‘I’m an only child, my father died six years ago …’ Betty – or Mabel, as she must think of herself from now on – told her story out loud as she walked. ‘Since then, I’ve looked after my sick mother. She died just recently. I felt I had to leave the sad memories in Plymouth and start again. I’ll make a good housekeeper or a plain cook. Or I can work in a shop, as I’m good at figures.’
She was so engrossed in this new story that she hadn’t noticed it was growing light again. When she did notice, it occurred to her that she must have left the barn in the middle of the night, not early evening, as she’d supposed.
‘No wonder you felt so rested,’ she thought. Just ahead of her she saw a milestone saying Totnes was only two miles further on. Her plan was to find a room there for a night or two, study Situations Vacant columns in the newspaper, then decide where to go next.
As Mabel, she walked down the hill towards the river in the centre of Totnes. Along with terror at the prospect of being stopped by someone who knew her, she felt a flurry of excitement, remembering how she’d come here with Martin soon after they were married.
They’d gone with her father on his fishing boat to Dartmouth, early in the morning, to deliver some crabs and lobsters, and to pick up a spare part for his boat. Leaving him there, and with the promise they’d be back by five, they caught a paddle steamer up the River Dart to Totnes.
It was a beautiful, hot and sunny June day, and it was lovely to just sit in the sun watching the fields and tiny villages go by. They were both enchanted by Totnes, so many little shops and incredibly old houses, all crowded together in a very higgledy-piggledy manner, and Martin bought her a straw hat with a string of artificial daisies around the crown.
They got a pork pie from a butcher’s and a bottle of lemonade, and nothing had ever tasted as good as that impromptu picnic sitting by the river.
They didn’t have time to explore up the hill as the boat trip took longer than they’d expected. But she remembered Martin saying they’d come back there one day and explore the rest of the town. They never did.
But exploring the town was the last thing on her mind now. She needed to find a safe place to stay, to get her off the streets. Aside from being spotted by someone who knew her, she was afraid her disappearance had been reported and the police were looking for her. She pulled the hood on her cloak right over her head, hiding her face, and cowered in alleys when she spotted a policeman. When a man tapped her on the shoulder, she nearly jumped out of her skin, but all he wanted was to ask her the way to Dartington village. He made her feel so scared she couldn’t even tell him she didn’t know.
By ten that morning, Mabel had already eaten a quantity of fatty bacon stuck between two thick lumps of bread, washed down with three cups of tea, in a little café by the market. She had to sit down, as her feet ached, but it was terrifying to be sitting so close to other people. She kept her head down and didn’t meet anyone’s gaze. Each time the café door opened she imagined a policeman coming in.
But a chance remark she overheard, about the library, made her think it would be a good place to while away some time in the warm. They always had newspapers to read – ideal for not only finding out about how badly Hallsands had fared during the night, but also advertisements for rooms to let. She didn’t think anyone who knew her would be likely to go to the library; many of the older people in Hallsands couldn’t read or write.
About six other people who looked a great deal more destitute than her were already in the little reading room of the library, and there was quite a fug of pipe tobacco, wet wool and unwashed bodies. Mabel went right down to the end of the room, away from the stove and people, and opened The Times .
There were three or four column inches on the damage to the houses at Hallsands on the night before last. There was even a photograph showing the lane down to the sea, including a small bit of her house. It was an old photograph taken the time before, when the high tide had damaged the cottages. Clearly no one had yet been down there to check on more recent damage or to take pictures.
She scanned through the paper; between reports of overcrowding in hospitals, with the constant influx of wounded men brought back from France, details of scarcity of many food stuffs, and the revolution brewing in Russia, she saw reports of flooding in several other seaside towns in Devon and Cornwall. Then she picked up the local newspaper.
There was far more about localized flooding here, rivers that had burst their banks, roads and the railway closed. But again, Hallsands only warranted a few lines. For a moment or two she felt a bit queasy, wondering what would happen if the house hadn’t been washed away and Agnes found out she’d been in there and taken clothes and other things.
