by M. L. Welsh
Suddenly, out of nowhere, Verity remembered the man in the library.
‘Something rather unusual happened the other day,’ she started. Reliving the strange event, she pulled the book out of her school bag to show them. ‘It’s a kind of journal. The authors travelled the world collecting stories related to this one character.
‘ … until one day the eldest daughter had to leave for a while. And when she came back only the youngest remained. Where her two sisters were she wouldn’t say. Not telling. The youngest just smiled. Then, finally, she burst out laughing. And that’s when the oldest sister knew she was lost,’ she read out from a chapter entitled ‘Oral Tradition’.
Verity looked up excitedly, desperately hoping the other two would think it just as fascinating.
Henry took it from her and flicked through the pages. ‘The man who gave you this was tall and dark, unusually dressed?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ Verity nodded. ‘And he told me the storm was coming. Isn’t that strange?’
Henry frowned at her. Alice had said nothing up to now. Her porcelain skin looked pale. ‘Goodness me. Is that the time?’ she said. ‘Verity, dear, I have an appointment at the old people’s home. I mustn’t disappoint them.’
Henry looked confused. ‘At the old people’s home? But don’t you live he—’
Verity interrupted before he could finish his sentence. ‘Alice goes there to visit the old people. She reads to them.’ Her gaze dared him to question the logic of that sentence.
‘Gives them such pleasure, dear things,’ Alice chipped in cheerfully.
Bustling around the room, she crammed a half-empty packet of biscuits, some wool and a paperback book with its cover missing into a bag that didn’t appear to have space for anything more.
The next day after school, pupils were milling around outside Priory Bay’s gates, catching up with each other before going home. Verity and Henry ambled slowly towards the entrance.
‘Alice is brilliant, isn’t she?’ said Henry.
Verity nodded. ‘She’s amazing,’ she agreed.
As if summoned by this compliment, the subject of their conversation appeared at the wheel of a shiny green car. Dressed in a jaunty tweed flat cap, she lurched erratically up over the kerb and came to an abrupt halt inches from Verity’s toes. In a cursory nod to safety, she tapped the horn.
‘An MG two-seater,’ gasped Henry. Verity thought he might explode with excitement right there and then. Eyes popping out of his head, he darted around the vehicle, gazing in admiration at first one feature and then the next.
Alice looked rather pleased. ‘Your mother said you’d be here,’ she shouted at Verity over the noise of the engine. Verity smiled, wondering where else she might be on a school day. ‘Something about a tactics session? Give you a lift, if you like.’ Noticing Henry, she added, ‘Room for one extra if we squeeze.’
Henry grinned: there was no way he was turning down a ride in Alice’s car. Without waiting for an answer, he jumped in after Verity and happily closed the door. ‘This is a flat radiator model, you know,’ he clarified.
‘Good day at school?’ Alice enquired at full volume as they sped down the hill to Wellow’s sailing club.
Verity and Henry shrugged.
‘Glad to see you’re getting involved with the school sailing team. Do you good,’ she went on.
‘Who knows, with Verity onside we might actually win something,’ said Henry.
Verity laughed. Why would he assume that? ‘I don’t know the first thing—’ she started to explain.
‘Bit of news actually,’ Alice interrupted as they hurtled along at breakneck speed. ‘I have to leave Wellow for a while. Something rather urgent has turned up.’
Verity looked at Alice with concern. ‘You’re going away? But why? Where?’
Alice’s eyes were troubled but she brushed the questions aside with a wave. Turning to Henry, she looked at him intently. ‘I was hoping you’d be able to keep an eye on Verity while I’m away. Keep her out of mischief.’
Henry beamed at her. ‘I will.’
Alice smiled back warmly. ‘That’s settled then. She’s bound to be all right with a big strong lad like you around.’
Henry puffed himself out a little at that.
Verity stepped nervously through the sailing-club door and straight into a hall that smelled of stale beer and pipe smoke. On the yellowing walls hung a motley collection of framed photographs, mounted pen-and-ink cartoons and assorted sailing paraphernalia, including a brass navigation light and a life buoy. A fishing net was tacked to the ceiling, with a number of green glass floats hanging in the sagging folds.
