The Kingdom by the Sea (15 page)

He felt the huge wave coming. It must be two steps this time or nothing. That was all he was ever going to be able to manage.

It was a very huge wave. Spluttering like a maniac, he managed one, two, then, incredibly, three. It was impossible, but he did it. The next second, he felt a tremendous convulsive kick from the dog’s hind legs. Then no weight at all… And he knew he’d failed, and could never do it again. Don, Don! He hung on, blinded by sea-water, not wanting to do anything ever again. Let go. Let the sea take you. No more trying, no more pain.

Then a burst of barking hit his ears, as the sea-water drained from them, he looked up, and the dog’s head was sticking out of the open door…

It was quite easy after that. He only had to rest between every step he took.

It was not so bad. The two blankets in the middle of his bedroll were only damp. He stripped and rubbed himself down with them, then wrapped them round himself. He would have liked to rub the dog down too, but there was nothing else left dry to do it with. There were nails knocked in the walls of the hut, and he wrung out his clothes and hung them to dry. Some hope!

For the sea was still rising, climbing the rungs of the ladder, one by one, inexorably. He wondered, quite calmly, if the tide ever rose so high, the waves ever grew so wild, that the refuge on top was entirely submerged. If so, there was nothing he could do about it.

And the sea sent its messengers before it. The very air he breathed was full of salty spray, so that he breathed a mixture of air and water, half boy, half fish. And the bigness of the sea overwhelmed him; the bigness of the sound of it. The land seemed so far away, it was nowhere. Nothing but sea. The sound of the waves did not soothe him. The sea had tried to kill him. Might still kill him. Meanwhile, he watched it.

In the end, with bitter satisfaction, he watched it lose its force, like a beaten army, and start to retreat, rung by rung.
Only then did he curl up in the two blankets and fall asleep.

Sunlight wakened him, falling in through the half-open door on to his face. He tried getting up, and could hardly move, he was so cut and bruised and stiff. He peered out at his enemy.

The enemy was nowhere to be seen. Nothing but flat sand, steaming gently in the sun. Seaweed. Feeding gulls. A mottled duck leading her mottled chicks to drink at a stream of fresh water that flowed across the sands.

He realised how thirsty he was. But he’d have to get dressed first; those thin rusty ladder rungs would cut his bare feet to ribbons.

As they must have cut Don’s paw last night. The dog was lying looking at him, still half-soaked, its fur in great wet lumps. It was licking its paw, and red blood showed.

Jesus, he’d got Don up last night. How on earth was he going to get him down? The sand looked dizzying miles away…

Shivering, he dragged on his damp clothes.

It was only then that he realised the precious attachè case had gone.

He didn’t even remember dropping it, in the fight against drowning. All the insurance policies, and all the ration books, and the little bottle of brandy. The last of Mam and Dad and
Dulcie. And Dad’s watch, that he only wore for best…

Still, he was thirsty, so he climbed down and had a drink. It was such a calm, warm, lovely morning… but for once the lovely morning didn’t work. He just kept thinking about the attachè case and feeling totally guilty and miserable.

Don barked at him, hopelessly, absurdly, from the door of the watchtower. How
was
he going to get him down?

And yet that solved itself so easily. A man with a horse and cart, coming across the sands.

“Hey, kid, what’s that dog doing up there?”

“He’s my dog. We got caught by the tide last night.”

“Want me to fetch him down for you?”

“Please.”

He was a huge man. The biggest man Harry had ever seen. He just climbed up the ladder, spoke to the dog, heaved him over his shoulder, and climbed down with him. On his shoulder, Don didn’t look much bigger than a fox-terrier.

“You wanta get that dog’s paw seen to. It’s a bad cut.”

Then he was off across the sands again.

A miracle. But it didn’t make Harry feel any better. He began to worry about getting Don to a vet. Felt for the banknotes he always carried in the right-hand pocket of his raincoat…

A shapeless sodden wad of green paper, that he had to
squeeze the water out of. He tried to peel off a note, and it began to tear.

He didn’t even feel like crying. He was beyond crying. He didn’t feel he had any tears left in him. He didn’t feel he had any blood left in him.

But they had to get ashore. The man had told him he only had an hour.

