Bello:
hidden talent rediscovered
Bello is a digital-only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published, classic books.
At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment and we want to use digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books into the future.
We publish in ebook and print-on-demand formats to bring these wonderful books to new audiences.
www.panmacmillan.co.uk/bello
Contents
Margaret Dickinson
Author’s Note
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Acknowledgements
Margaret Dickinson
Lifeboat!
Born in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire, Margaret Dickinson moved to the coast at the age of seven and so began her love for the sea and the Lincolnshire landscape.
Her ambition to be a writer began early and she had her first novel published at the age of twenty-five. This was followed by twenty-seven further titles including Plough the Furrow, Sow the Seed and Reap the Harvest, which make up her Lincolnshire Fleethaven trilogy.
Many of her novels are set in the heart of her home county, but in Tangled Threads and Twisted Strands the stories include not only Lincolnshire but also the framework knitting and lace industries of Nottingham.
Her 2012 and 2013 novels, Jenny’s War and The Clippie Girls, were both top twenty bestsellers and her 2014 novel, Fairfield Hall, went to number nine on the Sunday Times bestseller list.
My writing career falls into two ‘eras’. I had my first novel published at the age of twenty-five, and between 1968 and 1984 I had a total of nine novels published by Robert Hale Ltd. These were a mixture of light, historical romance, an action-suspense and one thriller, originally published under a pseudonym. Because of family commitments I then had a seven-year gap, but began writing again in the early nineties. Then occurred that little piece of luck that we all need at some time in our lives: I found a wonderful agent, Darley Anderson, and on his advice began to write saga fiction; stories with a strong woman as the main character and with a vivid and realistic background as the setting. Darley found me a happy home with Pan Macmillan, for whom I have now written twenty-one novels since 1994. Older, and with a maturity those seven ‘ fallow’ years brought me, I recognize that I am now writing with greater depth and daring.
But I am by no means ashamed of those early works: they have been my early learning curve – and I am still learning! Originally, the first nine novels were published in hardback and subsequently in Large Print, but have never previously been issued in paperback or, of course, in ebook. So, I am thrilled that Macmillan, under their Bello imprint, has decided to reissue all nine titles.
Lifeboat! is an action-suspense novel, written in the ‘present day’ of the early 1980s. It was published in 1983 and, though entirely fictitious, the background was inspired by the Skegness lifeboat and its courageous and dedicated crew.
Epigraph
Although an actual location off the Lincolnshire Coast has been used in the interests of authenticity, all the characters and incidents in this book are entirely fictitious, and no reference whatsoever is intended to any living person or actual event.
With the deepest admiration this book is respectfully
dedicated to the Coxswain, Crew and Launchers of the
Skegness Lifeboat, the Charles Fred Grantham.
Chapter One
At 0600 hours on the Saturday of that August Bank Holiday weekend a small secondary depression of one thousand millibars formed off the coast of Newfoundland and began to move eastwards across the Atlantic.
Iain Macready, coxswain of the Saltershaven lifeboat, was a worried man.
It had nothing to do with the North Sea, nor with the lifeboat, nor even with the approaching August Bank Holiday weekend which would bring the inevitable glut of rescue calls along the stretch of coastal water off the Lincolnshire holiday resort.
The thing—or rather the person—on Macready’s mind was his daughter, Julie.
She was standing opposite him now across the breakfast-table, her curly brown hair still ruffled from sleep, her cheeks a little pink. ‘ Dad, try to like him—for my sake. Please.’
Macready sighed. ‘Och, I’ve nothing against the laddie, but he—he doesna fit in here with us. Not with his city gent’s suits and his father’s country estate and his fancy car …’
The pink tinge in her face deepened. ‘Dad! That’s inverted snobbery if ever I heard it. He’s a student—just like me.’
‘No, hen, he’s no’ like you,’ Macready said softly.
There was an uneasy silence in the neat, bright kitchen broken only by the rattle of the cups in their saucers as Julie pulled them towards her to pour the tea. Father and daughter avoided meeting each other’s eyes.
