The boat was now headed back towards Cadgwith, and I scrambled to my feet.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘Unpleasantly wet, but otherwise all right.’ But I was a bit shaken and had to sit on the thwart. ‘Does this sort of thing often happen?’ I asked him. I glanced up and surprised a rather puzzled look on his face.
‘Never known it to happen afore, sir,’ he replied.
‘What was it?’ I persisted. ‘An outsize in pollock, a tunny fish, a shark—or what?’
‘Well, it might have been a tunny or a shark,’ he said, a trifle doubtfully I thought. ‘You had a mackerel on that line, didn’t you?’
I nodded. ‘And I saw something break the surface of the water just beside the boat,’ I said. ‘It was in the trough of a wave and moving fast in the direction of the mackerel. Would it have been the fin of a shark, do you think? Do you get sharks round this coast?’
‘Sometimes. You get ’em on most coasts.’ He shook his head. ‘It must have been a pretty big one,’ he murmured. ‘You should have seen the state of the sea after you’d taken your header. It was as though a whale had submerged.’
He rolled a cigarette for me and we fell silent, smoking thoughtfully. I was beginning to feel pretty cold by the time we reached Cadgwith. As soon as we had landed he took me straight up to the pub, where I was introduced to the landlord, given a pair of old trousers and a jersey, and my wet clothes hung up to dry. I ordered a hot rum and lemon. Big Logan and the landlord joined me with whiskies and then fell to an interminable discussion of the whole business. I had already decided it was a shark and I was not interested. Sitting in front of the warm kitchen range I soon began to feel sleepy.
Big Logan had to shake me awake in order to tell me that he would take me back to Church Cove by boat. I could hear the wind howling in the chimney and I shook my head. ‘I’ll walk,’ I said.
‘Your clothes aren’t dry yet and you’re tired,’ he said. ‘Much better let me run you back. There’s still a little light left and the sea isn’t too bad yet.’
But I shook my head. ‘Honestly, I’d like the walk,’ I told him. ‘It’ll warm me up. That is, if you don’t mind my hanging on to these clothes until tomorrow?’ I asked the landlord.
‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘You’re welcome. And if you’ll come over tomorrow we’ll have your own clothes dry for you by then.’
I thanked him and got to my feet. I tried to pay Big Logan for the fishing trip, but he said he didn’t accept money for nearly drowning people. And when I tried to insist, he thrust the pound note back into the pocket of my jacket, which I had put on, wet though it was, because it contained my wallet and my keys. He even offered to accompany me along the cliffs, but by this time I was feeling sufficiently wide awake and buoyed up by the drink to insist that I should enjoy the walk.
As he came out of the pub with me, he called to two fellows in the bar to come and help him in with his boat. The evening light was still sufficient for me to be able to see it bobbing about at its moorings. The wind was rising still and already the waves were beginning to sound noisily on the shingle beach as they tumbled into the inlet. I climbed the roadway to the cliffs and met the full force of the growing gale. I was more than ever glad then that I had not accepted Logan’s offer to run me back to Church Cove.
The heat of exertion made the jersey and the rough serge trousers most uncomfortable. I had nothing on underneath them and my skin was sensitive to the rough material. Moreover, my shoes, which were still wet, squelched at every step. I found the farmyard, and climbing the stone stile, reached the path that skirted the Devil’s Frying Pan. The flashing of the Lizard light was plainly visible along the coast. There was still a slight glow in the sky ahead, but despite this I found it very difficult to see the path and every now and then I was reduced literally to feeling my way along for fear I should strike out towards the edge of the cliffs.
I passed the big white house on the headland and in a little while came to a part-wooden bungalow that did service as a café. Half of a window still showed light through orange curtains, but the other half was already blacked out with brown paper. I suddenly remembered that for more than three hours I had forgotten all about the crisis. The rum seemed to recede all at once from my brain and leave me wretchedly depressed. I climbed another stone stile and followed the path inland as it circled a long indent. I followed it automatically, for my mind was entirely wrapped in a mental picture of the Western Front. And I suddenly felt that, having come so near to death that night, a merciful God should have finished the job rather than spare me to rot in a stinking trench.