Half-way to the shore, he saw something brown and square in the middle of a rock-pool. It couldn’t possibly be… But it was. The attachè case. It was a morning for miracles. But strangely, that didn’t make him feel any better either. The miracles were coming too late. Especially as, when he picked up the attachè case, it was far too heavy and deluged water out of the corners.

Inside, everything was sodden, ruined. But he wearily picked it up and plodded on.

They reached the land. They went as far as the main road. But Don was limping worse and worse, so they went and sat down on the grass by the roadside. He got Don to show him his paw. The dog was very reluctant. The gash was still bleeding, and full of sand, muck and little stones. Don wouldn’t let him take the stones out; it must hurt too much.

So they just went on sitting and sitting. While the tide came in, and began to go out again.

Harry just felt that his own personal tide had gone out forever. It was never coming back. It was all no good. He had fought and schemed and walked and gathered sea-coal all these weeks, and now they were worse off than ever. It was no good trying any more. No matter how hard you fought everything just went wrong in the end. The chip shop at Tynemouth, the stay with Joseph, Artie, his own little pillbox, Lindisfarne, the further shore. All… useless. Look at Ada’s mother, all that adventure and cheerfulness and flying and climbing mountains, and now she was just a fat old lady falling downstairs and waiting to die.

Everybody died in the end. He wished they’d drowned last night. By now, all his troubles would be over…

Even the airman’s marvellous watch had stopped, the water-glass dewed with droplets.

With that thought in mind, he fell asleep.

He never noticed the man.

The man had been noticing him for some time. He was in a tiny Austin Seven. He had passed once, and seen Harry sitting there. When he passed again, an hour later, Harry was still sitting in the same place.

The man took much more interest this time.

The third time the man drove past, Harry was lying on the grass verge asleep. And Don was sitting holding up his bloody paw helplessly, and watching the passing traffic.

The man drove past Harry.

Then stopped his car with a tiny squeal of brakes. He seemed to sit for a long time, hands on the wheel, as if he was having an inner argument with himself. Then he banged his hands on the steering wheel, as if he’d made up his mind to do something. Then he backed the car slowly to where Harry was lying. And got out.

Harry came awake in a blur. At first he thought he was in bed at home, and it was Mam shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes, and there was this man’s face, a total stranger’s face, saying something he couldn’t understand. Over and over again.

He looked round desperately. He was in the open air, in a totally strange place he couldn’t even remember coming to. Panic surged inside him. The man said the same thing again. And again. What was he
saying
?

With a last despairing effort, Harry focused his concentration.

“Your dog’s hurt,” said the man. “You must get him to a vet.

He looked at the man’s face. The man flinched and looked away. At the sky. At the sea. Anywhere but at Harry. What a strange man…

The man looked at him again; a fleeting, almost guilty glance. “Can I look at the dog’s paw?” he said, looking at Don.

“Yes,” said Harry. He couldn’t understand this man at all. Maybe Don would understand him. He trusted Don’s judgement. If Don let the man touch him, the man must be all right.

Don let the man touch him. Let him stroke his ears. The man talked to Don in a gentle voice, calling him “boy”. Then he raised the hurt paw gently. Again, Don let him. The man looked at the paw, then let go of it. Don licked the man’s face, with his long pinky-purple tongue. The man came back, his face serious.

“We
must
get him to a vet. That gash won’t heal itself. He could lose his foot. He could
die.”

“OK!” said Harry. He didn’t understand anything except about Don’s paw.

The man helped Harry to his feet. His touch was soft, like a woman’s; his hands were strong enough, but they trembled. Harry knew the man was terribly excited about something.

The man put Harry into the seat next to the driver’s
seat. Then he pulled forward the driver’s seat, and piled all Harry’s gear on to the back seat, The stuff dripped all over the cracked leather of the back seat, but Harry was beyond caring. Then the man coaxed Don into the back seat, next to Harry’s stuff, got in himself, and they were off. Not very fast. The car was little and old, and the engine sounded weak, as if it might give out at any moment. The windscreen was all yellowed round the edges, and there was some kind of silver dial on the front of the bonnet. The man drove silently, keeping his eyes on the road. His hands were very white and tight on the wheel. All he said was, “That cut paw’s bad, very bad. We must get it seen to, straightaway.” He said it four times without looking at Harry at all. As if to himself.