But common sense said that was so unlikely, as the waves had been roaring in through the door as she left, and it wasn’t even high tide then. The only real things she had to worry about for now were the risk of being recognized and the urgency of finding a cheap place to stay.
There were only houses, no rooms, to let in the newspaper, and all the situations vacant required a character.
As Mabel walked down the hill towards the river, keeping her head down and the hood of her cloak partially over her face, she passed a sweet shop with a board outside, advertising things for sale, jobs and accommodation. She stopped to look, almost holding her breath in the hope of there being something right for her. There were three ‘rooms for working men, dinner included’. Another one offered accommodation in return for light housekeeping duties. But that wouldn’t do, as she had no intention of staying more than two or three nights.
Finally, almost hidden by a card offering gardening work, was one that was just right. Bed and breakfast, down on the quayside. It claimed to be ‘warm and comfortable’ and ‘best rates’.
She had no idea what best rates meant. But she liked the sound of warm and comfortable. After jotting down the address, she nervously continued down the hill.
Quay View on the Strand was, as she expected, one of the three-storey houses she’d passed earlier that morning, right by the river. Not a smart house, but neither was it the worst in the row. The white paint was dingy, but then it was January. On the plus side, the windows sparkled and the brass on the front door was gleaming.
Mabel rang the bell and the door was opened almost immediately by a stout lady with a very red face, her hair covered by a blue checked turban.
‘Have you a room vacant, just for two or three nights?’ Mabel asked. ‘I’m on my way to Bristol, but I thought I’d take a breather here.’
‘Come in out of the cold,’ the woman said and smiled. ‘I don’t get many guests at this time of year. So you can have my best room. I’m Mrs Halliwell.’
Mabel was very scared when Mrs Halliwell invited her into her kitchen for a cup of tea. It crossed her mind that the police could have already been round, warning guest-house owners she might ask for a room.
That idea faded once she was in a very cosy and warm kitchen. Mrs Halliwell was truly welcoming, and not a bit suspicious. Mabel told her the story she’d prepared, making sure she made it clear she had little money, in case this seemingly good woman turned out to be greedy.
‘You poor dear,’ Mrs Halliwell said in sympathy. ‘A pretty young thing like you shouldn’t be having to start a new life in a strange town.’
‘These are tough times for everyone,’ Mabel said. ‘I’m just glad I haven’t any children, things would’ve been really tough then. I’m young enough to make new friends, and I’m not afraid of hard work.’
The room was only a shilling a night, and it was a pretty one overlooking the river, the wallpaper green with white blossom, and a multicoloured patchwork quilt on the brass bed. As Mrs Halliwell showed Mabel the room she bent over to light the fire, already laid in the grate.
‘You’ll soon be as snug as a bug,’ she said, looking down at the flames as they caught the kindling. ‘I’ll leave you to settle in now. You look tired, my dear, so why not have a little nap? Co
me and have supper with me tonight, at six thirty? I’m a widow too and I don’t much like eating alone.’
It was the kindness of Mrs Halliwell that made Mabel start to cry after the woman had left the room. She lay down on the bed, pulled the patchwork quilt over her and sobbed.
Until then, she hadn’t really considered how people she’d known all her life would react to the news that she’d been washed away by the sea. Her neighbours had comforted her when her mother died, cooked her meals and made her clothes. They had rejoiced at her wedding and grieved with her when her father was lost at sea, and now, when they were in despair at losing their homes, she was giving them still more pain by allowing them to think she was dead.
Supposing Martin woke out of whatever place his mind had been in, to remember he had a wife he loved, and then found she was gone? Wasn’t that likely to completely destroy him?
Mabel felt sick with guilt, but she couldn’t go back now. She’d slammed and bolted that door for all time.
