“Oh, good God,” whispered Lettie, and then she shouted, “come on, let’s get him up.” They hauled on the rope, their strength renewed and slowly they dragged him up the cliff face, his feet and arms pathetically trying to help by catching footholds, but in reality just flailing pointlessly at the scree.
They heard a shout from behind them and felt the rope being pulled by more hands. Lettie turned gratefully to see Alex with John and Russ Coulder, friends from school, pulling energetically at the rope behind them. The extra strength more than doubled the pace and Rizzo was dragged like a rag doll up the remainder of the bank and over the lip where he collapsed in an exhausted pile.
“Rizzo, Rizzo, are you OK?” shouted Lettie, wiping the mud from his dazed face.
He nodded very slightly and whispered painfully, “I tried, I tried, but I got stuck…”
“It’s OK, buddy, you’re OK now,” said Doug, quickly checking the cuts on his feet.
Alex put a sports bag onto the ground next to him, and unzipped it, “Lisa gave me this – clean clothes, towels etc, I think,” she said. They quickly stripped him off, peeling the ruined clothes from his shivering body, trying to protect him from the worst of the weather.
“Don’t rub him too hard,” said Doug, his first aid courses finally paying dividends, “brings the blood to the surface and he needs it to keep his organs warm.” Rizzo was quickly re-dressed in the multiple layers that Lisa had packed, following the instructions in Lettie’s Household Encyclopaedia to the letter.
John and Russ, being the freshest, picked Rizzo up and took it in turns to carry him across the fields whilst Alex used her mobile to phone Lisa and Rich, telling Rich to contact the emergency services and cancel the need for help. Lisa was waiting by the far stile, having reversed her car up the lane. “John and Russ, come with me,” she said efficiently, “I’ll need help to get him up the stairs. Doug, Lettie, there is hot soup and food for you, the kettle is on and the water is hot. I have phoned the doctor and know what to do, so you sort yourselves out,” and with that, the four of them sped off.
Chapter 72
Relaxing the Roast
The Rescue Team sat fatigued but happy in the warm lounge. The fire crackled as Lettie stoked it high, for effect as much as for the warmth. Wet coats hung, dripping, in the kitchen and a pile of muddy boots steamed quietly by the front door. Doug brought in five bowls of the hot vegetable soup that Lisa had rustled up in their absence, and a large loaf of bread was put on the hearth with a pat of butter and a bread knife.
They told and retold their various stories, Russ and John filling in the bits that Rizzo had related in the car as his teeth chattered and he clutched the blanket around his aching shoulders.
Rizzo had had a couple of hours to refine his story so that the timing and purposes of his adventure were now a little different. But, unless the crew of the small boat were to cough, no one would ever be any the wiser and he could be transferred from the rank of irresponsible moron to plucky adventurer.
By the time Lisa eventually emerged from her ward, flustered and tired from the stress of settling both her patient and her guilt, a newspaper reporter was on the doorstep demanding the story and photos. The bedraggled rescuers were quickly photographed before their hair dried, not given any time to change clothes, comb hair or wipe soup from their tee shirts in case it ruined the authenticity.
Against Lisa’s better judgement, Rizzo was woken, photographed and interviewed. He was given another blanket to wrap around his shoulders and one of the coffee cups with mould encrusted on the bottom that Lettie hadn’t spotted earlier to clutch and pretend to relish, as there was no Mayor available to shake his hand and grin. The two dogs sat either side of him, their now dried mud packs flaking off onto the crisp clean sheets that Lisa had so thoughtfully tucked onto the bed in place of the three weeks old, rather unpleasantly tarnished ones that Rizzo had been enduring.
“It’ll have to be ‘Man’s Best Friend’s,” said Lettie as they guessed at the newspaper’s headlines.
“Landslide Victory,” suggested John.
“Mad Mud Moment,” quipped Alex.
“Daft Twat Gets Rescued,” finished Doug.