The vet’s was more reassuring. A big house with a big brass plate saying “John Harper MRCVS”, very highly polished, but with dried Brasso in the lettering. Inside, there was highly polished brown lino, and it smelt like a hospital.

The vet came bristling in, in his white coat, which had pale pink washed-out stains down the front.

“Now, now, what have we here?” He lifted Don on to the table, played with his ears a bit, then lifted the foot and said, “That’s a nasty one. How’d he get that?”

“On an iron ladder,” said Harry in a very small voice. Then added, “Is he going to be all right?”

“Be a big job,” said the vet. “I’ll have to chloroform him before I can see to it. And I’ll have to keep him in for a few days. He’ll have to be kept still.”

Harry despaired. “How much will that cost?”

“You can leave that to me,” said the man with the car. He gabbled it, like he was saying something shameful.

“Bight, Mr Murgatroyd,” said the vet. There was something odd in his voice, as he said it. It wasn’t
dislike.
It was more pity. As if Mr Murgatroyd had a wooden leg, or was deformed or something. “Right then. We’d better get on with it straightaway. Sooner it’s done, the better.” And he picked up Don, and carried him away through an open door, without even giving Harry a chance to say goodbye. “Give me a call this evening, Mr Murgatroyd, and I’ll let you know how he’s got on.”

And suddenly, Harry and Mr Murgatroyd were outside and back at the car. Without Don, Harry was suddenly terribly embarrassed. He could think of nothing to say, but went on staring at the little silver dial on the bonnet of the car. Mr Murgatroyd didn’t seem to know what to say either. Then Harry reached in his raincoat pocket, and felt the wet wodge of notes.

“I’ve got money,” he said. “Only it’s all stuck together.”

“How’d you mean?” asked Mr Murgatroyd with a sudden burst of enthusiasm, as if he was glad he’d found something to say.

Harry showed him. “If I wait till they’re dry, I might be able to…”

“No, no,” said Mr Murgatroyd. “The way to separate them is to make them
wetter.
Come on, I’ll show you.” And he bundled Harry back into the car, as if there was nothing in his life at all half so important as separating some banknotes.

It was quite a long drive, full of twists and turns. Long enough to convince Harry he could never find his way back to Don on his own. Then they were arriving at a big grey stone farmhouse, with windows each side of a blue door. But the man drove up the cobbles at the side, to the back door.

There was a large black and white cat sitting on the back doorstep. She came forward to greet Mr Murgatroyd with a loud miaow, her bushy black tail vertical. Mr Murgatroyd bent to stroke her, and started a long conversation.

“Dinnertime, is it, Mrs Murgatroyd? Not really, you know. You’re half an hour early, you scheming puss. You won’t go to Heaven, telling such lies. You’ll go down
there
, where the great Dog will gobble you up. Why don’t you go and catch your own dinner for once? Plenty of fat mice round the barns. Only you’d rather sit in the sun and be a kept woman…”

And so on, and so forth, as if he was never going to stop.
And the cat talked back to him, non-stop too, in a series of prooks and miaows, striding backwards and forwards, while he gently pulled her tail, until Harry could have died with embarrassment.

Then Mr Murgatroyd clapped his hand to his forehead, said, “Banknotes”, and dashed indoors. He filled an enamel basin in the sink from the cold tap, and took the solid wodge of notes and dropped them in. Harry watched anxiously, while they just
floated
, waiting for them to dissolve into pure sludge at any moment. Fourteen pounds ten shillings; four weeks’ wages for a grown man. He wondered if Mr Murgatroyd was some kind of lunatic. The silence between them deepened and deepened.

“Fancy a mug of tea?” asked Mr Murgatroyd suddenly.

“Yes, please.” Well, at least that got rid of him and his terrible silence. It was all right while he was clinking and bustling round the kitchen.

“Right,” said Mr Murgatroyd. Harry turned, and saw a tray set not only with a mug of tea, but a neat embroidered little traycloth, and a plate with three huge slices of fruitcake.

“Help yourself to sugar.”

Harry stirred in three spoonfuls; the sight of all that cake made his stomach erupt as if it was full of fizzing soda-pop.