then determine a route home. But, in the meantime, his lot was to struggle up through the mud, slip back a little, scrape his knee, twist an ankle, wipe the mud from his eyes with a muddy hand and to sob like a small child who has lost his parents in a crowd.
Chapter 71
A Carry-Out
Lettie and Doug alternated between staring at each other and then turning back to the struggling red figure. Seconds ticked by as both wracked their brains trying to decide what to do. Doug felt helpless, as he didn’t know the area and what may be possible; Lettie felt helpless as she did. Eventually, Doug grabbed both her elbows, “Right, we’ve got to be practical here, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Lifeboat, police, whatever, may be hours yet, right?”
“Right.”
“And Rizzo may not have hours, mayn’t he?”
“No.”
Doug pushed the sodden sleeves of his navy blue coat back over his hands, as if the manner of counting the possibilities on his fingers made things more concrete, more useful. “OK. Now let’s go through the options, discount the hopeless ones and then we can work on the possibles, OK?”
Lettie nodded, nearly in tears, “Yes, but just hurry up!”
“Right. By sea?”
She shook her head, “Forget it.” That was the thumb’s option.
“By the beach?” Again, another shake. “How about along that sea wall? Could we crawl along it?”
“Too dangerous – we’d either fall into the sea, or there would be another landslip. No, discount that one too.”
“OK, what about from above? Down the cliff?”
“They are too unstable; we’d never get near enough to reach him.”
“What about with a long rope?”
A look of hope flickered into Lettie’s face, “Um, possibly – have to be a long one though. Oh, God, I don’t know!”
“Come on, Lettie, we’ve got to do something – I’ve got ropes in the van – they’ll be forty foot apiece at least.”
Lettie thought and then seemed to click into action.
“Yep, right, we’ll do it. I’ll run home and get mine out of the attic that I keep as an emergency fire escape. I’ll meet you at that little pink cottage with the white door that we pass on the way to the car park.”
“The coconut ice house?”
“Yes,” laughed Lettie, glad for their bizarre way of looking at the world. He gave her a quick peck on the forehead and they ran off; she back to the house and he through the graveyard and up the steep road to where they parked their cars.
Lettie burst in through the front door, calling Lisa as she did. “He’s in the shit!” she cried as she ran up the stairs, paying no attention to her wet, sandy boots on the carpets. She briefly explained the situation to a horrified Lisa who was not an outdoor girl at the best of times. “He’s going to be freezing when he gets back – shit – if we get him back – no, when we get him back – oh, bugger this…” Lettie cried in frustration, the knot securely tying the rope to an upright beam was not responding to her cold, wet hands.
“Here, here, let me,” said Lisa, her manicured nails perfect for the job.
“Yes, if you can get the place warm, light a fire, put the heating on, get a load of blankets, warm, comfortable clothes for him, read up on hypothermia, hot tea, all that, OK?” Lisa nodded, glad to have a role that didn’t include being on the cliff in the weather. “Ring Alex and tell her to get a few people down to the cliffs to help – tell her it’s below where we played Moles in their Holes as kids – she’ll know what I mean.” Lisa took it all in and helped to loop the long rope into a manageable coil. Lettie grabbed the bundle and hurtled off, leaving a flustered and rather alarmed Lisa in her wake.
Doug, a long coil of rope over each shoulder, and the dogs were already waiting at the coconut ice house by the time Lettie reached it. Doug took Lettie’s rope giving her chance to catch her breath and they set off at a trot down the stone track between the row of old cottages, the lower side of which’s gardens were partly in the sea following a bad slip twenty five years ago. They climbed over a stile at the lane end and jogged over two narrow fields, slipping and sliding in the wet grass, both puffing from their efforts. The next stile they reached was old and battered and wrapped in barbed wire; “Footpath closed,” said the faded sign. Doug threw the ropes and the dogs over whilst Lettie climbed as quickly as she could over the rickety structure, scraping the back of her leg on the barbs as she went. Doug followed and heard a ripping sound from his jacket.
“Be careful here,” said Lettie, “this is where the slips start – some of them will be covered by vegetation, so watch it or you’ll snap your ankles in no time.” They set off again, this time slower as they followed the narrow paths made by rabbits and foxes and the occasional foolhardy dog walker. Vegetation had been allowed to grow up unheeded since the field had been cleared of stock some years before. Once prime cattle land, the field was now only safe for rabbits. Lettie pointed out the occasional brown scar on the ground, a foot wide and several feet long where the fields had started to pull away on their journey towards the sea. The slits were perfect for two little girls to play Moles in their Holes in…
“We need to cut down to the sea,” shouted Lettie over her shoulder. The rain was no longer torrential and had quietened to a steady downpour, but the wind was still up and talking was difficult. Doug nodded and followed as she began to pick a path through the clumps of brambles and gorse. Rabbits shot out occasionally as their cover was disturbed and Doug couldn’t help wishing he had his gun with him. Thorns raked on their clothes and Lettie puffed hard with each step as she lifted her feet high to stamp down the next foothold. The dogs found easier routes underneath and seemed to be enjoying the whole adventure – rabbits, bushes and walks, what could be better?