Chapter 73
The Skin from the Rice Pudding
They didn’t have long to wait and Lettie rushed into Alex’s shop howling with laughter. She spread the centre of the paper out onto Alex’s counter, pushing ribbons, scissors and gift tags to one side. The front page screamed “Storm Wreaks Havoc” with a photo of waves crashing over the harbour. Not noticed by many was the fact that the old lifeboat house was in the picture rather than the new one that had been built a few years previously. But luckily it sneaked past the editor, who wouldn’t have forgiven his reporter a second time for not having put a new battery in his camera.
So many incidents had happened during the storm that the whole centre spread was dedicated to the rescued victims: old ladies huddled, bewildered, in a neighbour’s kitchen, the stunned owners of the crippled yacht shaking hands with a grinning lifeboat crew, a car under a fallen tree and the two pictures of Rizzo’s adventure.
Alex joined in the hysterics as they looked at the photos under the catchy headline of ‘Man Rescued From Cliff’, written by a reporter who was never going to make it to Wapping. The rescuers were a motley crew; Doug and John Coulder were sat on the sofa, grinning demonically as the reporter had waited at least fifteen seconds between requesting ‘cheese’ and actually pressing the button. John coyly had his pile of removed wet clothing on his lap, but unfortunately Doug had had none of his foresight and Lettie delightedly pointed out a hint of something lolling out one of the legs of his boxer shorts.
Of Alex, Russ and Lettie, who were peering out from behind the sofa, Alex looked like she were part of coconut shy as her head seemed to have no body, the rather portly Russ looked like he was resting his chin on a pile of crumpets, so many were his folds and Lettie just looked strange, having shuffled her position at the last moment and knelt on what could only have been a piece of Molly’s bone.
The picture of Rizzo, however, confused them both. He was sat in his staged position, the dogs moulting freely either side of him, “But that face is not the face of someone who has just been dragged, freezing cold, from the jaws of death and a pool of sucking mud,” contemplated Lettie. It looked as if the reporter had got it wrong again and inserted the picture of a man who had just been licked gently awake by his fantasy-enhanced first love. The face smiled peacefully from above a cup of fine wine, its gently pink cheeks giving it a glow of health and harmony.
“Yeah,” agreed Alex, “he could have at least looked cold and exhausted; perhaps just gripped his mug a little more convincingly.”
“Oh well,” said Lettie, turning the page to the write ups, “perhaps Lisa is a better nurse than we gave her credit for; perhaps she has found her vocation.”
Chapter 74
Just Desserts
It was one of those October evenings that inspire nothing but the urge to stay indoors. A gentle rain meant everything and everyone who was not sat by a roaring fire felt a little dismal. Technically speaking, Dougie shouldn’t have been dismal but, given that he was sat in front of Lettie’s roaring fire taking advantage of Lisa’s professional talents and trying to sort his and Rob’s accounts, he did have an excuse.
The rich red curtains were drawn against the dreary night, music was coming from the kitchen just loud enough to distract him from the job in hand and he was sat on the floor surrounded by piles of paper and carrier bags, trying to talk Lisa into believing that they had a system.
“See, these are copies of invoices, this pile is receipts and these are our bills – but not all of them have been paid yet. I don’t think so anyway.”
Lisa was sat opposite him, leaning against the armchair, the receipts pile on the floor between her legs as she first tried to sort them into obvious receipts and receipts with no earthly reference to what they related to. “What’s this one
Doug? Three hundred and twenty seven pounds, forty-three – this is a big one for you; now, what is it for? Think – repairs? Petrol? Or Rob’s new perm?” and, “Another three pounds seventy – there are a few of these, they all add up, you see – so, what do you buy regularly for three pounds seventy, or shouldn’t I ask?”
Doug rubbed his hair in his frustration, leaving it standing on end; he hated paperwork. He and Rob didn’t have a system – even the carrier bags weren’t foolproof. Every year he went through the ritual of having to admit that he had done it again and the promise that “next time will be different” had been broken and he would be left shuffling piles of paper with the desperate resolve of sorting it out for next year.
