The Hungry Tide (36 page)

The two men got down from the cart to help as they saw an old man struggling to move a heavy plough from where it was stuck in a muddy rut. ‘God bless thee,’ he croaked, his sea blue eyes swimming with tears. ‘I’ll remember thy lads in my prayers, for they’re surely gone from thee.’

The road was gone, broken completely away, and they were redirected, skirting behind the village and down a track not much more than a footpath, until they came across the coast road again.

‘We’ll go down as far as Dimlington Heights,’ said Martin wearily.

They had searched visually in the small bays, but there was nothing to be seen or heard, only the squally, white-flecked waves rushing in, and the howl of the blustering wind. ‘We’ll get ’best lookout from there, up on top by ’beacon.’

The moon came out from behind the scudding clouds as they reached the high point of the cliffs. Over one hundred feet of glacial clay towered above the sea, and on top of this there stood a beacon, set there along with others all around the country at the time of Queen Elizabeth, the torch ready to be lit in warning should an invasion come from the sea.

From this vantage point they could see down the coast towards the tip of the low-lying Spurn Point, where the glimmering yellow glow of the lighthouse flame flickered steadily, and a fleet of vessels anchored in the deep water were riding the waves, waiting for the pilot boat to guide them through the mudflats of the Humber into the sanctuary of harbour. But the sands below them, gleaming white in the moonlight, were empty, and despondently they turned their backs and headed for home.

The sky was beginning to lighten, showing long streaks of the white, red and gold of dawn as they retraced their journey back as far as Owthorne, periodically stopping to look and listen. They saw as they approached the dark straggle of houses stretched along the cliff top and the villagers still busy moving belongings from the houses most in danger. Slowly, they drove towards them when a sudden shout made them sit up sharply. Heads were lifted and backs straightened and the small knot of people abruptly dropped what they were doing and rushed towards the cliffs. Someone waved urgently to Will and Martin and shouted something incomprehensible. They cracked the whip, urged the horse on and saw that it was the old man they had helped with the plough.

‘It’s a fisher boat,’ he called. ‘Come in to land.’

They gave him the reins and threw themselves down to the ground to peer over the crumbling cliffs.

‘Tek care,’ shouted the man. ‘It’s ready to fall any time.’

The cliffs here were not so high, and twenty feet below they saw a fishing boat being dragged ashore. ‘That’s not my boat,’ said Martin, his voice fatigued and despairing.

There were five or six village men up to their waists in water helping to pull the boat on to the narrow strip of sand. One of them looked up and called, ‘They’ve found ’em, they’ve found ’poor bairns.’ Gently and carefully they were lifting out of the boat two still forms.

‘Are they drowned?’ A woman’s troubled voice asked the question, and Will shuddered as the seaman’s old superstition of never saying the dreaded word came back to him.

Cautiously, taking each step with care, the boys were carried up the slippery slope and laid gently down on the ground.

‘Nay, they’re not, though they should be by rights,’ a fisherman, his face red and raw from the stinging spray, answered. ‘We saw ’boat two miles out as we were heading for home. They’d lost their oars and shipped a deal of water. They were lying that low beneath ’troughs, it’s a miracle we saw ’em at all; and a bigger miracle they didn’t turn over. They were lying in ’bottom of boat, I doubt they’d have lasted much longer. They were just about finished.’

Will and Martin bent over the boys. The fishermen had put their own coats over them, but they lay exhausted and shivering on the wet ground, unable to speak, their lips blue with cold.

‘I’m sorry about thy boat,’ the fisherman added. ‘But we couldn’t risk towing it, we had difficulty getting ’lads out of it and into ours without tekkin’ a dip. She’ll be washed up further down ’coast I expect, but she’ll not be much more than firewood.’

‘It doesn’t matter about ’boat,’ Martin said gruffly. ‘As long as ’lads are safe.’

Will shook the fishermen by the hand. ‘God bless thee and watch o’er thee.’

They nodded quietly, recognizing a fellow mariner. ‘And thee, my friend.’

Exhausted, cold and wet, they travelled back, the two boys huddled silently in the back of the cart, weak and tired and frightened. Presently, as they came towards the familiar lanes of Monkston, Paul leant on his elbows and pushed back the tarpaulin that covered them. ‘Fayther?’ he said, in a small voice. ‘Fayther? Will I get a leathering when I get home?’

Martin glanced sideways at Will and a flicker of a smile touched both their lips. ‘Nay, lad, tha’s suffered enough already,’ he said leniently.