Eventually they reached the cliff edge. They peered gently over the side and saw the landslide some two hundred yards further to the east. Rizzo was nowhere to be seen. They scrambled along the cliff edge, occasionally calling his name, but to no avail in such high winds.
At last the landslip was reached and they edged very carefully along the last twenty yards, testing the ground with each footstep as if they would be able to tell if another hectare were ready to slide. They lay on their stomachs and looked over the edge and both took an involuntary gasp at the sight below.
The slip had taken a large bite out of the cliff, at least a hundred metres across and in a perfect semicircle with smooth sides, ruined only by the occasional rock that had been exposed – ripe for a fossiler to inspect with a skilled armoury of chisels. The scar was a dull dark grey reflecting the heavy clay of the area and glistening, sodden from the rain that had fallen on it as well as the ground water that spilled through it. Muddy trickles poured down it in parts, scouring through the soft material and dropping as slurry onto the slip below.
To their distress, there was no sign of Rizzo, no flash of red that would show that he was still there, hopefully safe and secure, perched on a ledge somewhere. They shouted his name time and again, but had no response. They shuffled cautiously around the slip, assuming that he would have climbed from the far side and threw a few stones down, trying to alert his attention. Nothing. They looked at each other, their teeth beginning to chatter from their damp clothes and the miserable weather, desperately thinking for a way forward. They rolled a few stones down the scar to test the consistency of the ground, but these were quickly either absorbed by a pool of slurry, or gathered layers of sticky mud and ground to a halt.
“We can’t go down there,” said Lettie, her eyes screwed up to the wind, “it’s too dangerous, even with the ropes – we’d sink and one of us would never pull the other one, plus Rizzo, back up alone.” Doug agreed. They tried tying a rock onto one of the ropes and threw it down, but it came back unanswered. They soon realised that they could do that for hours and not catch Rizzo’s attention – assuming that he was still there and that they hadn’t just launched a large rock onto his head.
“Well,” said Doug, “I think that just leaves the dogs. Question is, which one? Alfie is stronger, but Molly is lighter and knows Rizzo better.”
“Is it safe for them?” asked Lettie, eyeing the sticky areas with gloom.
“They’re better at it than us, picking their way through – and they will be tied, so we can pull them up if need be.” Lettie thought for a while and then nodded her agreement. “Come on, Alfie,” said Doug, “we’ll try you first.” He tied a sturdy knot round his big leather collar and, making sure he had tight hold to the other end of the rope, told Alfie to, “Go on then!” pointing his arms down the slope. Alfie made a few paces and then stopped, looking back and wagging his tail. “Oh, God,” groaned Doug, “he doesn’t understand what I am asking of him; I daren’t throw a stick as he’ll just gambol blindly down the cliff face and then he will be in the shit.”
They tried again, both shouting and pointing, “Fetch Rizzo! Fetch Rizzo!”
Then the problem was solved by a smaller brown flash scampering past and Lettie breathed in deeply as Molly bounced gently down the cliff face. Alfie, not wishing to risk missing out on anything, piled down after her, sending a skid of mud and stones before him, but luckily following Molly’s track along the sturdier ground. They scrambled down the scar and then bounced out, up and over the landslip, both stopping on the peak, as if enjoying the wind in their ears. Doug was quickly tying another rope to the end of the first one which was almost played out and they both watched tensely as they willed the dogs on, splashes of sea spray
washing occasionally over their already wet coats.
Suddenly both dogs both stood stiff, their tails wagging furiously. “They’ve seen him! They’ve seen him!” shouted Doug and played more rope out. The dogs set off over the rise and disappeared from view. Minutes went by with nothing – no dogs, no Rizzo, no signs of life.
“It’s OK,” said Doug, “it’ll take time. He’ll be cold and tired; it’ll take ages to get the ropes sorted.” Lettie remembered the difficulty she’d had in the attic and felt a little better. All of a sudden, there was a weak tug of the taut rope in Doug’s hands. “It moved – I think! It moved!” he shouted. “Now, will that be from the dogs moving, or Rizzo?” He tugged it a couple of times and felt another faint jerk back. “That’s him! Come on, let’s pull!”
They got to their feet and started pulling, looking for a place to dig their feet into for an anchor. The weight was immense and they felt sure it must be caught on something, but then it would move a few inches, then stop again, then a couple of feet more and so on. Molly appeared at the top of the slip, followed shortly by Alfie. A delighted Lettie called the dogs and they ran back up the scree, both coated up to their bellies in sticky wet clay.
Finally a hand appeared over the cliff edge, grasping for a hold. A muddy sleeve and then another hand followed it. Doug and Lettie whooped with glee as finally they hauled an exhausted Rizzo over the peak.
They nearly dropped the rope in horror when he rolled his body and legs over the crag and managed to raise his head to look for them. From the waist down he was coated in mud, the same clay that the dogs were smothered in. Both shoes and socks were gone and his feet were bare; blood was running into the clay from one of them, staining it red.
His coat was filthy and torn, but his face drew gasps. As it looked up at them, Lettie could barely recognise it as Rizzo; puffy, swollen and filthy with a look of vagueness and disbelief. His hair was matted with mud and stuck up in tufts and his mouth lolled open as if he didn’t have the energy to shut it any more.
Chocolate Mousse and Two Spoons Page 33