In the far corner was a small group of girls. Verity’s heart sank as she spotted the venomous Miranda Blake, sister to George and Oscar. Thin and small, with a pinched face and slightly bulbous eyes, Miranda was utterly poisonous. Even the girls who picked on Verity at Priory Bay were grateful that she attended the all-girls Whale Chine.
Spying Verity, Miranda called a halt to the conversation. The hall fell silent as she made her way with absolute confidence over the wooden floor. She studied Verity disdainfully, from her wind-blown hair to her coat, which was buttoned askew, then leaned towards her ear.
‘Do your parents find you terribly disappointing, Gallant?’ she murmured, with the faintest of lisps.
Verity flinched. Inside she felt the pain of a truth spoken out loud. Worse still, there was no sign of her fellow pupils. She wondered if she’d got the wrong time or place, or both.
‘They’re in the Protest Room,’ said Miranda, nodding her head to indicate a door to the left. ‘Scraping the barrel a little, aren’t they?’
Verity’s fingers brushed against the curious wooden ball in her pocket. She turned it around in her hand and was aware that she didn’t feel intimidated any more. ‘I hear they were holding out for a skinny midget who’d get blown overboard at the first puff of wind’ – Verity stared levelly at the other girl – ‘but now they’ve got me.’
Miranda smirked, acknowledging Verity’s humour in a manner calculated to chill to the bone. ‘The storm is coming, Gallant,’ she whispered as Verity passed by. ‘But your family shan’t rule the roost this time.’
Miranda Blake too? What was this storm? Her burst of defiance over, Verity realized all at once that she was pretty close to tears. Pulling herself together, she pushed open a second door labelled PROTESTS and concentrated on facing the next group of adversaries.
Over an hour later Verity left the club, breathing a sigh of relief that her ordeal was over. She hadn’t understood a word Mrs Watson was saying, or any of the peculiar diagrams on the blackboard – which were apparently depictions of dinghies, starting lines and buoys. Looking up, she smiled at the sight of Henry waiting patiently for her on the low wall, a paper parcel in his hands.
‘Cheesy chips,’ he offered.
Verity took her package with thanks and opened it to investigate. This wasn’t a foodstuff she’d ever come across before.
‘The trick with cheesy chips,’ Henry explained authoritatively, ‘is to make sure the chips aren’t too hot when the cheese goes on. That’s what keeps it … cheesy.’
Verity tried one. It was surprisingly good.
Henry nodded gravely. ‘The food of kings.’
Verity sat down on the wall next to him. ‘Miranda Blake said the storm was coming,’ she said as they ate. ‘She seemed quite pleased about it.’
Henry snorted. ‘Typical Blake,’ he said, waving a chip dismissively.
‘Why is everyone so excited about the weather?’ asked Verity. ‘Is it going to be particularly bad?’
Henry looked at her, chewing thoughtfully. ‘Your parents really don’t talk much about the Gentry, do they?’
Verity frowned. What did that have to do with anything? ‘Not a lot,’ she admitted. ‘I think they see it all as slightly vulgar.’
Henry laughed. ‘That’s one way of putting it,’ he conceded. His chips finished, he scrun
ched the paper into a ball and threw it with pinpoint accuracy into a wood-slatted bin. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘If we hurry we’ll just about get to the headland in time.’
Verity stared at him in alarm. ‘In time for what …? I have to go home,’ she insisted. ‘My parents will be wondering where I am.’
‘Do they know how long a tactics session lasts?’ Henry asked her.
‘No. I don’t suppose they do.’ Verity had never deliberately stayed out late in her life.
‘Come on then, or we’ll miss it. You get the best view from up there.’
‘The best view of what?’ asked Verity, scurrying after him, overwhelmed with curiosity now.
‘This way,’ said Henry, pointing to an alley. ‘I know a short cut.’
Chapter Three
The town of Wellow lay still and expectant under a silent sky. Above the bay, its houses clung to the curved cliff-face. The small white fishermen’s cottages clustered round the harbour. Further up, the stone villas grew larger and more ornate as they ascended. At the top, the Manor dominated the skyline to the west, while to the east was Priory Bay College.