I was possessed of the cowardice that is the heritage of an imaginative mind. It is anticipation and not the pain itself that breeds fear. I singled myself out for a horrible death as I trod that cliff path. In fact, from the way in which I regarded my death as inevitable one would have thought that it was for that sole purpose that Hitler had regimented Germany for six years. And when I almost stumbled into a man standing, a vague blur, on the path in front of me, I recoiled involuntarily with a little cry.
‘I am sorry. I am afraid I frightened you,’ he said.
‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘You startled me a bit, that’s all. I was thinking about something else.’
‘I was hoping you could direct me to a cottage called Carillon that lies back from the cliffs somewhere near here.’
‘Carillon?’ I murmured. Suddenly I remembered where I had seen the name. ‘Is it above Church Cove?’ I asked.
‘That is right,’ he said. His speech was so precise and impersonal that I felt he must be a B.B.C. announcer on holiday.
‘If you care to come with me,’ I said, ‘I think I can find it for you. It lies just back from this path about half a mile further on.’
He thanked me and fell into place behind me. As I went past him I found that the rather stiff-looking waterproof he wore was soaked practically to the waist.
‘You’re wet,’ I said.
There was a moment’s pause, and then he said, ‘Yes, I have been out in a boat and had some trouble getting ashore. The sea is getting quite rough.’
‘Funny!’ I said. ‘I’ve just got wet through too.’ And I told him about my little adventure.
Somehow I got the impression that he was rather impressed by what had happened. ‘And what do you think it was?’ he asked, when I had finished.
I told him I thought it must have been a shark. He had drawn level with me as the path widened, and I saw him nod. ‘They are to be seen about these western coasts. It went for the mackerel.’ He then referred to the crisis and asked me whether there were any fresh developments. Then he asked if I had seen anything of the fleet. I told him it had passed down the Channel a week ago and that not a single naval vessel had been seen off the coast since then, except for five destroyers and one submarine of unknown nationality.
He sighed. ‘I am afraid it will be war,’ he said.
I nodded. ‘Oh, well,’ I said, ‘it’s no more than one expected. But it’s a bit of a shock when it comes.’ I sensed that he too was depressed. ‘Will you be called up?’ I asked.
‘I expect so.’
‘What branch?’
‘Navy.’
‘It’s better than most,’ I consoled him. ‘Better than the trenches.’
‘Maybe,’ he said, but he did not sound very enthusiastic.
For a time we walked in silence. Then to take our minds off morbid thoughts I began to talk of the coast, the submerged rocks and the wrecks. ‘The fisherman I was out with today told me of a Dutch barge that was completely broken up on the Gav Rocks at Kennack in three days,’ I said.
‘Yes, I have been here before,’ he said. ‘It is a bad coast.’
I nodded. ‘It is,’ I agreed. ‘And they say that quite a lot of the submerged rocks aren’t even charted and are only known by the local fisherman.’
‘I know,’ was his reply. ‘There is a great reef out off Cadgwith that i
s not properly charted. It is the worst bit of coast I think I have ever seen.’
‘Of course, these fishermen know it all,’ I said. ‘They know just where to find a sand bottom among the rocks. I suppose the knowledge of the rock formations on the bed of the sea is handed down from father to son and grows with the knowledge gained by each new generation.’ We had reached the top of a headland and a path branched off to the right, skirting a field. ‘You go up there,’ I said. ‘The cottage is on the right.’
He thanked me and we parted, his slim erect figure merging into the gloom. I went on down into Church Cove.
2
Suspicion
‘WILL LISTENERS PLEASE stand by for an important announcement which will be made at nine-fifteen.’ It was early Sunday morning and even the announcer’s voice sounded strained and unfamiliar. I sat in the Kerris’s kitchen, smoking cigarettes and waiting. So we heard of the final two-hour ultimatum delivered by Sir Neville Henderson. Later came the news that the Prime Minister would broadcast at eleven-fifteen. Rather than hang about waiting for what I knew to be inevitable, I got the car out and drove over to Cadgwith with the clothes the landlord had lent me.