Macready moved restlessly, his bulk making the kitchen chair creak in protest. ‘It’s no’ that, Julie.’ He laid down his knife and fork and eased a sliver of bacon from between his teeth with his thumbnail. ‘It’s no’ that, but we’re plain, down-to-earth, ordinary folk and …’
The phone extension on the wall shrilled and Macready, almost welcoming the interruption, was on his feet and lifting the receiver before it could ring a second time.
‘Macready.’
‘Mac.’ It was Bill Luthwaite, the lifeboat’s honorary secretary speaking. ‘The coastguard’s just rung me. He’s had a call about a sighting of red distress flares on the mud flats south of Dolan’s Point.’
There was an unusual hesitancy in the secretary’s voice. Macready, quick to notice it, asked, ‘Where did the call come from?’
‘That’s just it,’ Bill Luthwaite’s tone was troubled. ‘It was anonymous. No name, no details, nothing.’
‘Except the message that there’s a boat in trouble?’ Macready said.
‘Yes. Jack—’ Bill referred to Jack Hansard, the local coastguard—‘ has a hunch it could be a hoax, but he would like us to treat it as an anticipatory call out. He’s on his way to the area now to take a look.’
‘Right. I’ll have the lads stand by,’ Macready replied. ‘I’m away to the boathouse now.’
‘Right you are. I’ll ring you there as soon as I hear any more from Jack.’
Macready dropped the receiver into its cradle and made for the door. Briefly he glanced back at his daughter still standing beside the table in her pale blue dressing-gown and slippers, the teapot in her hand ready to pour his tea.
‘Sorry, hen …’ It was more than just an apology for leaving the half-eaten breakfast she had cooked.
Julie grinned impishly. ‘Och, away with ye!’ She mimicked his brogue to perfection, although there was not a trace of it in her own speech.
Macready grinned, his weathered face creasing into a dozen laughter lines. ‘See you later, hen,’ he added, relieved that the constraint between them was gone.
When Macready had reached the boathouse, he had only just managed to call up his second coxswain, Fred Douglas, and bowman, Phil Davis, to warn them to be on stand by, when a further call came through from the secretary. ‘Jack’s down at the Point and he’s seen a
red flare go up now.’
‘That settles it then.’
‘Yes. We’ll go ahead and launch.’
As Macready rang off and then lifted the receiver and began to dial another number, Phil Davis poked his head round the door of the office. ‘What’s on, Mac?’
‘Red flares off the mud flats beyond Dolan’s Point. Would ya fire the maroons for me, Phil, while I ring the rest of the lads?’
Pete Donaldson set the breakfast-tray down on the bedside table next to his sleeping wife and grinned down at Angie’s tousled head. That Saturday morning Pete and his wife of five months had planned a lie in—a long lie-in!
He got back into the bed and moved over to her side. His forehead against hers, his knees crooked to meet hers, he gently traced the swell of her breast with his fingers and said softly, ‘Tea is served, m’lady.’
Angie opened one eye. ‘Thank you, Jeeves,’ and as he tried a bolder caress, she added, ‘That will be all, Jeeves.’
‘Angie?’
She closed her eye. ‘I’m asleep.’ But he could see the mischief twitching her lips even as she spoke.
He moved closer. ‘ You know what you are, don’t you? You’re…’
There was a loud crack, somewhere in the distance. Pete’s whole body stiffened and he raised his head. Angie’s eyes flew open instantly. They looked at each other.
‘Was that the …?’ But he never finished the question for at that moment the green telephone on his bedside table rang. Before it had finished its first peal, he had picked up the receiver. ‘Yes? Right. I’ll be there.’
In one swift, lithe movement he was out of bed and reaching for his clothes as they heard the bang of the second maroon.