3
As the train chugged away from Totnes station, Mabel felt such a sense of relief.
In the three days she’d spent there, she had been too scared to stay out for more than an hour – and even then, she kept darting into alleyways if she saw someone she thought she knew. If anyone looked at her hard, she wanted to run, and she felt sick to her stomach whenever she saw a policeman. So she’d spent most of the time in her room, alone with her very troubling thoughts about how wicked she was.
Yet staying with Mrs Halliwell was so pleasant. She was the kindest, most generous person, and her home was as cosy and warm as she was. It felt so good to have someone showing concern for her. It was a long time since anyone had done that. But with each day, expecting her face to be on the front page of a newspaper, she lived with the guilt that Mrs Halliwell might be taken to task for hiding a fugitive.
It had made no difference that she told herself her old neighbours in Hallsands rarely went beyond Kingsbridge; she was still scared. She knew many people in Kingsbridge too, including her old employers, and they all came to Totnes to shop.
On her second day in the town, the papers had finally reported on the tragedy in Hallsands. All the houses in the lane were gone, the picture showing only a couple of tottering walls to indicate that these were once people’s homes. The journalist pointed out in a strong, campaigning voice that if it hadn’t been for developers ruthlessly taking away shingle from the beach below the village, merely to extend Plymouth harbour, this tragedy in Hallsands wouldn’t have happened. Mabel thought it was a shame he and other people in authority hadn’t started an outcry years ago, when it had become clear how this was going to end. The journalist hammered his point home, listing other occasions when a storm and an unusually high tide had created similar damage.
The developers and the local council have had so many warnings of the dangers. But this time it appears the sea claimed a life too. Young Mrs Betty Wellows, aged only 22, is presumed to have been swept away as she tried to rescue some of her belongings.
Mabel cringed at the editorial that followed.
Betty, with her curly red hair, slight build and ready smile, was popular with her neighbours. She had lived in Hallsands all her life, and in her short life she had become accustomed to tragedy. Her mother died when she was eight; her fisherman father, Bert Grainger, was lost at sea soon after Betty was married to Martin Wellows, also a fisherman. Wellows enlisted in the army in November 1915 and was brought home a few months ago, having been wounded at the Battle of the Somme. He is now a widower, he’s lost his house, and it is reported that he is still suffering from the injuries he sustained in France. Can it be right that people in positions of power, such as these wealthy developers, can ride roughshod over working people’s rights, their homes and even their lives? For surely these businessmen are responsible for Mrs Wellows’s death and for the plight of all those who are now homeless.
There was even an old, grainy class photograph from Mabel’s school. But fortunately her face wasn’t at all clear.
While Mabel was pleased that someone was acting as a champion for her friends and neighbours in Hallsands, she also felt a sudden, sharp stab of guilt that there would be those who would be terribly upset that she’d lost her life. All she’d focused on as she left the village was how hateful Agnes was. But her neighbours who’d cared for her when her mother died, her childhood playmates and her employers in Kingsbridge, they didn’t deserve the pain of grief.
Yet however guilty she felt about making old friends sad, she was aware that others thrived on drama and it would give them pleasure to boast of their tenuous connection to her. Unfortunately, it would be just Mabel’s luck to run into someone who had met her briefly at chapel, in the market, or somewhere equally random.
It was a shame she couldn’t stay in Totnes, as she really liked the busy, bustling small town. It had a good variety of shops, including clothing shops which were renowned all over Devon. There were the lumber yards along the river, and boats moored there to bring so many goods to the town. Harris’s bacon factory employed a great many people and their food products were sold countrywide.
But she didn’t dare stay any longer, and she was just grateful to dear Mrs Halliwell for being so kind. She’d only taken a shilling for her keep. She said Mabel needed money more than she did. Mabel didn’t expect to be that lucky in Bristol. It was a big city and she’d been told Bristolians were mean.