Something like a sigh came from behind them.

‘I’ll wait a day or two ’til tha’s recovered, it’ll give thee summat to look forward to,’ he added.

‘It’s not fair,’ Jimmy protested vehemently. He didn’t object to the leathering, although his behind stung where he had received the strap. But to be told he had to pay towards the boat, he felt, was too much.

‘Tha’s on ’books as a casual labourer,’ Will rebuked him harshly, ‘and when tha wages are due I shall hand them over to Martin.’

‘But he said he didn’t care about ’boat. I heard him.’

‘But
I
care about it.’ Will’s voice rose. ‘And tha’ll pay towards it, so instead of ’money being saved for thee, like Lizzie’s is, it’ll go towards another boat.’

He had another surprise due for Jimmy, but first he must see Mr Masterson, who nodded gravely when he was told the story and directed Will and Jimmy to seek an interview with John.

‘So you want to be a whaling man?’ said John sternly. He sat behind the desk in the timber-clad office in the High Street looking every inch a sober business man in his dark grey tail coat, the white frill of his shirt sleeve showing at the cuff. He was tall and athletic looking and sported a short curly beard. His blue eyes glinted as he looked at Jimmy, standing alongside Will, his hair neatly brushed and his cap in his hand.

‘Yes, please, sir,’ Jimmy replied solemnly, having been well rehearsed by Will and Maria.

‘Well, I can offer you an apprenticeship,’ said John, ‘but of course there are certain conditions to be met.’

Jimmy’s eyes sparkled and he took in a deep expectant breath.

‘First of all, you can’t start until you are twelve, which I understand is in nine months time?’

‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, less exuberantly; he had thought that he would be able to start right away.

‘And next, we only take boys of good character, who are responsible and reliable. So after the next nine months I will expect to receive an honest statement of your behaviour from your guardian here, and if it is satisfactory then you can join the Masterson fleet.’

Jimmy stared back at John, turning his cap round and round in his hands until he finally dropped it on the floor and, blushing, bent to retrieve it.

John continued. ‘The work is hard and the hours are long, it isn’t a job for a weakling or a shirker.’

Jimmy stood up straight, his chin held high.

‘However, you have been recommended by Mr Foster, and his word is good enough for me, so make sure that you don’t let him down.’

‘I won’t, sir.’ The voice was quiet and submissive, and Will glanced curiously at this new Jimmy.

John rose to shake hands with Will and then with Jimmy. ‘If you will wait outside, Swinburn, I wish to speak privately to Mr Foster.’

Jimmy, not a little surprised at the esteem shown to Will by this fine looking gentleman, left the room, touching his forelock as he went.

‘So, Will,’ laughed John, stretching back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head. ‘Was that all right? Did I play my part well?’

‘Aye, tha did well,’ he replied, pulling up a chair as John indicated. ‘It’s ’only threat that’s going to work with him. ’Only thing that will keep him out of trouble for ’next nine months.’

He accepted a tot of rum which John offered and raised his glass. ‘God bless all seamen.’

‘Amen to that,’ replied John, raising his own glass. ‘And now tell me the latest news of the countryside, and how is your lovely Maria and the adorable Sarah?’

Maria made regular visits to the village, first of all to accompany Mrs Masterson, who had finally decided that she couldn’t put off her husband’s request to visit the tenants any longer, and then alone because she became anxious about some of the villagers, particularly the families with young children and the very old, like Nathan Crabtree.

Isobel, too, was anxious. She was quite sure that disease was lurking in every corner of what she regarded as their dark and verminous hovels, and that she would be infected. She mentioned her anxiety to Maria who in turn confided in Ma Scryven, who sniffed and humphed and then made up a sweet-smelling ball of eucalyptus, pennyroyal, tansy and mint for her to carry to deter flies and smells. She wore her thick woollen cloak to ensure that no infection would get through to her, and her face could barely be seen beneath her hood.

The visits were not successful. Isobel in her anxiety seemed haughty, and the villagers were distrustful of her. They took the gifts she offered, which were handed to them by Maria, and nodded their thanks and stared at her through the window of her carriage, for she didn’t descend from it.

‘Tell them I have a bad headache, Maria, and cannot get out. Indeed I can feel one coming on quite severely.’

Maria handed over flour and some offal to a pale, scrawny young woman who stood at her cottage door, a baby at her shrunken breast and three small children sitting listlessly in the dust.