When I returned to the car, with my own clothes dried and neatly done up in brown paper, I met Big Logan coming up from the beach. ‘You don’t mean to say you’ve been out with the boats this morning?’ I said. There was quite a sea running, though the wind had dropped and it was a fine morning.
He laughed. ‘War or no war we’ve still got to earn our living,’ he said. ‘I hope you’re none the worse for your bathe last night?’
‘Not a bit,’ I replied, as I threw the bundle of clothes into the back of the car. ‘Funny thing was,’ I added, shutting the door, ‘I met a fellow on my way back to Church Cove who had also got pretty wet landing from a boat.’
‘Landing from a boat?’ He looked puzzled. ‘Where did he land?’ he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Somewhere round here, I suppose. I met him on the path just past that little café on the cliff.’
‘No boat came in here. We were the last in.’
‘Well, he probably landed somewhere along the coast,’ I suggested.
‘Why should he do that? Nobody would think of landing anywhere between here and Church Cove with the sea as jumpy as it was last night—unless of course he had to. How wet was he?’
‘I should say he had been up to his waist in water. Anyway, what does it matter?’ I demanded. I was a trifle annoyed at his persistence.
He hesitated. His feet were placed slightly apart and his hands rested on the leather belt around his waist. At length he said, ‘Well, I’ve been thinking. That business last night—how do we know it was a fish?’
‘What else could it have been?’ I asked impatiently.
He looked at me, and once again I was impressed by the shrewdness of his small eyes. ‘It might have been a submarine,’ he said.
I stared at him. ‘A submarine?’ Then I suddenly laughed. ‘But why should a submarine jump half out of the water and pounce upon a poor inoffensive mackerel? Submarines don’t have to feed. Anyway, it would be dangerous to come so close in without surfacing.’
‘Did it jump half out of the water?’ he asked, and I saw that he was perfectly serious. ‘Are you certain it was after the mackerel?’
‘Perhaps jumping half out of the water is an exaggeration,’ I admitted, ‘but at least I saw a fin or something streak through the water in the trough of a wave.’
‘Or something,’ he said. ‘Mightn’t it have been a periscope?’
I thought about this for a moment. ‘I suppose it might,’ I agreed. ‘But why should it take my line?’
‘The line might have got caught up in the submarine.’
‘But it’s absurd,’ I said.
‘You didn’t see the water after you’d taken that header. It boiled as though a bloody whale had gone down. The disturbance was too much for a shark. Anyway, that’s what I think.’
‘But, whatever would it be doing so close in?’ I asked.
‘That’s what’s been puzzling me,’ he said. ‘But you mentioning that fellow you met having got so wet has given me an idea. They might have wanted to land someone.’
I thought this over for a moment. It was not altogether fantastic. And yet it seemed incredible. Looking back, I think that what seemed so incredible to me was not the presence of the submarine, but the fact that I had become involved in its presence. I am not accustomed to being caught up in violent adventures. My job is to comment on drama, not take part in it, and I felt somehow a little sceptical of my being knocked overboard by a submarine.
‘Did the fellow you met say anything to you?’ Big Logan asked.
‘Yes, he asked me the way to a cottage called Carillon, which stands back from the cliffs above Church Cove.’ It was then that I remembered his perfect English, and suddenly it seemed to me that it was almost too perfect. Word for word, as far as I could remember it, I repeated my conversation with the man.
The conversation seemed harmless enough. But Big Logan was plainly excited. ‘How did he know there was a hidden reef off Cadgwith?’ he demanded.
‘He’d been down here before,’ I pointed out. ‘It may have been you yourself who told him. He probably went out fishing.’
‘Then can you tell me how he knew it wasn’t properly charted?’
I couldn’t, but at the same time I was by no means convinced that this made the man a spy. Nevertheless, I was glad Big Logan had not realized that in conversation with this stranger I had given him important information concerning the movement of the fleet. Anyway, I consoled myself, if he were a spy he would have the information soon enough.