‘It’s a service,’ he told his wife unnecessarily, hopping on one foot whilst he pulled on his trousers. ‘They pick their bloody moments, don’t they?’ He grinned ruefully, grabbed his thick sweater and an extra pair of socks and bent to kiss her quickly.
He thrust his feet into his shoes and was moving towards the bedroom door when Angie raised her tea-cup to him. ‘I’ll keep it hot for you, love,’ she said impishly.
‘You do that, darlin’,’ his voice came back to her as he pounded down the stairs. ‘You do that. I’ll be back …’
The door slammed and she heard the rattle of his old bicycle as he flung himself on to it and pedalled furiously up the street.
In silent, secret ritual his bride let her eyes stray to the patch of clear sky visible through their bedroom window.
‘God keep him safe,’ she whispered. ‘And bring him back to me.’
The prayer, her own private talisman, said, she drank her tea and then snuggled down beneath the duvet.
She was asleep again before Pete reached the boathouse.
The first maroon had been fired at 08.36 and the second a few moments later. The puffs of green smoke from the maroons were still hanging in the sky above the boathouse when Pete arrived, breathless but still running. Coxswain Macready was in the tiny office at the side of the station making last-minute checks and phoning through to inform Coastal Rescue Headquarters at Breymouth on the Norfolk coast that the Saltershaven lifeboat was about to be launched. Fred Douglas, the second coxswain, was with Macready in the office, and his son, Tony, the signalman, was already aboard the lifeboat where it sat on its launching carriage permanently coupled to the tractor which would tow it to the sea. Saltershaven had a large tidal range and even at high water there was a wide stretch of soft sand to negotiate before the boat reached the sea.
Pete pulled on his sea-boots over his thick woollen socks, then the stiff orange-coloured oilskins and insulated jacket and the life-jacket. Lastly on went the bump hat—the regulation hard helmet-like piece of headgear. Pete climbed the ladder on to the boat.
‘Here, Tony, mate, hook my belt up, will you? What’s on, d’you know?’ he added as he turned his back and stood patiently whilst Tony Douglas fastened the hooks on Pete’s life-jacket.
‘Red flares down Dolan’s Point way.’
Footsteps pounded across the concrete forecourt of the boathouse and Chas Blake, the emergency mechanic, and Alan Gilbert, the assistant mechanic, arrived together. The head launcher and one of the two tractor drivers were already in the boathouse making ready for the launch so that left only a few more launchers to arrive.
‘Right the other end of the town, I was,’ Chas Blake panted, but he did not waste a precious second in climbing aboard.
‘Aye, an’ they pick their bloody moments,’ Pete grinned.
There was a knowing chuckle from Fred Douglas. ‘ ’Ee’s still got ’is pyjamas on! Interrupt summats, did we, Pete? That poor lass of yours mun be thankful to hear the maroon go!’
‘Not Angie,’ Pete laughed. ‘She’s …’
Whatever he had been going to say was drowned by the vibrating noise which filled the boathouse as the tractor engine burst into life and smoke swirled upwards into the rafters. The huge sliding doors of the lifeboat station, facing seawards, had been folded open and the tone of the tractor engine heightened as it tugged at the launching carriage with its load of some ten tons.
Saltershaven’s lifeboat, the Mary Martha Clamp, emerged from the shadows of the boathouse. On board, the signalman, Tony Douglas, raised the radar mast as soon as the boat was clear of the doorway, then he made his way along the deck to the bows and proceeded to stow the rope fenders.
Turning left out of the boathouse the tractor quickened pace along Marine Esplanade, the caterpillar tracks rattling loudly on the tarmacked road surface. Several paces in front of the tractor Macready walked with Fred Douglas, his second coxswain, heading the whole colourful procession: the blue tractor and the blue, white and orange lifeboat with three crew aboard and alongside, keeping pace, were the remaining two crew members all dressed in their vibrant orange oilskins and life-jackets with the black lettering RNLI. Walking alongside the boat, too, were the launchers in yellow oilskins and thighboots, and Bill Luthwaite, the honorary secretary, who was accountable for the boat whilst it was on land. Once in the sea the lifeboat became Macready’s responsibility.
