by Valerie Wood
He laughed softly. ‘We thought then that our troubles were over, but in fact they were only just beginning. We were within a day of reaching the Stellar when the ice began to close in again. We could see that she was already in trouble, but what we didn’t see was the iceberg floating towards us and by the time we did see it it was too late. It hit us with such force that within minutes we were sinking. Some of the men were thrown overboard and died of the cold or drowning. We had no time for saving anything but ourselves, and we watched from the ice as she went down.’
Isaac looked out at the fields with their covering of new green shoots where the corn and barley were pushing up through the brown earth; and also saw the frozen ice field as he remembered it. ‘And so you walked across the ice to reach the Stellar?’ he murmured. ‘And were taken on board.’
John nodded. ‘If she hadn’t been there, we would have been finished. There was nothing else. Not another ship, not another living thing to be seen.’
He heaved a deep sigh. ‘That’s about the sum of it, sir, the rest you know. We waited again for the thaw, we shared what little food they had left, we shared their bunks and their clothing, for we had only what we were wearing, and each of us hoped and prayed that we would have the strength to hold on.’
He too looked out of the carriage window. It seemed an unreal world, of warm sun and green fields, but he was not heartened by it. What was he coming back to? He was bereft with hopelessness, lonely and stricken with despair. There had been times out there, in that other crystal world, when he had forgotten that Sarah was no longer his, when she had been near to him, giving him strength by her loving, but he knew now that it had been only an illusion.
He put his hand in his pocket and felt the cold smoothness of ivory; the whale tooth had been the only reminder he had. No lacy handkerchief or pretty ribbon, but something ageless and indestructible, and he carried it always.
‘Well, we have had our ups and downs,’ said Isaac. ‘We too have had our share of tragedy.’
John looked at him with dull eyes.
‘And I must tell you! What about this? Little Lucy is to be married!’
‘That’s a tragedy?’ John raised his eyebrows.
‘No, no. You misunderstand. We are very pleased about it. A fine gentleman from Bath. She was introduced, I gather, at the Pardoes’ home, so he comes highly recommended.’
The Pardoes’ home. What a lifetime ago it was when he was last there. John recalled that a decision had to be made, but not yet. Matilda would have to wait a little longer, if indeed she hadn’t given up hope already and married someone else.
‘We had a letter from Miss Pardoe some months ago, asking if we had heard news of you. She appeared most anxious for your safety.’
Isaac looked at John from the corner of his eyes. ‘Some other news also. As I said, we too have had our tragedies out at Monkston. If you are up to it, I will tell you about them.’
Sarah stood inside the cottage door. Her mother had said not to come, that she would be upset by the desolation.
The room was as she had left it all those weeks ago, before the tragedy. The blanket was still crumpled on the bed, the grey ash in the hearth. No-one had had the heart to come, so it had been left, the door locked on its memories.
Her mother had been right, she could no longer live here. The earth around was cracked and broken, and the shallow foundations of the walls undermined by the power of the sea. But apart from that, as she looked around, there were so many memories there to torment her; she could see vestiges of her father, the shelves he had made, the stout bar for the door; and the small chair where Joe had sat, his large body straining the frame.
Poor, loving Joe, he had died trying to save her; her father, who could have saved himself, saving her life when she didn’t really care about living. And John. She remembered how he had waited here in the rain on the night of Tom’s wedding. They had held each other, and then she had sent him away. Three men who had loved her, three men lost because of her.
She folded up the blanket and opened the cupboard doors, taking down the boxes and jars of herbs and oils and stacking them neatly on the table. She opened the door wide and let in the sunshine and then took a broom and swept out the crisp dead leaves that littered the floor.
‘I’m glad Ma Scryven isn’t here to see it,’ she murmured to herself. ‘How saddened she would be.’ She still thought of it as the old woman’s cottage, feeling herself just the keeper until the day she had to give it back.
One day the sea will claim it, she thought sadly. It will carry it off to the bottom of the cliffs and out on the waves. The memories and lives of those who lived here will be carried out to sea and no-one will remember them. All will be forgotten. She started to hum an old song that her father used to sing, but she only remembered the tune and none of the words.