‘I’m grateful to thee, Mrs Foster.’ Her voice was hoarse and low and Maria had to bend to hear what she was saying.

‘They’re Mrs Masterson’s vittals, she’s brought them,’ Maria explained. ‘She’s a little unwell today or she would get down to speak to thee.’

‘Best not to, I reckon,’ the woman replied. ‘I’m not well missen and ’bairn is ailing. Me milk doesn’t seem to satisfy him.’

Maria looked anxiously back at Mrs Masterson, who was impatiently tapping her fingers on the carriage door, and then took a quick look at the silent child, its pale mouth slack against his mother’s nipple. ‘Does tha get enough to eat?’ She was perturbed by the child’s stillness.

The woman shook her head. ‘Me man’s gone off to Hull to find work, but I’ve not seen owt of him for nearly a month. We’re living off what other folk can spare us.’

‘Come along, Mrs Foster,’ called Mrs Masterson sharply. ‘We must be getting back.’

‘I’ll come again as soon as I can,’ Maria whispered as she turned to enter the carriage. ‘I’ll bring thee summat for ’babby.’

‘I’m sorry, ma-am,’ she said apologetically as she sat uneasily on the edge of the seat. ‘Might I have permission to visit that young woman again? She hasn’t any food and her baby is sick.’

‘You have your time off if you wish to make further visits,’ said Isobel irritably. ‘Just be careful that you don’t catch some nasty fever and bring it back. I wouldn’t want Lucy to become ill.’

‘No, ma-am,’ said Maria, chastened but wondering if it was possible to catch the disease of starvation, which she was sure was what the woman and her children were suffering from.

‘Could we make one more call, ma-am?’ she said hurriedly as she saw her mistress about to tap on the carriage window to tell Walters to turn for home.

Mrs Masterson sighed, then grudgingly agreed. ‘Providing that it won’t take all afternoon, Maria. I am ready for a rest now. These visits quite exhaust me.’

‘I promise it won’t, ma-am, and there will be no need for you to get down, unless of course you want to.’

‘Which I don’t. Whom do you intend to visit?’

‘Old Mr Crabtree, ma-am, he lives alone down near ’cliff edge. Will told me about him, said he ought to move out of his house and further into ’village, but he won’t be persuaded.’

‘He sounds like an obstinate old man to me,’ said Isobel disinterestedly. ‘But if you feel we should go then let us hurry up about it.’

Maria called up to Walters to go as far down the lane as he safely could and whilst the carriage waited she picked her way quickly down the uneven and broken surface towards the dilapidated cottage.

Nathan Crabtree saw her coming and stood waiting at the door, an old blanket wrapped around his shoulders. ‘’Didn’t expect fine company today,’ he said. ‘I’d have trimmed me beard had I known.’

Maria smiled. ‘Mrs Masterson has sent thee a few vittals.’

He peered into the bag which she handed to him. ‘Mrs Masterson didn’t send these,’ he said. ‘I know ’smell of oatcakes. These is Ma Scryven’s bakin’.’ He cackled wickedly. ‘She doesn’t forget that these is me favourites.’

She laughed with him. ‘No, she doesn’t forget. She said to tell thee that she’ll come when she can. Her rheumatism is bad just now and she can’t walk so well.’

‘Aye, well, we’re all getting old and it’s time some of us was moving on.’ He wiped a watery eye. ‘But ’good Lord teks his time. He doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to see me, anyroad.’

‘Perhaps He thinks tha’s still some use here, Mr Crabtree.’ Maria felt sad for the lonely old man.

‘No use to man nor beast,’ he said bluntly. ‘I’ve done me share o’ labour, it’s just a matter o’ waiting.’

‘Would tha come and live with us, Mr Crabtree?’ Maria said impulsively. ‘Over at Field House, I mean. We’ve plenty of room and it would be company for thee, and tha’d get plenty to eat.’

The old man’s eyes creased with humour and he smiled toothlessly. ‘I haven’t had an offer like that from a young wench in a long, long time.’

Maria smiled, took his wrinkled, blue veined hand in both of hers and patted it gently. ‘I have to go now, mistress is waiting, but think on what I say. Tha shouldn’t be here all alone, it’s not safe any more.’

He watched her as she hurried back to the waiting carriage, and as it moved off he looked down at the hand she had held; he stroked it gently with his forefinger and then held it close to his face. He closed his eyes and breathed in the long-forgotten scent of womanhood.