The weather was changing. In the distance the sky was a bruised black. An overwhelming sense of calm and peace cocooned the town. The air was close and warm. No trees rustled. No birds sang. The atmospheric pressure had dropped and it felt like a promise of hopes to be fulfilled.
A lone gull flew across the downs towards the headland – here, the wind blew clean and fast and straight – swooping down again to the ocean, which stretched all the way to the horizon. The salt spray was fresh and cold, the rolling sea flecked with specks of white. Without warning the greatest smuggling ship of all time crashed into view.
The Storm was coming.
She cut through the bright green ocean like a knife. The waves beat at her pristine wooden hull as she towered above the water. She was colossal – three hundred feet high and two hundred and twenty-five long, her deck a quarter of an acre. She made her presence felt like a living thing. She didn’t just dominate the view, she gripped your attention and held it by the throat. She was awesome and magnificent, so vivid that she seemed to put everything around her out of focus.
The sounds of deck, hull and masts straining – of loose blocks and sheets slapping and smacking and banging – rang out; the crash of the prow as the Storm ploughed head-on into the churning waves. Sea water washed over her deck and drained back in torrents of foam. Her crew worked furiously – dirt-stained, sun-brown and wind-beaten, each one a master of his particular skill. The weather was getting worse now, but they just whooped and cat-called all the more, flying in defiance of the sea.
In Wellow harbour a crowd had gathered on the quay. Word had spread – as it always does. A gaggle of spectators stood awaiting a first glimpse. A hush had fallen.
The Storm was coming. And it would change Verity Gallant’s life for ever. But while she knew nothing of this, there were those in Wellow who were alive with anticipation. And they were drawn to the quay like children to a piper.
Jasper Cutgrass – only child of loving parents Cyril and Iris Cutgrass and officer of the Preventative Men – waited there patiently, oblivious to the shoves and buffets of the surrounding crowd. His was not a popular or well-paid career, but Jasper had never seen that as sufficient reason not to take pride in his professional appearance. From the gleaming buttons on his jacket to his lovingly polished, if more than a little worn, boots, Jasper shone with the enthusiasm of a man whose life revolved around his employment.
He could scarcely believe he was actually here. But he wouldn’t have missed the Storm’s return to Wellow for anything. From the minute he’d heard she was expected, he’d known he had to bear witness. He knew her arrival would bring enlightenment. And she was bringing the weather with her too, just like the books said.
The heavens opened, and rain started to pour down on the crowd. Out at sea lightning struck. The Storm rounded the headland and the crowd let out a gasp.
‘The most famous of the Gentry fleet,’ Jasper breathed to himself. ‘The Storm.’
He stood on the quay and gazed out in awe through the drenching rain. His woollen coat had soaked up so much water it must have been twice its usual weight. It was maddeningly uncomfortable. But Jasper Cutgrass didn’t give a damn. This was the happiest day of his life.
Villainous Usage had also been helplessly pulled to the quay, in no little part by the iron will of his parent, Mother Usage. The Usages were the kind of family the people of Wellow crossed the street to avoid. As his mother elbowed herself a clear view of the Storm, Villainous trailed silently in her wake, his verminous eyes darting from observer to observer. Nobody bothered protesting: they were mesmerized by the scene taking place before them on the open sea.
It had been a wearing day for Villainous. The rent man had turned up just as Mother was putting her key to the door. And some interfering busybody in the baker’s had the effrontery to offer her a job washing laundry. He just thanked his lucky stars the Storm was finally coming back to Wellow. At last he could resurrect the family business, the source of their former good fortune.
As Mother sighted the fabled ship at last, her face took on an unaccustomed look of genuine happiness. Her greasy chins wobbled with emotion. Villainous winced as she gripped his arm in excitement. ‘She’s here, son,’ she crowed triumphantly.
Villainous gazed at the Storm with reverence. He had never got beyond the basics of sailing (too cold, too wet and too much like hard work for his liking) but he knew enough to understand that the crew of the Storm were masters of their art. Like hounds of the sea they bayed and bellowed as they worked the vessel, clearly loving every thrilling minute of this battle with the elements.