“When this is done I will make you a system, Doug, and you must promise to follow it; these things are a doddle when they are presented well.” However, the truth was that Lisa loved sorting out such messes. People who deposited a set of neat, orderly files on her desk merely required a rubber stamp: carrier bags and helpless, highly apologetic people were a challenge. They, usually males, were at her mercy and inspired the bossy person within. They would be amazed by her ability to turn the disorganised muddles into a final figure – usually with the added bonus of it being far less than they had estimated. Therefore, Doug’s job was to keep the tea flowing and the fire stoked in order to oil the process, whilst Lisa took the pencil that had been stuck into the back of her ponytail and started to make notes…
Lettie had abandoned the house earlier and had gone to deliver some of her pictures. Since the success of the Worm Gatherers drawing, she had been practising and now enjoyed capturing people within her landscapes and found a real niche in the market drawing people simply going about their daily business.
Her favourite subjects were the elderly former fishermen that still spent many days on the seafront, leaning on railings or sat on benches, chatting to each other or helping the younger generation by selling tickets for trips around the bay. Their weathered faces would be set off by the traditional canvas Guernsey’s and the navy cloth caps, stiff from sea salt and a lack of washing.
On this particular October evening, Lettie was delivering three pictures to a pub that had just changed hands; the new owner wanted to buy in some character and atmosphere. Doug had made her some frames from offcuts of beech and they had spent the wet afternoon mounting and framing them on the kitchen table. The three old boys in one of the pictures, leaning on the railing overlooking the harbour were particularly excited about the commission. They licked their gums in delight as they anticipated the amount of free drink that would be theirs when tourists made the connection between the beautiful drawing and the wizened character sat under it, nursing a flat halfinch in the bottom of his glass.
After the exchange, Lettie walked back down the hill with her coat huddled up round her cold shoulders, yet being warmed by the envelope in her pocket. Life was going well for Lettie. Things had settled down at work and although Jill was still very much missed by the staff, as well as by Malcolm (beneath his dismissive exterior), the employment of additional experienced staff had ensured the smooth running of the Sea View. Her pictures were selling well and the recent inclusion of people had set them aside from other people’s more standard landscapes.
On her days off, she would travel to Wales and, if Dougie were working, she would spend her time drawing the beautiful views around Glan Llanfair. The local notoriety of the Worm Gatherers picture and the slight increase in interest it had afforded Glan Llanfair had given her an introduction into a couple of sales outlets – a restaurant similar to the one in Lyme and also a gift shop. Doug, with his eye for timber, would select the more interesting pieces, rendered useless to the construction industry courtesy of their knots and irregularities and he would sand, cut and polish them into beautiful frames that set her pictures off to their best effect.
Lettie’s relationship with Doug filled her with pleasure and contentment. After so many years of men who were, at best, ignorant and discourteous and, at worst, violent and unpleasant, she relished Doug’s uncomplicated sense of fun and simple appreciation of her and being with her. He felt lucky to have Lettie with him and he would voice this in a number of ways ranging from straightforwardly telling her so, to the second love spoon that hung over her bed, depicting the symbols of love and friendship.
He made her laugh and stopped any tears with a bear hug. She felt her cup was full and had confided to Alex of whispered half-made plans for her to move up to Wales and the cheque in her pocket was another indicator that such changes might be possible.
It was, therefore, not a pleasurable sensation to catch sight of a familiar figure walking briskly up the high street towards her. His long trench coat was fastened tightly, the collars turned up to protect his ears from the weather. His hands were stuffed deep into the pockets and she could see the shine of his polished brogues glistening in the streetlights.
Her heart started pounding and she caught her breath and dived into the nearby open-all-hours grocer’s. She hadn’t seen Alan Bentley since he had thrown books at her after the night in the pub and, although she had always felt that she had never satisfactorily resolved that fight, she had not felt the desire to seek him out and speak to him.