The road traffic was temporarily halted by a police constable so that the procession could take the quickest, right-hand turn around the fountain in the centre of the crossroads and turn due east on to Beach Road. At the end of this road, the tractor lumbered into the soft sand, the stretch of the beach never washed by the sea in summer. Following the lifeboat now were a smattering of interested spectators who always seemed to gravitate towards the drama of the launching of the lifeboat. Had the service been later in the day, the whole route from boathouse to the sea would have been lined with onlookers, but at this hour of the morning— breakfast-time—only a few witnessed the launch. Some distance away the council’s men were already at their task of clearing away yesterday’s rubbish: broken glass, discarded cans, paper bags, dropped icecream cones and candyfloss squashed into the sand.
The tide was just on the ebb after standing for about an hour at high water. The tractor and trailer gained the narrow stretch of harder sand, still wet and virgin from the retreating waves, and arrived at the water’s edge. The tractor turned parallel to the sea, paused whilst the small trailer towed at the rear of the bigger carriage was unhitched and then continued in a wide arc to bring the lifeboat pointing, bows first, out to sea.
On the top floor of a block of holiday flats, quite close to the lifeboat station, the sound of the first maroon had awoken Nigel Milner.
He lay a moment in that strange state somewhere between sleep and full wakefulness, not sure whether he had really heard a noise or whether he had dreamed it. Then the second maroon aroused him fully. He rolled off the lower bunk and padded to the window overlooking the esplanade. The twin puffs of green smoke from the maroons drifted seawards, but the boy from the Midlands did not understand their significance.
Then, far beneath the window, he saw a man running along the pavement and another pedalling his bicycle along the road. The
y both turned into the lifeboat station, the man on the bike flinging it carelessly against a wall in his haste.
‘Hey, Martin, there’s summat goin’ on at t’lifeboat place.’
Awkwardly, for he was an overweight ten-year-old, Nigel stood on the lower bunk and shook his younger brother’s shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s go an’ ’ave a look-see. Come on!’ He gave the thinner boy’s arm a vicious pinch.
‘Gi’ ower,’ Martin murmured and rubbed his arm, his eyes still closed, his head still buried in the pillow.
But Nigel was determined. He dragged the loose covers from the younger boy, who turned over quickly, made a grab for the disappearing bed-clothes, missed and fell out of the top bunk on to the hard floor.
He began to snivel. ‘ Mam, Mam, it’s our Nigel, he’s …’
‘Ssh!’ The fat boy bent over him. ‘ Don’t waken them up—they’ll not lerrus go.’
Martin’s whimpering stopped and he looked up into Nigel’s pudgy face. ‘Go? Go where?’
‘To watch t’lifeboat. Come on.’ Roughly Nigel grabbed Martin’s arm and hauled him to his feet. ‘ Get dressed,’ he ordered, reaching for his own shorts and tee shirt. ‘ We don’t need no shoes.’
Ten minutes later—fifteen after the maroon had first awoken Nigel—they were standing at the end of the road leading on to the sand.
‘There it is,’ Nigel pointed and, without waiting for agreement or otherwise from his brother, he set off after the lifeboat, following the deep ruts made by the tractor and trailer right across the soft sand.
As the two boys raced across the beach, the tractor released the launching carriage, pulled forward and swivelled around on its own axis, churning the sand, and was then recoupled. The rest of the crew climbed aboard, Macready last, and a launcher removed the ladder. Macready fastened the safety chain across the opening and the tractor pushed the carriage and boat into the sea until the caterpillar tracks were completely hidden by the water. The four restraining chains were released from the sides of the boat when Macready blew his whistle and the launching gear was operated by the tractor driver. The lifeboat slipped from its carriage into the waves, the seawater at once flooding into her ballast tanks and then, engines revving, the Mary Martha Clamp headed out to sea.
Lifeboat! Page 1