‘I suggest we go along and have a word with Joe,’ Logan said. ‘He knows everybody around these parts. He’ll be able to tell us about the people who own this cottage.’
I followed him back into the pub. We found the landlord in the bar. He had been going over his stock and he had the radio on. He put his fingers to his lips as we went in. Two of his visitors were sitting listening.
‘This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final note stating that unless we heard from them by eleven o’clock that they are prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland a state of war would exist between us. I have to tell you that no such undertaking has been received and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.’
The voice was Chamberlain’s. The fact of war came as no great shock to me. It had been a certainty for the past twenty-four hours. Yet my stomach turned over within me at the actuality of it.
The Premier’s speech was followed by announcements, commencing with details of the sounding of air raid sirens. The two visitors got up and left the bar, one saying that he was going to telephone his brother. When they had gone, Big Logan turned to the landlord. ‘Do you know who lives at Carillon now, Joe? It must be over two years since Mrs Bloy died.’
‘Nearer three,’ replied the landlord. ‘Old man of the name of Cutner has owned it ever since. Retired bank manager, I think. What do you want to know for?’
Big Logan hesitated, and then said, ‘Oh, nothing—this gentleman wanted to know, that’s all.’ He caught me looking at him in some surprise and glanced hurriedly away. ‘Know whether he has many visitors?’
‘How should I know?’ The landlord was looking at him curiously.
‘No, of course you wouldn’t. I was only——’ He stopped short. The three of us glanced round the room uneasily, aware of a sudden change. I think we all realized what it was at the same moment, for we turned and stared at the radio set at the far end of the bar. The current was still on and we could hear it crackling, but the air had gone dead. At the same moment the visitor who had gone out to phone his brother came in with an anxious look on his face to say that the local exchange could get no answer from London.
He and I were the only ones who leaped immediately to the obvious conclusi
on. I thought of Bloomsbury with its old houses. They would be absolute death traps. And the trees and the Georgian houses in Mecklenburg Square—should I see those again as I had known them? ‘If it is a raid,’ I said, ‘it’s quick work.’
‘Perhaps it’s only a test,’ he said.
‘Or just a coincidence,’ I murmured. ‘The B.B.C. is working under emergency conditions and London is probably inundated with calls.’
‘Yes, that’s probably it.’ His voice did not carry much conviction. Later, of course, we heard that an air raid warning had been sounded, but the possibility of both radio and telephone systems having broken down at the same time enabled us to continue our conversation while the visitor went back to the phone to try again.
Big Logan steered off the subject of the owner of Carillon without any explanation as to why he had been interested in the man. We had a drink on the house and, after discussing the war for a while, we left the pub.
Outside, Big Logan said, ‘We’d best go up and have a talk with Ted Morgan.’ Morgan was one of the coastguards and it was plain that my companion was not feeling too sure of himself. He had not told the landlord about his suspicions, and had thus prevented the story from circulating throughout the village. Clearly he now wanted confirmation of the conclusion he had arrived at. The coastguard was the sort of father of all wisdom in the village.
But when I was introduced to him in the Board of Trade hut on the cliffs, I doubted whether he was as shrewd as Big Logan. In their relations with the Government, however, the fishermen of the village always turned to Morgan, since he understood the regulations and knew all about the forms they had to fill in. The habit had stuck.
Big Logan told him the whole story. With his feet thrust slightly apart and his thumbs in his leather waistbelt, he seemed to fill the whole hut, his beard wagging up and down as he spoke. By comparison, the little Welshman, seated at the desk before the telescope, seemed very small indeed. When Logan had finished I sensed that Morgan was sceptical. He put his head on one side like a bird and drummed with his fingers on the desk. ‘It is possible, of course,’ he conceded, and he darted a glance at the big fisherman. ‘It is possible. I saw what I think was a U-boat about six miles off the coast only yesterday.’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘But where would he have landed?’
Wreckers Must Breathe Page 3