She pulled her white muslin scarf up round her chin as if it would help to make her invisible and grabbed a pint of milk and some cheese from the fridge. She lurked behind a display of half-price biscuits until she was sure he would have walked past and then joined the short queue, her hands shaking.
As she passed the lady behind the counter her purchases, the entrance door crashed open and she almost dropped her purse in fright as Alan burst in, brushing the rain from his sleeves as he wrestled a basket from the pile with a thunderous face. As if sensing Lettie’s presence, he looked up immediately recognising her as she fumbled on the ground for her purse.
“Oy, you,” he said immediately, as if he had been looking for her. “I want a word with you.”
“That’ll be two pounds fifty three please, love,” said the old lady, staring at Alan; was he talking to her?
“Yes, thank you, here you are,” mumbled Lettie, her hands shaking so greatly that she struggled to take the coins from her purse.
“Yes. I’m talking to you. Don’t ignore me, Lettie,” he said loudly now, leaning over the barrier that ensured people walked around the whole shop instead of just grabbing what they wanted and going to the till.
His voice was loud and cutting and Lettie could sense people in the aisle stopping their foraging and looking up to see what the commotion was. She eventually gave the lady a note and stuffed the goods into a carrier bag, fumbling with the opening that seemed to be glued together to handicap her further.
“Alan,” she said turning towards him, trying to keep her wavering voice strong. “I have nothing to say to you.” The old lady seemed to take forever with her change, now listening intently to the conversation.
“Well, I have something to say to you,” he spat, his voice clear and loud. “I do not take kindly to you spreading lies about me. It’s slander, Lettie, slander.”
Lettie grabbed her change, “I haven’t said anything about you, Alan, I actually have better things to talk about,” and she gathered her bag and fled, the door banging behind her.
Alan looked up; his face thunderous. “What are you lot staring at?” he snarled at the cashier and the people in the queue, who were now openly enjoying the confrontation – what had she said about him, and was it true? As one, they turned their gazes to the contents of their baskets, the braver ones exchanging glances and risking smug smiles. Alan threw his wire basket back into the pile, rattling it into the stack and retraced his steps to the door. He found, to his increasing frustration, that the “No Exit” sign was reinforced by no means of opening the door from the inside. He banged it with his open hand in his rage and stomped up the aisle and round the central shelves in order to leave via the cashier’s counter, through the exit. The queue watched hi
s approach, then immediately looked down again and, like a ghost, he stormed, unseen, past them and followed Lettie out into the night.
He spotted Lettie scuttling down the street, her bag tight in her hand.
“Oy, you bitch, I want to talk to you!” he shouted from twenty yards behind her. He watched as she dived in between the traffic and ran across the road, not seeming to notice the long blast on the horn that a driver gave her as he slammed on his brakes.
Alan ran down the pavement opposite her, the Blakeys on his shoes clicking on the slabs. “What do you think you are doing, telling everyone I am a wife batterer, Lettie, eh? Yes, I’m talking to you,” he shouted over the stream of traffic.
“I haven’t said anything,” said Lettie, bursting into tears and looking completely out of her depth. She wouldn’t look at Alan and instead broke into a trot.
“Well, that’s not what Sarah Mathews said,” he shouted back. “Said she wouldn’t see me because of what I ‘did’ to you, said she didn’t want to start walking into doors. Lettie, oy, don’t you dare try to ignore me,” and his anger rose higher as he saw her begin to run. He too stepped off the pavement, but the traffic was too fast for him to cross, being so eager at having got through the traffic lights that they were not going to slow down for anyone.
Alan watched in frustration as she disappeared round the corner into her street and he kicked the kerb in annoyance. The bitch; not only spreading gossip, but also not even having the decency to discuss it like an adult. Bitch; he’d have it out with her eventually; he’d been chasing Sarah Mathews for years and for her to say that, in the pub, in front of her giggling mates, who were all staring at him, was not on. Not on at all.
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