Looking out of the train window, she wondered if she would ever see Devon again. The countryside was at its most stark and desolate right now, even the cows and sheep in the fields looked miserable, and many fields resembled lakes because of the heavy rain. But she knew, by March, she’d be daydreaming of lambs skipping around these same fields, buds opening on trees and the banks being covered in primroses and violets. Yet it would be the sea she would miss the most. It might be cruel and violent sometimes, but she’d woken up to it every day of her life; she’d fished, sailed, swam and just sat and watched the incredible majesty of it. She couldn’t imagine a life without it just beyond her window.
But Mabel was determined to look forward. The past was gone; today, tomorrow and the future were what counted. Totnes and Plymouth were the furthest she’d been so far, and she expected there were many other towns and cities that were just as lovely. Her plan for now was to put away the memories of Devon – her parents dying, Martin being brought back from France a different man to the one she’d married, and her flight from Hallsands – and seal them in a kind of imaginary box. She would keep it locked until such time as she was able to be objective about it all. Then she would open it again, remember the good times and shed a few tears of sorrow for those she’d hurt in running away. Until that day, she was Mabel Brook from Plymouth, and she was embarking on a whole new life.
The first thing to strike Mabel about Bristol, when she came out of Temple Meads station, was the congestion. It had been noisy and smoky in the station, but she was so overawed by the size of the place – the high glass roof over the platforms, the trains belching out steam, a maelstrom of people pushing and shoving to either catch a train or to leave the station – she had assumed, once she was outside, it would be calmer.
But it was worse, with horse-drawn carts, cabs and trolley buses all hurtling their way around one another at what seemed to be breakneck speed. Back in Devon, spotting one of the new petrol automobiles was a rare and noteworthy sight, but here there were lots. The pavements were equally crowded too; people making their way to Temple Meads station, carrying bags or suitcases, jostled with housewives going shopping in the opposite direction. There were flower sellers, boot blacks and newspaper boys. Working men in grubby clothes and flat caps mingled with men in bowler hats and smart suits. Scores of dirty little urchins darted about, their eyes full of mischief. She was glad she’d tucked her purse into a secret, buttoned-up pocket on the inside of her cloak, as she was sure these children were pickpockets.
There were many men in un
iform too, either coming home on leave or going back to the front. More worrying still was the number of crippled men, some with a missing leg, hobbling along on crutches, others with bandaged heads or arms in slings. She saw one man who had lost both legs; he was sitting on a wheeled soap box, begging. He had a card hanging around his neck, which read ‘Wounded at the Somme’.
But over and above such sights was the noise. Cartwheels, horses’ hooves, engines, bells ringing on the trolley buses, traders shouting out their wares. Mabel wanted to cover her ears to shut it out, but it occurred to her she might as well cover her eyes too, so she didn’t have to see the poverty and those wounded in France, and even cover her nose against the smells. The most pungent were horse droppings, unwashed bodies, and the stink of the river. She wondered how she was ever going to like living in this town, when right now it was making her stomach churn.
Mrs Halliwell had suggested the St Pauls area of Bristol, to find some accommodation and possibly work, as it was within walking distance of the train station. She said she’d stayed once at a pleasant guest house in City Road.
Mabel turned to look back at Temple Meads station. At school she’d been taught about Isambard Kingdom Brunel, who had designed the railway, but she hadn’t been expecting the station itself to be quite so impressive. To her it looked like a splendid palace or a cathedral. It seemed odd that, just outside the forecourt, everywhere was so dirty, smelly and noisy.
Mabel had often heard visitors to Devon describe local people as ‘country bumpkins’ and, looking around her now, she thought that described her perfectly. The smarter women were wearing fitted cloth coats, or furs; they had felt hats in interesting shapes, often decorated with flowers or feathers. Cloaks like hers and knitted bonnets were only worn by the old or the poor, and few women wore dresses right down to their ankles. Along with being scared, and revolted by the sights and smells, she also felt old and dowdy.
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