Mother turned to her son gleefully. He had never seen her so jubilant. ‘This is where our fortunes change,’ she promised, stroking the shiny arm of his coat affectionately. Villainous’ weasel-thin face was set in a rictus of anticipation. The sight of his haphazard dentistry was unnerving, but Mother patted his cheek happily. Her son enjoyed the momentary affection while it lasted.
Standing under the overhang of a quayside building, Isaac Tempest – an old man now – watched the Storm’s arrival with his seventeen-year-old grandson. Two generations, both unable to resist the Storm’s call.
Placidly Isaac packed his pipe with tobacco. Lighting it, he drew hard until a cloud of sweet vanilla smoke surrounded them. His grandson stared out to sea, covetously admiring the skill shown by the crew of the Storm. His family were steeped in sailing. Without their talent and daring the Gentry could never have established their empire. But the crew of the Storm were more legendary still.
‘Don’t need to make such a show of it, do they?’ he finally blurted out in a disgruntled outburst.
His grandfather hid a smile. ‘They can’t resist the sport,’ he said. His clear blue eyes crinkled mischievously. ‘Not sure many young men could, if truth be told.’
At the top of the headland Verity stood next to Henry and stared in wonder. The rain was so heavy it was like a sheet of water – dragging on their eyelashes, creeping into their mouths, running up their noses. Verity’s hair was plastered to her skull but she scarcely noticed.
‘That’s why everyone is here,’ Henry shouted over the wind, pointing down to the quay. ‘The Storm is incredibly famous, and she hasn’t visited Wellow since the Gentry disbanded. No one knows why.’ He grabbed Verity’s arm and pointed to the upper deck behind the mast. ‘Is that the man you met in the library?’ he asked.
Verity gasped. It was him. The tall stranger.
‘His name’s Abednego,’ said Henry. ‘He’s the captain of the Storm. Must be terribly old now.’
The man looked ageless. Holding his place on the quarterdeck – the control centre of the ship – he shouted out the occasional order while the crew whirled in frenzied activity around him. His stillness made him seem, if anything, all the more commanding. It was as if they had worked as a team for so lon
g they no longer needed mere words to communicate.
In the hands of a less skilled captain, the Storm would have been pitching about like a cork on Wellow’s perilous lee shore by now. There was so little sea room; no margin for error.
‘He’s searching for the spot,’ yelled Henry. Verity didn’t understand. ‘There’s only one place where the Storm can anchor on this piece of shore,’ he explained. ‘Abednego’s looking for it.’
Aboard the Storm, a crew member swung a long rope – marked with cloth and leather strips and weighted with a waxed piece of lead – into the sea. After pulling it up to determine whether the sea bed was of sand, shingle or rock, he threw it back in again. Now at last he seemed to have found what he had been ordered to seek out. The word went back to Abednego.
The captain gave the command to reduce sail. The euphoric cries of the wild-eyed crew were deafening: they scrambled up the precarious web of ratlines and shrouds that gave access to the rigging, and set about furling the sails. They balanced on the yards that extended from the masts – hundreds of feet above the sea – terrifying in their fearlessness.
The Storm slowed down. With skill and care Abednego steered his vessel into the wind, to the point where she could do nothing but stand still. He gave the order, and the best anchor was lowered on the starboard side – the crew letting out just the right amount of chain to hold her fast.
As the anchor bit into the sea bed, the Storm snapped to a halt, then slowly settled to point in the direction of the tide. Like an angry child who has finally run out of steam, the foul weather stopped just as abruptly as it had started. The wind ceased howling through the rigging. The merciless noise of straining wood, the slapping and banging of loose sheets and blocks ended. The churning waves that had washed the decks subsided back into a steady rolling mass. Only the rain continued to pour down relentlessly.
In the harbour the stunned crowd cheered and applauded. Above them, on the downs, Verity and Henry began to make their way back to town, skidding and slipping on the water-soaked ground. The harbour buzzed with the bustle of crewmen starting the formidable task of provisioning. Verity couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder at the Storm. Like many others in Wellow, she was irresistibly drawn to the magnificent galleon. Little did she know that the Storm would bring change – rippling out in a circle like the wind from a terrifying explosion. Verity may not have understood what she had seen, but there was no doubt that she would be amongst the first to feel its effects.