She went outside, feeling the sun warm on her face, and looked at the remains of the garden. Part of the land had slithered over the edge and deep fissures broke the ground, deep enough to fall into and break a foot or ankle. She bent down to inspect the cracks and saw inside the layers of brown mud and yellow sand the roots of shrubs, lavender and elder, and bulbs of wild daffodils stretching down their tensile roots and pushing tender shoots upwards through the clay.
She picked up a spade that was leaning against the wall and with her foot firm on the iron blade dug out clumps of snowdrops and primroses with a large clod of earth round each to cushion them. She eased from the ground violet roots, the plant of everlasting love, broke off twigs of hawthorn bursting with new growth, and carefully gathered heads from last year’s poppies and put them in her pocket. Then, when she was finished, she brought out the old chair from inside the house and placed it facing the sea and sat there gently rocking, the sun glindng on her hair.
I’ve been guilty of too much self-importance, she thought. I’ve thought only of myself. I’ve not been humble enough or considerate of other people’s feelings. But I’ll change. I’ll take my pride in my hands and ask the Mastersons if I can have Field House to live in and make my living. They have been very kind to me whilst I have been ill, and I feel sure they will grant me this one request. My mother won’t want it now, she’ll stay at Garston Hall, or perhaps live with Lizzie and Tom. I know they have asked her.
She sat rocking gently, the sun moving around her, warming her head and shoulders. She watched through half-closed eyes as the waves washed gently up the sands, softly caressing, softly shushing, the creamy white flecks curling and falling rhythmically.
‘I thought you were my friend,’ she said softly. ‘I knew your every mood, your every whim. Why, then? Why did you have to be so cruel, so vicious, taking away those I love, when you can be so loving, so playful, as you are today?’
The waves, as if amused, rose and fell, tossing capriciously on to the sand then running playfully back.
‘We’ll not give in, you know. You shan’t beat us.’
A large ripple rose and threw itself defiantly against the shore, crashing against the broken mounds of clay at the bottom of the cliff.
‘We won’t go away. We shall keep on moving back, but you won’t get rid of us. We belong here. We’re part of this landscape just as much as you are.’
She smiled as a shadow fell across her, and she raised her hand without turning, thinking that it was Tom or her mother come to fetch her. ‘I’m just explaining a few things,’ she said. ‘Reasons for being here.’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘There has to be a reason, hasn’t there?’
Turning, she shielded her eyes from the sun which threw into shadow the face of the man who stood there.
John smiled, the smile lighting up his face, easing away the pain and crinkling the corners of his eyes. He saw the band of sun-kissed freckles sliding across her nose and the look of hope slowly dawning in her dark eyes.
He took her eager outstretched hands as she rose from the chair and drew her towards him, and this time she knew that he was real, warm and living, no
t insubstantial and shadowy as he had been in her dreams. His image blurred through her tears. She blinked, the tears fell away and he was still there.
‘There is always a reason, Sarah, that must be what brought me back.’ He put his arms round her and kissed the top of her head, and held her close, breathing in the scent of the coming summer and the salt of the sea. ‘Come. It’s time we went home.’
Their heads were close as they walked up the cliff path, their backs to the sea. The cottage door, caught by the breeze, creaked on its hinges. Twigs and leaves blew inside followed by a swirl of golden sand which settled in a fine layer on the floor, and the sea, turning on the ebb tide, drew away from the shore breathing softly like a sigh.
THE END
About the Author
Valerie Wood was born in Yorkshire, where she still lives. Her first novel, The Hungry Tide, was the first winner of the Catherine Cookson Prize for Fiction.
For more information on Val Wood and her books, see her website at www.valeriewood.co.uk
Also by Val Wood
THE HUNGRY TIDE
ANNIE
CHILDREN OF THE TIDE
THE ROMANY GIRL
EMILY
GOING HOME
ROSA’S ISLAND
THE DOORSTEP GIRLS
FAR FROM HOME
THE KITCHEN MAID
THE SONGBIRD
NOBODY'S CHILD
FALLEN ANGELS
THE LONG WALK HOME
RICH GIRL, POOR GIRL
HOMECOMING GIRLS
and published by Corgi Books
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THE HUNGRY TIDE
A CORGI BOOK : 0 552 14118 6
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN: 9781446486252
First publication in Great Britain
PRINTING HISTORY
Corgi edition published 1993
7 9 10 8 6
Copyright © Valerie Wood 1993
The right of Valerie Wood to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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